Paul is post-post-post-sincerity.
He cared about everything so much when he was a kid back in the South. Of course all kids care too much, that’s why every adult spends their time wishing they were a child again, but Paul was a special type. His friends called him weird. Teachers called him sensitive. His parents, a sissy. He cried about the way his older brother would laugh at the way fish flopped around after they died. He cried at sad cartoon episodes. He cried when kids at school would call him names.
His teenagerhood was spent in constant opposition of everything. He donned himself in punk clothing and hung out with his queer friends underneath overpasses, spray painting political slogans in desperate hope that anyone would see it. The cars went by too fast to notice.
College in Portland quickly shaved that off of him. He was met by people who were way more politically active than him, who cared about issues that Paul had never even heard about and was unequipped to handle the discourse around. He spent his days getting stoned in his dorm room, not showing up to classes, and flirting with guys at parties.
That’s post-post-sincerity. You wrap back around to not caring about things, but in a way that’s cool and interesting now. Paul wasn’t skipping classes and smoking weed because he didn’t care, but because he cared so much about upholding this new reputation that he was willing to put those other things aside. It got him hook-ups, it got him notoriety, but deep down in his heart he knew it wasn’t what he was looking for.
Now he’s onto a new era of his life. Post-post-post-sincerity. Maybe it could simply be referred to as “sincerity” once again. Years of being in the workforce, spending his time around customers and people who aren’t in his immediate demographic, finally getting a moment of silence and space, all of that propelled something new. He’s fishing again. He works eight hours a day at the fish cannery and then goes home to the dock and goes fishing. He spends his days with his best friend getting high and talking about nothing.
None of it matters anymore. There’s nothing to prove to anyone.
And so, sure, the skunk pulls out his dick when he gets the urge to a few hours into a good fishing session. No reason not to. Not like anyone’s looking.
He touches himself for a good 20 minutes without anyone coming down the dock and without any boats going down the Willamette. Even when one does, he doesn’t care to hide his cock – what are they gonna do about it anyway?
Paul leisurely strokes his dick. Gone are the days when he has to be in and out in five minutes, so he takes as long as he wants. It feels damn good. He’s discovered just the right paw position, finger right at the base of his cock and another one massaging the head of his penis. He does that for a while without really jerking off, knowing it’ll make his orgasm that much better. What’s the rush?
When he feels a pull at the line and doesn’t go for it because he’s too preoccupied, grunting under his breath, when the feeling of his wet thighs against the dock disappears and the sloshing of the waves is gone and it’s nothing but him and his cock and the beauty of Oregon, that’s when he knows he’s ready to cum.
He pushes his dick down and begins to stroke himself faster. He closes his eyes and lets out a low moan as warmth pulses through his body, a stark contrast to the cold air around him. Paul grits his teeth and grabs the edge of the dock, bracing himself for the orgasm that’s about to come.
And soon enough, he’s shooting ropes of cum into the water below. His whole body gets that sensation of finally reeling in a big fish, with all of the pressure and weight finally giving way. He lays back onto the dock and lets out a happy breath, giggly at the idea that he was thinking about fish as he was orgasming.
He looks down at the dock. A little bit of cum is seeping into the wood but most of it ended up in the lake. Maybe it’ll make good fish bait.
He looks around. Another orgasm done seamlessly. Thank you world.
Paul stuffs his dick away and goes fishing for another hour, until it’s too dark to see what he’s doing. He brings the cooler over to his truck and drives off from the river.
And none of it really matters, but it’s still nice.