There’s a saying about Saturdays. A wise and ancient proverb, proven true throughout history, quoted by Winston Churchill and Sun Tzu alike: Saturdays… Are for the boys. A simple phrase with a myriad of meanings, encapsulating a core aspect of the human experience: Saturdays are devoted to boyish pranks, each Saturday is a day to connect to the fundamental nature of boy-ness, or even that the concept of Saturday is the sole property of boys (this meaning is hotly debated). Of course, the most common understanding of the phrase is that ‘Saturdays are when the boys (male friends) can experience camaraderie and connection to one another, strengthening their warriors’ bond to one another. If that was the case, where the FUCK was everyone? Dave sat in his pathetic little ‘streaming area’, an apish mockery of his older brother’s, fuming impotently. He’d been planning this stream for months! John and Sollux had LOVED his idea to host freestyle rap battles in Rust (at least, that was how he chose to remember their reactions), and yet neither of them had even bothered to show up, despite the thirty separate pings to join the call! Instead, he was forced to suffer the indignity of being beaten to death by naked Russian men wielding stone clubs all by himself. The indignity was almost too much to bear. It had been an hour, and it was time to call it quits. Now, it may not be a universal reaction, but for a certain type of person, being repeatedly bludgeoned into oblivion by well-endowed foreigners hurling slurs at you in a language you cannot parse can stoke… Urges. Not to pass judgement, but Dave happened to be that certain type. Besides, after such a humiliating outing, who could blame him for wanting to relax, unwind, and dull the pain of it all by flogging his hog like an abusive ranch hand? With the game closed, he booted up Microsoft Edge (his go to browser for viewing sensual cinema, appreciating the irony of the name) and clicked on the only bookmarked link, taking him directly to RedHamsterHub, his favorite confusingly named repository of ****. Now the only question was… What material would inspire him on his climactic journey today? Well… It was Saturday… “Public Femboy” would be a good enough search. Sure enough, up came page after page of beautiful man-on-not-quite-woman action, and Dave was promptly in business, eagerly stroking himself to the grunts and moans of someone’s son dressed as a daughter. Already, he was starting to forget about the depths of betrayal he had so recently suffered, comforted by the blissful fog of shameful arousal. He was so enraptured by the experience that he didn’t even hear the ‘bwoip’ noise of someone joining a discord call… Until his godly gooning was interrupted by that hideous, piercingly nasal voice inquiring: “DUDE, ARE YOU FUCKING JERKING OFF IN HERE?” It was almost jarring enough to make Dave lose his grip, losing his precious pre-slicked progress. Fucking Karkat. Of all the shrill, unpleasant harpies that could interrupt his self-love soul searching… “THAT’S FUCKING DISGUSTING, WHAT THE HELL? ARE YOU SOME KIND OF PERVERT?” God, every word was like nails on a chalkboard. Feelings of arousal replaced by feelings of anger… rousal. Angerousal. Dave paused the video, but his hand did falter in its vigorous task. Karkat wanted him to stop, but Dave wasn’t going to give up so easily. In fact, this was a ripe opportunity for a valuable lesson… The streaming equipment. Perfect. “SERIOUSLY, WHAT ARE YOU-“ Video on. “OH. MY. GOD.” Perfect. Give him a good view of every angle. Let him see its impressive girth. Be afraid.