Brad was enjoying a pint on a patio before the storm was sure to hit. He didn't give a fuck, it was the first nice night in Chicago in forever. Felt like it could almost be summer. Mostly, he was just happy to be out of Boystown for a night. And, he hated to think it but, he was happy not to be with Tyler at this very moment. All of Tyler's focus on how "gay" Brad actually was weighed heavy on him. It was the same pressure he felt from Becka the closer they got to the wedding that never was. Worst of all, he might've lied a little bit to make Tyler feel better and to get off his case. Truth be told, math was never Brad's strong suit and when pressed for an actual gay percentage (which was the most fucktarded thing he'd ever heard of) he might've fibbed in favor of gay.

Truth be told, he just wasn't sure and he knew Tyler was sick of hearing that. Maybe there was something wrong with him. It was a big enough step for him to come to terms that he liked guys, now it had to be this big grand statement that he had to make to the world to appease the one person who treated him decently in his life. Eighty-seven percent gay, he'd said. That was a solid B in the gay grade book, right? If he actually had to tally up all the people he'd slept with since he started sleeping with people, it'd be an even split. If you counted Cub Scouts, well, that might skew the numbers again in the gay favor. But, why was it so important to everyone? And more importantly, why was it so unimportant to him?

He hoped to find the answer at the bottom of his sixth pint. Or maybe it was at the other end of his third shot of tequila. The clouds looked ominous as the winds started to blow the napkin holders off of the surrounding tables. There was a twenty percent chance of storms coming. He'd have to go in soon, take shelter somewhere. Maybe the answer was at the bottom of a seventh pint. Or a fourth shot. Or in the skirt of that hot girl that hadn't stopped starring at Brad from across the patio since he sat down.

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