Sometimes, the most difficult thing to describe is the chaos of emotions inside one’s chest. It’s like trying to pull smoke into the shape of something recognizable so that it makes sense to another person. My therapist sat across from me in her small office, a room that felt too tidy, too sterilized, like a showroom version of comfort rather than the real thing. Her eyes fixed on mine, but there was a hollow, far-away quality to them, as though she were only half-present.
I could feel the weight of every syllable as it clawed its way up my throat. Everything inside me was tight, jaw, shoulders, gut, as though tension had woven itself into my muscles long ago and had refused to leave.
“The gloomy skies of rain or snow, and the bright sun of a summer day, both feel the same to me,” I said. My voice sounded unfamiliar, like it belonged to someone else sitting somewhere else. The words drifted out and fell flat in the air, as if the room absorbed them before she could.
At work, I’d overhear people talking about how the weather affected their moods. Some of them loved the rain, said it made them feel alive, invigorated, as if everything unimportant was washing away. Others thrived under the summer sun, basking in its warmth and being lifted out of the despair of depression. I wasn’t like them. Ambivalence ruled my life, a dull blanket that smothered any flicker of feeling. The sky seemed to be an unchanging shade of gray, insulating me from the rest of humanity.
“Do you associate any specific weather events with your trauma?” she asked, her voice clinical, distant, detached.
Her question felt like a splinter of glass lodged in my chest. “Last straw,” I muttered under my breath. The words barely escaped me.
“Sorry?” she asked, tilting her head with the kind of polite curiosity that made my skin crawl.
Something inside me snapped, not violently, but with the slow, inevitable crack of something that has been under pressure too long. “I’m here to move forward,” I said. The frustration sharpened my tone more than I meant it to, but not enough for me to regret it. “I’m tired of dwelling on things I can’t change. I need something, anything, that helps me now. I don’t need you digging in the past like it has treasure.”
She nodded, though her expression remained the same, impassive. She had mastered that counselor-neutral expression. It was supposed to be calming, but it felt more like a mirror wiped clean of humanity. “Should we look at changing your medication?”
My pulse spiked, and the heat in my face flushed to my fingertips. My voice, now low and controlled but dripping with anger, spilled out. “I don’t want another fucking pill.”
She smiled that practiced smile. It was supposed to ease me, but it only made it worse, like she was placating me, telling me that everything was okay, when nothing was. I was done with her platitudes, her methods that felt more like an interrogation than a healing process. These people weren’t helping me move forward.
“Tristan,” she said, her voice soft and steady, “once we understand how the trauma has affected your perception of things, we can unlock—”
I slammed my hand down on the armrest. “I was repeatedly raped by my stepfather. He fucked me in the ass every chance he got. And now, I hate almost everyone I meet. I don’t trust anyone. Anyone.”
She recoiled, the distance between us growing wider. “You’re transferring your anger from him to me,” she said, as if it were something I hadn’t already considered. As if I wasn’t fully aware of how tangled my feelings had become.
I stood abruptly, the chair scraping across the floor, louder than I’d intended. “You’re clueless. I’m angry with you because you’re just another person running through the same script, the checklist you all go through when you’ve got a case like mine. You want me to relive everything, to give you every little detail as though that’ll somehow make me better. And as far as transference goes, the only thing you share in common with that asshole is the stubble on your chin. I’m done.”
I turned and walked toward the waiting room. My steps felt heavier than usual, as though gravity had somehow decided to take its toll on me now. Everyone in the room turned their heads, their gazes like cold daggers in the back of my neck. I felt their eyes on me, heard the muted shuffle of shoes on the linoleum, the hushed whispers that spread through the room like a low hum.
“Let me walk you out,” a voice broke through the silence, gentle, tentative.
I glanced up. The student from the university, he’d been observing my session last week, was walking toward me. He offered his hand, palm up, and for a moment, I hesitated, my mind spinning. He was taller than most of the guys I’d met, about five-ten, maybe five-eleven. Broad shoulders, athletic build, like a guy who’d spent his youth on a ball field. He had that sandy blond hair that glowed in the sunlight, the kind of guy who probably didn’t even see people like me.
But still, here he was, offering his hand, an unfamiliar kindness in his eyes.
