Chapter 8 #12
I’m the guy mothers warn their sons about if they’re honest enough to know their sons might look.
This is the part where a decent person would stop.
Tell him to go home.
Tell him this is too risky, too messy.
Tell him to wait for someone who can actually show up for him without having to plan escape routes. Instead I’m sitting here thinking about how good he looks when he’s naked.
I hate myself a little for that.
Because how the fuck is he calm? My pulse is racing like I’m about to commit a crime.
If anyone finds out about this, it’s not just a breakup and sad playlists situation.
It’s reputations, families, futures. I can already see his dad’s face if he finds out that his son is sleeping with me now.
Not just the dad. The whole town. The other guys.
The ones who already want a reason to come after me. I know how this works.
You want to fuck with a guy like me? You don’t go for his bike, you don’t go for his money. You go for what’s soft.
This is exactly why I don’t do relationships.
Why I don’t do "more."
You don’t hand people the knife, you keep it.
You keep everything surface-level and physical so when it goes to shit, nobody knows where to stab.
He’s different.
I don’t think he’s built for these types of situations. He’s the type who’d want to bring the person he loves to dinner with his family. Introduce him to his friends. Let people see him happy without flinching. And I’m sitting here trying to figure out how to fuck him without getting him killed.
I know we’re different.
I’ve always known.
He believes in things. I believe in not getting caught.
He’s thinking about how to fit me into his life while I’m thinking about how to keep him separate from mine so he doesn’t get dragged down with the rest of the shit.
He talks about wanting to be a teacher like it’s this clear path. University. Internship. Classroom. Kids.
So what happens if they find out the safe adult spent his first time bent over for the "brainless biker" who can’t even put his real relationship status on social media?
It literally makes me sick.
Because I know people. I know how they talk.
They don’t say oh, how sweet, he was in love.
They say of course he ended up like that, look who he started with.
I swear if he was just some random guy, I wouldn’t care this much.
I’d fuck him, enjoy it, let him go home and deal with his own conscience.
But now it’s him. The same him who gets nervous meeting new people but somehow isn’t scared of me.
The same him who blushes when I stare at his mouth but still stares right back.
The same him who tells me stupid boring little stories about his day when he gets bored during meetings like I’m someone who needs to hear them.
He makes me feel like… fuck, I don’t know. Less doomed.
Which just makes it worse. Because if this goes where our bodies want it to go, there’s no coming back.
We’re something else. Something heavier.
And one day he might wake up and realize how heavy that is. One day he might look back and think, damn, my first time was with someone who couldn’t even hold my hand on the street.
Jesus Christ, I’m gonna throw up just by thinking about it.
It’s so pathetic. I don’t care about being the first.
Well, I do, but I care more about not being 'the regret'.
I can see it so clearly I want to punch something. Him years from now, sitting somewhere far away, telling someone about his past. Laughing about the mistake he made with some guy who made him hide, who kept him in the dark, who loved him only when it was safe for him.
I’ve been this mistake in so many stories. I don’t mind that.
I do mind being his.
Whatever it is, it’s ugly and raw. I don’t have the nice words for it. And it’s painful, because I don’t know how to do gentle without also doing damage.
Never learned how. No one was important enough to make me want to learn how to do it.
He deserves someone who can post a picture with him and write some cheesy caption and not worry that half the city will use it as ammo.
I kinda want that to be me. I want to be the one he points to when someone asks who are you seeing. I want to not give a shit who hears.
But that’s not the life I built. What the fuck am I supposed to do, magically become the open, proud, safe boyfriend just because he deserves it?
I’m a lot of things. Magician is not one of them.
If I stop now that he asked, he’ll probably be confused.
Maybe hurt.
Maybe he’ll think I don’t want him, which is the biggest joke of the century because I want him so badly it physically fucking aches.
If I don’t stop, I’m signing a contract my heart already knows I can’t refuse and my head knows I can’t afford.
It’s fucked either way.
My body is like "shut up, overthinker, this is literally what you’ve been wanting since the first time you saw him."
My guilt is like "cool, enjoy, and then watch him hate you in five years when he connects the dots."
I force myself to imagine that properly.
Imagine him realizing, with that slow, painful clarity, that he gave his first time to someone who couldn’t manage more than shadows.
