Big Disappointment

I’m twenty-nine, hot as hell—fit, clean, got that sharp jaw and the kind of smile that turns heads—and I’m just… rotting here. Homebound in Chalmette, doors locked, blinds down. No trips to the Quarter, no bar crawls. Fuck that. City’s a petri dish—everyone’s got something, or they’re too strung out to function. I don’t need that drama. I just want dick. Good dick. Straight, discreet, married or curious, no face in the shot if we film. Edge him till he begs, drain him dry, done. That’s it. I don’t ask for dates or cuddles—just a solid load from a guy who isn’t a walking health hazard.
But nah. I deleted Sniffies last week—pointless. Opened it one night, map’s a wasteland. Closest pin? Some seventy-something in tighty-whities, bio screaming “DL, hosting”—dude’s probably got osteoporosis and a catheter. Fifteen miles out, sure, but I’m not driving through traffic for that. Phone’s dark now. DoubleList? Same ghost town. Refresh every hour—nothing. One ad from a “straight bro” who’s forty, gut like a tire, wife in the pic. Pass.
I’m sitting here on my couch—normal house, quiet street, fan whirring—phone in lap, scrolling nothing.
That’s me right now. Pissed. Horny. Wasted prime. Should be getting railed or sucking off some clean-cut mechanic on his lunch break. Instead? Crickets. Everyone’s gross—old, fat, tweaking, diseased. I’m attractive, I’m ready, I’m safe. And the only thing coming is frustration. Fuck this suburb. Fuck the apps. I just want results, man. Real dick. Not this.