I nodded. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t say anything. We walked in silence toward the elevator. The rhythmic ‘ding’ of the doors opening echoed in the small lobby. The air in the building was thick, too sterile, too clinical, but the elevator was a welcome escape. I stepped in first, and he followed close behind. The doors slid shut with an almost imperceptible click.
“I could get in trouble for doing this,” his voice was barely audible over the hum of the elevator.
I didn’t speak. I just nodded, but I wasn’t sure why. I wasn’t sure about anything at that moment.
“I knew you’d be here for your session,” he continued. “And I wanted you to have this book.” He handed me a paperback. I didn’t look at it. My eyes met his, searching for something in them. Something real. And before he looked away, I thought that I might have found it.
He looked away; his expression softened. “Read it, Tristan.”
“OK,” I muttered, my throat tight.
“You’re in my prayers,” he added quietly, before stepping away.
I didn’t know what to make of it. He didn’t know me, not really. Not the way she did after all her prying. He’d heard part of it last week, but his words, there was something in them, something different. Hope? It didn’t make sense. I couldn’t even tell if I wanted hope.
The elevator doors opened again. He was gone before I could think to ask his name.
The harsh sunlight hit me the moment I stepped out, its warmth blinding against the cold of the building. I shielded my eyes, searching for my car. It was right where I left it.
I got in, the leather seat creaking under my weight. The air conditioner kicked on, blasting cold air into the silence. I stared at the book in my lap, the title catching my eye: Reality Therapy by William Glasser. I slumped against the headrest, the bitterness in my mouth palpable. Another self-help book. Maybe this one will cure my homosexuality, I thought sarcastically, tossing it aside. But then, something stopped me. The cover felt different. Something about the way he’d handed it to me… like it mattered more than it seemed.
I picked it back up. The first few pages were dry, like I expected. But as I read, a small flicker of something in me stirred. It wasn’t the cure-all I’d wanted. But it was a start.
I turned the book over, half-smiling at the irony. Reality Therapy, maybe this was the first real lifeline I’d been thrown in years.
But the nagging voice in the back of my mind was loud. You’ve had fourteen years of nightmares, Tristan. You can’t escape them. The modified words of a Patsy Cline song began to play in my head. I remembered the night that I’d first sung them. ‘How can I forget the past and start my life anew, instead of having nightmares about you?’ Damn that bastard. I tossed the book onto the passenger seat and drove home.
Fourteen years earlier. That’s when the real nightmare began. I wasn’t asleep, but I was home. No one else was there. I was young, horny, and with my new discovery, gay porn on the internet. I had realized that I wasn’t the only guy who was fascinated by men’s bodies, their dicks, their butts, and their assholes. The guys in the videos did things with one another that I had never even thought of. My fantasy life was full of hot men, and I spent more and more time with my computer.
Then came that day in May. My eyes were glued to the screen that was propped on a chair next to my bed. My ears were focused on the moans. My fingers gripped my cock. My left hand moved below my nuts, and my index finger danced along the rim of my hole. I didn’t hear him come home. I didn’t hear him come into my room.
The gravelly voice of a man who had been drinking stunned me. I was honestly frozen to the spot.
“So, the little fucker likes dick.” My stepfather’s eyes drilled into me. “Does he like sucking cock? ‘Cause his momma sure don’t like it.”
That’s the last thing he actually said. Anything else coming from his mouth were grunts and groans as he used my mouth before rolling me over and defiling me from behind. Things seemed to blur. When he was done, he threatened to kill me if I told anyone.
I lived in terror.
Terror waiting for the next time.
Terror that someone would find out.
Terror that I would accidentally say something.
Terror that he would kill me if I did.
I was a child living in a warzone of silence. Every sound, every glance, every breath held the potential to betray me. I learned how to smile with dead eyes, how to laugh on cue, how to make myself small and invisible when I needed to be. My fear wasn’t just in the moment; it was chronic, like a disease in my bones. I carried it through every day like a hidden bomb, just waiting for the wrong word to set it off.
But in the end, it wasn’t me who told on him. He did it himself. He bragged. Bragged to a buddy about the boy pussy he had on the side, as if it were something to boast about. A trophy, a conquest, a punchline.
That buddy, whoever he was, had at least a shred of decency. He made the call.
