My Cousin... My Top!

One Motel. Two Holes. Too Much DNA.

There’s nothing quite like moving house to shatter your sense of dignity. My furniture was in limbo, my fridge was somewhere between two postal codes, and I was living out of a suspiciously musty motel that smelled like old cigarettes and broken promises. But you know what? The Wi-Fi was strong and so was my libido. I did what any emotionally stable man would do: I redownloaded Grindr.

My profile? Minimalist. Anonymous. Torso pic cropped just above the nips. Bio said: Motel. Anonymous. Clean. Need it rough. Which, in hindsight, could have been mistaken for a Craigslist ad for haunted furniture.

Anyway, in slithered a torso just like mine: broad shoulders, tight abs, a hint of a farmer’s tan that screamed “gym, not books.” We exchanged exactly twelve words and three body pics. One of them was an ass so round it could’ve been medically spherical. I sent back a quick “door’s open” and assumed the position: face down, ass up, soul somewhere above me whispering, this is fine.

The motel sheets were scratchy and smelled like someone else’s shame. I spread them anyway, grabbed my poppers, and gave myself a courtesy wipe with a baby wipe that had seen better days. I was hole-ready and heart-empty. I didn’t want connection, I wanted demolition. The kind of fucking that rearranges your chakras.

He walked in. Silent. No hello. Just a warm hand on my thigh and a mouth that knew what it was doing. Tongue deep. I moaned into the pillow like a character in a dubbed anime. He flipped me, rammed in with the confidence of a man who never checks if you’re okay mid-thrust, and dear reader, I saw God. Or at least the water-damaged ceiling tiles of Room 106.

It was perfect. Brutal. Animalistic. We were two ships in the night, colliding in a storm of lube and lost morals. I clawed the headboard. He grunted like a bull on meth. We collapsed in a heap of sweat and post-nut honesty.

Then I said the fatal words:
“Should we turn on the light?”

He flicked the switch.

Reader.

It was Jerry.

My cousin. From Nana’s side.
Closeted. Catholic. Camp Counsellor Jerry.

And he was still inside me.

Time froze. Not in a poetic, soul-connection way. More like when your computer blue screens mid-download and all you can see is your own reflection in the dark void of the monitor. Jerry’s face—my cousin’s face—was hovering over me, flushed, glistening, and unmistakably post-orgasmic. His pupils dilated like he’d just licked a battery. Or my hole.

“Jerry?” I whispered, praying he’d say, ‘No, I’m Larry.’ But instead, he said—

“Oh fuck.”

Oh fuck, indeed.

We untangled ourselves like panicked otters, slipping in a swamp of our own sweat and whatever motel-grade lube I’d smeared myself in. I covered my bits with a decorative throw pillow that smelled like mildew and divorce. Jerry yanked on his jeans without wiping, which should be a crime.

Neither of us spoke for a full minute. We just stared at each other, breathing heavily, still shiny. He looked like a man who had just discovered both incest and gay sex in the span of twenty minutes. I looked like a used sex doll that had been left in a hot car.

Finally, he said, “You didn’t have a face pic.”

“Neither did you, Jerry!” I snapped, the pillow now damp with shame-sweat. “How was I supposed to know you were into anonymous motel hole like... that?”

He flinched. “I didn’t know it was you. I thought—God. I thought you were just... you know. Some guy.”

“Oh, I’m definitely some guy,” I muttered. “Your cousin, to be precise.”

He looked like he was going to cry. I was torn between comforting him and vomiting into the ice bucket.

Then, because the gods are cruel, we heard a knock on the wall from the room next door, followed by a hoarse voice: “Keep it down, perverts!”

“Too late,” I said, pointing at my soul, which had packed its bags and checked out hours ago.

Jerry started pacing. “We can’t tell anyone.”

“Who would I tell? Nana? ‘Hey, just wanted to let you know Jerry raw-dogged me like a fugitive on the run’?”

He groaned and buried his face in his hands. I couldn’t tell if he was praying or waiting to be smote.

Then, muffled and tragic, he said:
“I think I came three times.”

Reader, I don’t even have a gag reflex anymore, and yet I gagged.

The silence was louder than my hole’s scream for an emotional support ferret.

Jerry sat on the edge of the bed, staring into the void like a man who’d just realized he’d fucked family. Which, to be fair, he had. I sat across from him, legs crossed like a disappointed yoga instructor, holding a towel around my waist like it was shielding me from divine judgment.

“I think I need to go to confession,” he said.

“Babe, you need to go to therapy.” I lit a motel cigarette I found in the drawer like I was in a noir film called Twinks of Regret.

He stood. “We never talk about this.”

“Oh don’t worry, Jerry. I plan to repress this so deep it’ll be discovered by horny archaeologists in 3,000 years.” I paused. “Also, maybe delete Grindr.”

He nodded like I’d just handed him the Rosetta Stone of gay shame. He grabbed his phone, still slick with something I don’t care to identify, and bolted. No goodbye, no lingering glance. Just the soft slam of a motel door and the sound of my ancestors howling in horror.

I sat alone in the aftermath, surrounded by the scent of bleach and generational trauma. My hole felt like it needed a tetanus shot. My brain was frantically trying to unscramble the erotic from the genetic. I did what anyone would do: I ran a hot bath, sobbed for twenty minutes, then masturbated. To anything else. The wallpaper. The faucet. Just to reset the hard drive.

Two days later, I got a text from Jerry:
“We’re still cool?”

I replied with a thumbs up emoji so fast I gave myself carpal tunnel.

Then came Sunday dinner.

There he was. Across the table. Smiling too much, chewing too little. Nana passed him the gravy like she didn’t know he’d tongued my soul out of my body in a Red Roof Inn. I choked on my stuffing and excused myself to the bathroom, where I stared into the mirror and whispered, “I am the protagonist of a Greek tragedy written by a drunk gay.”

And the worst part? The sex? Incredible. God-tier. Hole-shattering. A man will spend his whole life chasing dick that good. But cousin dick? No. No thank you.

Moral of the Story
Always ask for a face pic. Or at least double-check they weren’t the one who helped you blow out your sixth birthday candles before you let them blow out your back.

Rowan Thornwell’s Hilarious Sexual Misadventures, Oops! I Came… Volume One! OUT NOW!