What Your Personal Brand Says About You

I can tell you two things that I know about this young person named Syn. First is that they have piss-poor game. They don’t dye their hair pink or purple or yellow. They don’t wear little dinosaur earrings or choke collars. They don’t paint on their jeans or wear a rainbow of bracelets on their wrist. They don’t wear lollipop colored eye shadow or have spikes on their boots. What they do is sweat from mopping a floor while they take out trash bags under a starry desert sky, and they feel the breeze come and they feel its cool breath on their brow, and they feel their core strong as they hurl the heavy-ass bag into a stinking dumpster, and then they feel the thick smoke of the cigarette they light enter their lungs as they look up at the stars and feel their miniscule size in the massiveness of it all. Then they feel the headlights pull up behind them into the parking lot of the liquor store, and the Fuckbois with the shiny chains and the clean sneaker shoes pile out of a cherry red Charger and yell, “Syn, bitch, get us some drinks. We ‘bout to get our fuck on.”

And Syn takes one last look at those eternally silent stars, feels their peace for one last moment, and goes inside to get struck in the ear by the Fuckbois’ playing two different types of music each with their own phone.

The Fuckbois come up to the counter with a bottle of shitty rum, and one asks, “Syn, why aren’t you ever fucking?”

Syn shrugs and says, “I don’t know. Nobody ever seems interested.”

Fuckboi D says, “Yea, well, you should style your hair, for starters.”

And Fuckboi T says, “And wear a better shirt.”

Fuckboi T then takes off his shirt and throws it in Syn’s face. Fuckboi T isn’t even that fit, Syn remarks to themself. The ungodly amount of confidence these two have is unbelievable.

“Check it out,” says Fuckboi D, “we got a couple bitches in the car.” And Fuckboi D points out the window. Syn leans over the counter and sees two young women with edges and lashes and chokers and low-cut tight fitting tank tops swelling at the breasts.

“We’re gonna have a 4-some,” says Fuckboi T, shirtless and flexing.

Fuckboi D says, “Come by later, bitch. See how it’s done.” And with that they take their shitty bottle of rum and their two different types of music and burst out the door like they just won a jackpot.

Syn remains alone now, the fluorescent buzz keeping them company, and Syn looks at all the beer and liquor bottles, and realizes how similar they are: flowing, effervescent, lively, refined in some cases, bursting with personality in others, yet all stiffly contained, corked, entombed in these shells. But all the bottles still seem to have something Syn doesn’t: each one has their flashy label to say, “Come party with me. You’ll have the time of your life.”

Syn holds Fuckboi T’s shirt in their hands and tries it on. Immediately they feel ashamed, foolish. An imposter. And they are an imposter, but not in the way they think.

Because the second thing I can tell you about Syn is that they are secretly a Grade A lover. And they bury that shit beneath a mound of dirt, like treasure that you need to decode symbols to find.

So after work, Syn showers quickly and goes to the Fuckbois’ trailer. They walk along a dirt path between the mobile homes, looking up from time to time to feel the stars in their infinite presence, until they arrive at a certain trailer with loud music coming from it.

Syn ambles up the flimsy stairs and knocks on the flimsy door. Fuckboi D opens the door in his underwear. He says, “Oh shit, Syn’s in the house!”

Fuckboi T is kneeling beside one of the young women who is reclined on the couch, no panties. When Fuckboi T sees Syn at the door, he yells too: “Syn! Check this shit out! I can make her squirt.” And Fuckboi T starts piston pumping his two curled middle fingers against the upper wall of her vagina, until she grabs his wrist and makes him slow way down.

Syn comes in and sits in a recliner off to the side of the action. Both women are on the couch, basically fully naked, and the Fuckbois are down to their underwear.

Fuckbois D and T each climb on one of the women, and grope them and kiss them briefly before pulling down their underwear and piston pumping with their cocks.

Fuckboi T says to the two women, “Kiss each other.” And they do, with tongues. And then they say, “Now you two.” To which Fuckboi T says, “We’re not gay.” And then he comes. He climbs off the woman, and goes to make a rum drink. Fuckboi D keeps going, and without coming kind of goes soft and says, “Shit, y’all had me drink too much.”

Fuckboi T is already in the other room, firing up his Xbox. And soon as Fuckboi D hears the gaming station light up, he says, “Oh, shit, you’re about to get your ass whooped.”