And just like that, my world shattered again, a nightmare of a different kind.
What followed was a carousel of foster homes, each one painted with a different shade of unfamiliar. Therapists who meant well but didn’t know how to look me in the eye when I told them what happened. Offices that smelled of stale coffee and copy paper, chairs too big for my small body, and questions that peeled me open like I was a specimen under glass.
They said it was healing. It felt like bleeding.
Now, years later, I sat on the worn edge of my couch, facing a window that looked out onto a world that had moved on without me. The sky was partly cloudy, just enough light to suggest that maybe, maybe, something better could exist on the other side of those clouds. I held a book in my hand, the spine creased from someone else’s use, the pages marked with underlines and hope.
I stared at the cover like it might explode. Part of me was terrified that opening it would be the start of another cycle, one where I’d climb up toward something promising, only to fall back down, harder than before. I wasn’t sure I could survive another fall.
I took a breath. Then another.
My fingers trembled as I turned to and reread the first page.
The words didn’t rush to meet me. I had to pull them in, one sentence at a time, like I was relearning how to breathe underwater. My reading was cautious, hesitant, the way a burn victim might reach toward a flame to test if it still hurts.
It did. But something else was there too.
The book didn’t pretend. It didn’t offer magic or miracles. It offered tools. Explanations. A map, not for what had been done to me, but for what I might be able to do with what remained. It told me I had needs, and that those needs weren’t shameful. That I had choices, even if they were small, even if they felt impossibly hard.
It told me I could start again. That I didn’t have to keep reliving that moment.
The moment when he pushed himself into me.
That memory always came unbidden, a crashing wave from the darkest part of my past, sharp, brutal, impossible to ignore. But this time, the book helped me hold it differently. Not to erase it. Not to forgive it. But to say: that was then. This is now.
I closed the book gently, my hand resting over the cover like it was something sacred.
And then I cried.
Not the desperate, broken sobs I’d grown used to. These were quiet. They didn’t claw at my chest. They didn’t drag me under. They simply fell. Tears of something I didn’t recognize at first, something alien.
Hope.
For the first time in forever, I felt the whisper of a possibility that I might not be broken forever. That maybe, just maybe, there was still something left of me worth saving.
And that maybe, someone, someday, might see it too.
Two weeks later, I was walking home from work with a lighter load on my shoulders. Hope had been planted, and it had grown, slowly, I will admit, but it was growing. I cannot say it was easy, but when the bad thoughts came, instead of dwelling on them, I did something else. My go-to was to make dinner rolls while I watched an episode of Bewitched on my TV. There is a certain satisfaction about creating bread out of such simple ingredients. And there is a special joy in enjoying the fruits (or breads) of one’s labor.
Across the street from me was a liquor store with an advertisement for Bacardi rum. My mind flashed to Christmas with the Nelsons. They were one of the two foster families I remembered with good thoughts. Mrs. Nelson made rum balls, and they were delicious. Something compelled me to buy a bottle of rum. I hurried across the street and into the store. It was my first time in a liquor store, and I was astounded by the myriad bottles of different alcohols. Who knew there were this many different kinds?
I’d come in for rum, so that’s what I searched for. Should I just get the Bacardi, or was another kind better? Too many choices.
A clerk was placing bottles on a lower shelf, and I approached him. “Excuse me, I need some help picking out a rum.”
The man turned, and my heart quickened. It was the man who gave me the Glasser book. He smiled and stood.
“Tristan, how are you?” His voice carried the tone that told me he really cared to know; he wasn’t just saying ‘hello.’
“I’m doing so much better, Abram.” I read the name on his badge. “I think you saved my life.”
I saw his eyes get moist. “I’m so glad,” he said. “I was really worried about you.”
“A new me is starting to grow out of this. It’s still hard. I’ll admit that, but I’m actually doing something. That’s why I’m here. I’m going to make rum balls, but I need some rum.”
“My mother always used dark rum, Coruba brand.”
“Then that’s what I’ll get. Who can argue with a woman who is the mother of such a wonderful guy? I’m going to want you to come over and try some. In fact, I’m making dinner rolls when I get home. Why don’t you come over and eat some? Or you can help me make them, if you want.”