That he has to edit his own history when he tells it out loud because he can’t name me. I don’t want to be a redacted name in his story. I want to be the fucking headline.
But wanting and being able to handle it are two different things. Because what if one day he puts me in the folder of "stuff I regret" next to embarrassing haircuts and bad tattoo ideas?!
I don’t wanna be that.
BUT…
On the other hand.
Here we fucking are. He’s not stupid. He knows this is risky.
He knows his dad would lose his shit. He knows our families don’t exactly roll out pride flags for guys like us.
He’s not here by accident. He’s not drunk. He’s not confused. He’s not being pushed into this. He chose to come here. He chose to stay. He came to me, fully aware of who I am.
He knows about my shit. Not everything, but enough to know there’s danger attached. And still, he’s here.
So what am I doing, acting like I’m the only one with a say?! I keep talking in my head like I’m protecting him from me, but maybe that’s just ego in a different outfit.
Like I’m the only one who understands the stakes, and he’s this clueless little thing who doesn’t get how serious this is.
He does. He’s not fucking stupid. He’s scared too. I’ve seen it in his eyes.
If he can carry that fear and still say "I want this"… who the fuck am I to stand here and decide for both of us??
People are gonna talk either way.
People are gonna hate either way.
His dad’s gonna lose his mind if he finds out he even likes guys. My shit is gonna be dangerous whether I touch him tonight or not.
None of that disappears just because we keep our hands to ourselves. The only thing that changes if we don’t do this, is that we both lie awake later, in different beds, thinking about what it would have been like and hating ourselves a little for not being brave enough.
He wants it. I want it.
He’s not being forced. I’m not being forced.
The risk is there. The fear is there. But so is the choice. And I’m suddenly so fucking tired of living like my whole life is just me reacting to other people’s shit. Their opinions, their rules, their threats.
I’m tired of being scared of what might happen every time I feel something real. I keep thinking "he deserves someone who can hold his hand in public."
Okay. Maybe one day I’ll be that someone. Maybe not.
But right now?
The only thing I know for sure is that he deserves to have the life he actually wants, not the version everyone else curated for him. And if the life he wants, right now, includes getting fucked by me in a dark room where no one can see? Then maybe that’s not me ruining him.
Maybe that’s him choosing himself for once. And maybe I get to choose myself too.
I’ve spent so long letting other people decide who I am. The fuckup. The problem. The one you hide from your parents. The guy you only call at night. The bad idea you warn your friends about.
Yeah, it’s dangerous.
Yeah, it’s secret.
Yeah, it could blow up in our faces.
Yeah, he might regret it one day.
Yeah, I might too.
But fuck, man. It’s our lives. Not theirs. If we’re gonna crash, at least let it be our hands on the wheel, for fuck’s sake.
You know what?
Fuck it.
Fuck his dad.
Fuck them haters.
Fuck the gossip.
Fuck the imaginary safe boy in the pastel shirt.
Fuck whatever they think a "good first time" is supposed to look like.
We’re gonna have sex.
Because he’s a part of it, not them. And he wants this. I want this. I’m done acting like I’m not allowed to touch what’s literally lying in my bed asking to be touched just because other people would have a meltdown if they saw it.
Let them. Let them cry. Let them whisper. Let them clutch their pearls and say we ruined our lives and talk about sin and reputation and whatever the hell else makes them feel important.
They don’t get a vote in what happens in bed.
Yeah, maybe one day we’ll look back and say we took a risk that could’ve destroyed us.
Or maybe we’ll look back and say, that’s the night everything actually started.
Either way, I’d rather regret something we did than spend the rest of my life haunted by what we were too scared to touch.
So yeah.
We’re gonna do it. We’re gonna fuck.
Even if no one ever knows.
Even if it stays a secret for years.
Even if the whole world would scream if they saw. Let them scream in their own houses. In this room, right now, it’s just me and him.
He wants to live this. I want to live this.
So we will. And if the world wants to cry about it?
They can go fuck themselves.
51) Ready For Me?
Rava
I know what I said. I know exactly what it means.
And I don't take it back. I'm glad he didn't say no. But more than that, I'm glad he doesn't rush me.
He's willing to show me. Not take. Show me.
His hand finds my face. His thumb traces my cheekbone. "You sure?" he asks.
I nod. "I don't wanna stop."
"That's not what I asked."