Chapter Text
Dennis Whitaker, 29 going on 30, was still a virgin.
In rural Nebraska, virginity was a religious and moral obligation. Sure, Whitaker had a few high school classmates who indulged and their indiscretions were the talk of the town, but for the most part celibacy and abstinence were king. Going to college in Omaha still felt too close to home; he ached with religious guilt and the unshakable notion that if he even thought about going further than a chaste kiss, his family and church would find out. Pittsburgh felt safer in that regard, but the overwhelming schedule of a med student, a stint with homelessness, and his first two years of residency left little time for extracurricular activities. Whitaker had no clue how Santos had the time to sleep around as she did. Not like, in a slut-shamy way. She didn’t even sleep around THAT much, just… more than he expected. Good for her! Good for her.
This was all to say that Whitaker was carrying around 29 years (okay, not really, it’s not like he even knew what sex was those first 13 or so) of repressed sexual desire with almost no outlet other than his hand (still a big move, he occasionally panicked about his palms growing hair despite knowing that was not medically feasible). He got nervous watching porn, for Christ’s sake. He wasn’t just a virgin, he was the virgin. Not to mention the whole Gay Thing. It was hard enough untangling his guilt around liking men, much less lusting for them. So maybe the sexual repression, religious guilt, and stress was getting to him. It was fine. He was fine. It’s not like anybody could notice.
–
“You seriously need to get laid, Finn.”
It was really no shock that it came from Santos, but she could have at least waited for them to leave work before saying it.
“Finn?” Whitaker tried to pivot.
“Something new I’m trying. Shorter than Huckleberry. Y’know, for emergencies,” Santos shrugged.
“Everything here is an emergency.”
“Great point. Back to Huckleberry it is.”
Langdon, of all people, chimed in, “She’s got a point. You need to decompress, or you’ll explode. It’s been medically proven.”
“Why is this the one thing you guys agree on?” Whitaker groaned, flopping his head onto Central, cushioned by his arms.
“There’s gotta be some lucky girl out there who wants a piece of you,” Langdon spun around in Dana’s Unofficial Chair, stopping when he saw the look Santos and Whitaker were exchanging.
“Oh! Sorry. Or guy,” Langdon put his hands up defensively. “I’m bisexual. I just forget sometimes.”
Whitaker felt a strong hand on his shoulder, a feeling he had become accustomed to over the past few years. He lifted and turned his head.
“Are you guys cherrypicking or just wasting time organically?” Robby chided.
“I’m waiting on CT results. And taking vested interest in the health of my dear roommate and coworker.” Santos said, hand to her chest theatrically.
Robby quirked an eyebrow. “Everything alright, Whitaker?”
Whitaker let his head hit Central again, hoping that the flush he felt coming on wasn’t too obvious. He knew his affirmative response was muffled, but judging by the reassuring squeeze on his shoulder, Robby seemed to accept it without question.
–
“We’ve lived together for three years and I’ve never seen you bring a guy home.” Santos took a swig of beer as she lounged on the couch. “So unless you’ve been sneaking into storage closets for quick fixes or having holiday liaisons, I don’t think you’ve gotten dicked down in three years. Probably longer, if I had to guess.”
Whitaker sighed. “You’re still on this?”
“As your roommate and best friend, it is my solemn duty to look out for you and make sure you get your dick wet. Also you’ve been a really good sport about all of the times I sexile you, so it’s only fair.” Santos shrugged.
“You’re so noble,” Whitaker rolled his eyes and twisted open a beer bottle using the meat of his forearm, a trick that Santos always gave an impressed look at no matter how many times he used it.
They sat in relative silence, the TV detailing some grisly Forensic Files episode. Whitaker shifted in his seat.
“I’m a virgin.”
Santos raised her eyebrows, but kept any impulsive comments to herself— a feat for her.
“I— you know my family,” Santos winced— she had met them at his med school graduation and they had not gotten along, to put it mildly. “And college was weird and med school was busy and I know I can, I just…” Whitaker trailed off.
“Hey,” Santos said softly, putting down her beer. “Better late than too soon. Trust me.” She nudged him with her foot. “Anyways, everyone wants to get with a hot doctor. And there are plenty of gay guys that would go crazy for your sad puppy eyes.”
“Oh yeah, I can get the old shell shock pity fuck,” Whitaker rolled said sad puppy eyes.
“Exactly.” She punched his shoulder playfully. “And. Y’know. You never have to be ready or whatever. Blah, blah, blah, everyone does things at their own pace or not at all.”
“Thanks, Trin.”
She picked her beer back up and finished off the bottle. “But if you want to get fucked fast, defo use Grindr.”
“Please don’t lecture me on how to get laid.” Whitaker covered his face with his free hand.
“Yeah, yeah.” Santos got up to grab another beer.
“And don’t use your real name or show your face on Grindr!” She called from the kitchen.
“What? Why?”
“Do you really want a patient coming in saying they recognize you from a hookup site?”
–
Maybe Whitaker had had a few too many beers. That was the only way he could explain the presence of the orange and black app he was staring at on his home screen. It was his justification for opening said app, plugging in his junk email, and filling out whatever information he found pertinent; Age: 29, Gender: Cis Man, Tribe: Twink(?), Position: Vers Bottom. Said beers gave him the lack of impulse control to input a fake name and a cropped picture or two of his chest from a trip to Ocean City with Trinity— his first time seeing the sea. It was also the beers, combined with a full shift, that made him drowsy enough that a few minutes after he hit Save, he fell sound asleep.
–
His first priority that morning was to drink a bunch of water. He usually made a point to after drinking, but had been in a horny-drunk fugue state the night before. Speaking of…
After a few glasses of water, he made his way back to his room and rifled through his sheets to find his phone, almost dead, with 30 notifications from the offending app. He scrolled through the notification center, stomach flipping a little too much to risk opening Grindr again. A bunch of variations on ‘Hey,’ a few unshown images that Whitaker had a suspicion of what their content was, and a few truly bizarre messages not worth repeating. He plugged his phone in, went to brush his teeth, and pointedly tried to forget about it.
–
More than once that following week, Whitaker found himself reaching for his phone and idly navigating to the app. Sue him. He was a red-blooded American homosexual man. Even if he was too nervous to respond, the nature of being noticed was a little thrilling and confidence-boosting, although he was glad that he had some sense of self-worth prior to joining Grindr. Scrolling through the array of profiles was kind of addicting, and laughing at particularly strange messages was fun. He made a point to never look at it at work, only late nights where he felt vaguely in the mood. There were some guys he found attractive, but most people on Grindr were there for immediate hook-ups. Which was fine, just… not really in his comfort zone. Sue him, he wanted to get to know a guy before having them inside him. Or vice versa.
Whitaker had known for a while that he had a thing for older men, something that had started in college and had only been made more evident by a certain physically affectionate attending. There was no shortage of older men on Grindr, and if he kept an eye out for muscular men with a smattering of salt and pepper body hair and any evidence of strong hands, well, that was pretty par for the course for gay men.