We walked over to the rum aisle, and he handed me a bottle of Coruba. “I’d like that. I get off in about 30 minutes. I was going to pick up something from the Chinese place around the corner. Why don’t I get enough for both of us?”
“OK. That would be really special.”
“How’s sesame chicken?” Abram asked.
“I don’t know. I’ve never had Chinese food before. Whatever you think.”
He smiled as he looked at me, really looked at me. “You’re in for a treat. Do you have something for some hot tea?”
“I’ve got tea bags. Lipton’s,” I replied.
He chuckled. “Perfect. What’s your number?”
He put my number into his phone, and a text immediately popped up. ‘Don’t forget to send me your address.’ I immediately sent it to him, and I heard him laugh. He went back to the next aisle to continue his work, and I turned to head to the register when I heard someone ask him, “New boyfriend?”
He replied, “I hope so.”
I felt my hand start to shake. Could someone like him really like a guy like me? I needed to stop the negative thoughts. I needed to get home and get my apartment ready for company.
My apartment was immaculate, and the ingredients for the dinner rolls were on the counter. I had a pot of hot water on the stove for tea, and my mismatched dinner plates occupied their places on the little square table I used for eating. The chairs didn’t match either, but they were the best chairs I found at the Salvation Army thrift store. I got them for two dollars each, and I knew they would outlast me.
My heart seized when I heard the knock at the door. I told myself to use positive thoughts, so I reminded myself that I ‘would not fuck this up.’ I opened the door, and Abram stood there with a white plastic bag of food. He held it up.
“I got hot and sour soup, too.”
“I’m going to need bowls,” I said with a bit of panic in my voice.
“No. It comes in styrofoam bowls, and there are plastic spoons in the bag.”
I took a breath. Everything was going to be fine.
“Do you want to eat first or start on the dinner rolls?”
“I should start the dinner rolls; the first part doesn’t take very long. I like to autolyse the dough.”
“Sounds dangerous.” Abram smiled.
“It is. You’ll want to stay close to me in case something goes wrong.”
Abram put the bag down on the table and moved so that we faced one another with our shoulders touching. “Is this good?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I replied. “It’s almost perfect, but I won’t be able to mix the flour, and you won’t be able to make the tea.”
“True, but I want to kiss you first. Would that be alright?”
“I’d like that a lot.”
He leaned forward and kissed me. It was gentle and soft, and when he pulled back, he said, “I thought that I’d be able to concentrate better on the tea if we did that first, but I was wrong. It just makes me want more.”
“Well, tea, dough, and food in that order. The food will give you strength for more kissing.” I paused. “And whatever else we might decide to do while the dough rises.” I gave him a smirk and wiggled my eyebrows. I actually wanted to skip the food and take him into the bedroom, but there is an order to things, and I was intent on following them.
I weighed the milk, sugar, and flour. I mixed them together. Abram smiled at me the entire time. “So, why aren’t you putting in the yeast and salt?”
“So the flour has time to hydrate. We’ll wait about thirty minutes before adding the yeast and salt. I’ll give that about thirty minutes and then I’ll give it a little kneading and let it rise.” I covered the bowl with a towel. “Let’s eat. I want to try the Chinese food.”
We sat down to some hot and sour soup and sesame chicken. We had hot tea, steaming hot Lipton’s, not overly steeped, so it wasn’t bitter. During the meal, Abram told me about his studies. He was working on his master's. He wanted to help people, but he felt the program he was in only served to reinforce victimhood. I told him how the book he gave me helped me turn away from the past and work at making good choices when I was feeling bad. He took my hand in his.
“That’s another choice on my part,” I said. “I could have pulled away, but I’m leaving myself open to discover new things, but you’re making it easy for me.”
He pulled my hand up to his lips and kissed it. “You’re now blessed with the remnants of sesame chicken on your hands.”
“You are too kind.” I laughed.
He laughed.
I watched him finish his meal, and he watched me finish mine. It felt, dare I say it?, normal. With my last bite, I said. “I’m going to add the butter and knead the dough. Then I’ll let it rest.”
“Why does it need to rest when you’re doing all the work?”
“It’s kind of like an older man with a younger one. The younger one works harder, and it takes the older one time to rise.”
“You made that up,” said Abram.