Which leaves Syn and the two naked women on the couch, looking at each other.

One of them says, “You’re quiet.”

The other says, “Come sit over here.”

Syn’s heart pounds, but they get up all the same, a little shaky, and stand over them. The two women scoot out of the way. Syn sits down. The women’s bare bodies, the heat of them, their calm breath, soothe Syn, and they relax.

“What are your names?” Syn asks.

“Therese,” says the one on the left.

“Allie,” says the one on the right.

“Why don’t you take some of these clothes off,” says Therese.

Therese and Allie’s hands are already caressing Syn over their clothes. It gives them goosebumps.

Syn pulls off Fuckboi T’s shirt. Then Syn pulls down their pants. Allie and Therese drape their bare legs over Syn’s now bare legs. Their weight sinks in on Syn. Syn’s hands alight on each of their thighs. They feel soft. Allie and Therese each lay their head on Syn’s shoulder.

“Those two don’t know how to treat a pussy, do they?” Syn says.

“Do you?” asks Allie, raising her head.

“There’s only one way to find out,” says Syn, looking into her eyes, and then, leaning their lips into hers, they kiss. Therese, from behind, kisses Syn’s neck. Each of Syn’s hands slide like a quiet fog in between each pair of legs. Syn feels Therese’s hand climb down and rub their own crotch in slow circles. Their genitals become flushed with heat. Syn moans. Allie moans. Therese moans.

Syn feels Allie’s body roll in waves as their fingers slide up and down her glistening clit. Syn feels Therese’s breasts against their back, feels her breath on their neck. Therese reaches over, takes Allie’s breast and massages it. Syn reaches up behind themself with their left hand and grabs Therese by the back of the neck, digging their fingers into the base of her skull. Syn feels Therese shiver, then press her body into them harder.

Syn feels hands gripping their naked hip, their chest, the pinch of a nipple. They feel a burning lust in their groin that they want to quench against one of these wet pussies. They can feel that Therese and Allie feel it too, they way each of them throbs when Syn reaches between a set of thighs, or sticks three fingers into one of their mouths. Syn can feel the heat rise in all three of them, a subtle intensity to everyone’s movements; suddenly a hand will grab hard on the back of their neck, or a pair of thighs will clamp around their waist, pull them in, spit them back out. Three brains, one body, all experiencing the same passion, the same hot energy that needs breath and bites and spit to cool it off. Syn slaps Allie. Therese slaps Syn. Syn spanks Therese. Both Allie and Therese hold Syn down, kissing them all over the face, the neck, the nipples. Someone has a finger in Syn’s ass. Syn responds by rubbing a finger in someone else’s ass. The kissing gets sloppier. Syn stops being able to tell what is spit and what is pussy juice. It is on their face, their abdomen, their thigh. Sweat glistens and causes them all to slide against each other. And every now and then Syn feels the throbbing of orgasmic pleasure, like a great exhalation to their desire. Then the rocking hips and the humping continues, burning in the muscles of the calves and the lower back, but feeding the hot desire once again. Allie and Therese moan. One of them quivers, like a pelvic seizure. It is Therese. She starts screaming.

Fuckboi D, from the other room, blurts out, “What the fuck is going on in there?”

The Fuckbois are at the door, peering in.

“Whoa, look at Syn go,” Fuckboi T says.

The trio on the couch become aware of the unwanted audience. They all sort of look up from their delirium, dizzy and a little drained, and collectively sigh a breath of release.

Fuckboi T blurts out, “Damn, bitch, your lashes came off.”

“Yea, no thanks to you, idiot,” Allie claps back.

The two women start getting dressed on the couch.

“Whoa, we’re y’all going?” interjects Fuckboi D.

“Y’all a couple of fuck boys,” Therese says.

Therese and Allie are dressed now, grabbing their purses off the table. They both look at Syn.

“You coming?” Allie asks.

Syn looks around the room, puts their pants back on. They stand up holding Fuckboi T’s shirt in their hands. They hand the shirt back to Fuckboi T.

Then, bare-chested, they leave the trailer with Therese and Allie.

Outside, the cool night feels refreshing to the hot lovers. Allie, Therese and Syn walk arms around each other; and suddenly Syn stops all of them to look up at the stars. The other two follow their gaze. Syn feels the two women’s bodies breathing against their own, before they ask, “Now what?”