How I Lost My Virginity Part 15

Part 15 — The little princess
Fernando felt Alfredo’s tongue keep working his anus, wet, insistent, and his body responded with involuntary moans, with jolts he couldn’t control. But inside his head, something had opened. Something that had been locked shut for years.

He closed his eyes beneath the wig and let go.

He remembered school. The hallways. The looks. That time he stared at Daniel, the captain of the soccer team, in the locker room after the match. Daniel was taking off his sweat-soaked shirt, and Fernando couldn’t look away. It was only three seconds, maybe four, but it was enough. One of his classmates noticed. “What are you looking at, little Fernando? Do you like what you see?” And the laughter. The cackling bouncing off the metal lockers. Fernando turned red, stammered some pathetic excuse about being distracted, and left with his stomach clenched. That night he promised himself he would never look at a boy again. Never again. He forced himself to look at the floor whenever someone like Daniel passed by. He forced himself to look away. He forced himself not to feel.

He remembered the parties he never went to. The girls his friends introduced him to, “so you finally get yourself a girlfriend, Fernando,” and him forcing smiles, forcing interest, forcing everything. That brunette, her name was Andrea, who confessed her feelings to him one night at a gathering, and he said yes without feeling anything, and kissed her without feeling anything, and touched her breast over her blouse without feeling absolutely anything. And then he went home, locked himself in the bathroom, and masturbated thinking about the history teacher, the one with the gray beard and big hands who always pointed at the blackboard with confidence. He came biting a towel so his parents wouldn’t hear him, and he hated himself for it. He hated himself with every fiber of his body.

He remembered the conversations he never had. The words he never said. “Dad, I’m gay.” Three words. Three fucking words he never dared to pronounce. He had rehearsed so many times in front of the bathroom mirror, with the faucet running so they wouldn’t hear him. “Dad, I’m gay. Dad, I like men. Dad, I’m homosexual.” And always, always, the image of his father frowning, his mother’s grave voice asking “what did we do wrong?”, the cousins at family gatherings making faggot jokes while he laughed along inside with a hollow laugh.

He remembered the eighteen lost years. An entire adolescence hidden in a cage he had built himself. The times he could have loved and didn’t. The times he could have been free and wasn’t. The hands of other boys he never held, the kisses he never gave, the nights he spent alone in his room staring at the ceiling while his classmates lived, made mistakes, got back up. He never lived. He survived. He spent eighteen years holding his breath.

And now he was here. Tied to the bed of a fifty-five-year-old man, wearing a ...