“Did I? Which one of us is older?”
He laughed. “I think we’re about the same age, and we’re not dough.”
“Just watch and learn.” I worked the butter and yeast into the dough and got so distracted that I divided it into eight balls before I realized that I skipped a rest period. “Shit, I messed up.”
“Are they completely ruined?” Abram hurried to my side.
“I don’t know,” I said. I could tell that my breathing rate had increased.
“What were you supposed to do instead of what you did?” he asked.
“I was supposed to let them rise, then smush them down and form balls and let them rise again.” I could feel anxiety rising within me.
“What if we let them rise, smush half of them, and form those into balls, let everything rise together, the smushed ones and the ones not smushed. Once we bake them, we can test both and see which one is better.”
“Kind of like a taste test?” I asked.
“Exactly. Maybe we don’t need the extra step.”
“I guess we can try it.” I smiled. “You’ve saved me again.”
“You saved yourself the first time.” He wrapped his arms around me and kissed my ear. “Can I help smush one?”
I snuggled back into him. “You can smush as many as you want.”
“Just two.” He licked my earlobe. “One is my literature professor and her imaginary symbolism bullshit.” He poked the doughball. “The other is the unfeeling bitch of a counselor. I couldn’t stand working with her.” He pressed harder into that doughball. “She was like a robot.”
“Any anger issues there?” I asked.
He laughed. “Anyone you want to virtually squish?”
“The past is behind me, and the only thing I want to squish is you.” I reached around and pinched his butt. I pressed the doughballs down, picked each one up, and formed another two balls with them. Your turn.”
I watched him do the same thing to the balls he had flattened. “Now what?” he asked.
“We cover them and see what happens.” I turned to face him, and his arms held me more tightly.
“I’d like to cover you and see what happens.” He gave me a small kiss. “You are just so…” I could see that he was searching for the right word.
“Fuckable?” I suggested.
“That’s what you call a cute man that you want to have a one night stand with. You’re more than that. When I sat in on that.. um… meeting…”
“It was a therapy session, Abram. You can say it. I’m a big boy.”
“Fair enough,” he replied. “I could tell there was this wonderful guy trying to get out, and I felt that she was trying to beat you back into the role of victim. I had to fight myself not to say, ‘Run away with me and see who you really are.”
I held his head between my two hands and gently kissed him. “Will you make love to me?”
“Do we know one another well enough for that? I don’t know. I know that I have a strong desire to be with you in that way. I don’t want to hurt you.”
I kissed him again. “Ready for some brutal honesty?”
“Like you, I’m a grown-ass man.” He smiled. “So, no, I’m not, but I need to hear it anyway, so lay it on me.”
I smiled back at him. “I’m not a virgin. You already know that. It was not by choice. You know that, too. I want to know what it can be like with someone who is caring and gentle. We’re not two guys who are hooking up. There’s a seed here. Will it grow into friendship? Most definitely. Will it grow into love? We should give it a chance. Until I read that book, I don’t think I realized that I had a choice in things like that. I need to experience sex without violence.”
Abram’s hands reached down and squeezed my ass cheeks. “Brutal honesty. I am falling in love with you. I didn’t think that sort of thing was possible in such a short amount of time.”
My hand slipped down to press the front of his pants. I could feel him react. “Since I saw you in the store this afternoon, I’ve not been able to think of anything else. Your face keeps flooding my thoughts.”
Without warning, Abram bent forward and lifted me from the floor. The realization of how strong he was sent a surge of blood to my groin. He carried me to the bedroom and placed me gently on the bed. He placed himself gently next to me and placed one hand on my chest before he leaned forward to kiss me. I felt my nipples harden. His tongue pushed into my mouth, and I met it with my tongue. I felt as if I were floating in a pool of pleasure. His leg moved over mine, and I felt his hardness rub against me even though we were both still clothed.
I had no fear. I knew that he would not hurt me. I relaxed into the mattress and brought my hand up to touch his chest. His moan vibrated my lips, and in that instant, I knew that I wanted him. I wanted to be inside him. I wanted him to be inside me. I tugged at his shirt. I wanted to see his chest; I wanted to feel his chest against mine. I had never wanted to be touched by another person for as far back as my memory would let me see the past. But I was now in the present and stepping into a new future, one that even a few months ago I would not have believed possible.
Abram released my lips and removed his shirt. He helped me remove mine. I pushed down on my pants, leaving me only in my underwear. Abram kissed my stomach, then my abs, just about the elastic band of my briefs, before kissing my kneecap and then my thigh. My hard cock strained against my underwear, begging to be released. He pressed his lips against the cloth, and a spot of wetness formed, partially from his saliva and partially from a spurt of precum in response.
“I want to suck you,” I said.
I saw him smile, and he got to his knees and pushed his pants and underwear down together before twisting onto his back and removing them completely. One of his socks came off, leaving the other with an empty dangling sock toe. I chuckled as I pulled it off and pushed him back.
His erection was almost complete. I grasped the base and pulled it away from his body. The head, still half covered with a tight foreskin, drew me toward it. I moved it back and forth with my fingers before running my tongue up the length of the shaft and stopping at the precum-filled slit at the end. I placed my lips around the head and lapped up the liquid. A taste of Abram on my tongue, I thought. My head moved up and down as I brought him into me. His gentle grunts told me that he enjoyed what I was doing.
He hardened even more. “Under the pillow,” I whispered.
Abram raised an eyebrow, fished under the pillow, and pulled a bottle of lube. He held it up to the light. It was about three-quarters full.
“I only use it on myself when I’m alone,” I told him.
“I trust you,” he replied.
And I knew that he did. And I trusted him. I took the lubricant and spread it over his penis before taking some to lube my ass. I paused for a moment as a thought flashed through my head.
“You OK?”
“Yeah. Just a memory. Sort of.”
“You’re safe.” He grasped my fingers and looked right at me.
“I know. I…” Suddenly, I felt overwhelmed. The room seemed to grow dim; the room filled with fog, and I felt as if I were falling. Something slowed my fall. My body began to shake, and it got very cold.
“Tristan.”
Somewhere in the distance, someone was calling my name. The fog began to clear.
“Tristan. I’m here. You’re safe. It’s Abram.”
I blinked a few times. I saw a blurry image next to me. “I’m so cold.”
The image moved. “I’ve got you under the blanket, babe. You’ll be warmer in a minute.”
I felt him rubbing the top of my hand. Abram came into focus.
“It’s OK, Tristan. Breathe in slowly; you started to hyperventilate.”
“I’m sorry.”
Abram reached over and brushed my bangs back. “You’ve got nothing that you have to apologize for. Are you still cold?”
“Hold me. Just hold me. I’m so sorry. I like you so much.” I knew that I was babbling, but I was afraid he would leave.
Instead of leaving, he got under the covers with me. He lay next to me and gently aligned his body with mine. “Whatever it was, Tristan, I’m here for you. Tell me what you want me to do.” His voice was soft, caring.
“What happened? I don’t understand.”
“You seemed to have an anxiety attack. Did something I said or that I did trigger a bad memory?”
“No, I don’t think so. I was planning to sit on you and slip your dick into me.”
“Did anyone ever make you do that?”
“No, he always pushed me face down and raped me from behind so I couldn’t see his face while he did it. That’s why I wanted to make sure I saw your face while we were doing it.”
“You had just lubed my cock, and you were lubing your ass when your face did a funny blanked look. Did the bottle trigger something?”
“No.”
“What about the lube? The texture of it? Or the viscosity, maybe.”
“I’ve used that brand before, and he never lubed me before he…” I went silent, and I closed my eyes. The memory of the pain filled my head. “It hurt so bad. He would just shove it into me.”
“Hey. Take a deep breath. There’s no pain right now; it’s only the memory of the pain. It feels real, but it’s not.”
“But it still hurts.”
“I know, Baby. The memory of the pain is so strong that it’s as if it’s still happening. But it’s not happening now. You’re with me now, and you’re safe. It’s a memory. You survived the real thing. You can survive this.”
“I don’t want to live like this.” I held him close to me. Somehow, it made the pain lessen. I felt him pull me closer to him. It felt easier to breathe. “It’s wrong to hate people, but I hate him. And I hate me for hating him.”
“Those feelings are tied up with the hurt and ugliness that he did to you. And that someone probably did to him. It’s an illness, but we can talk about him later, if you want. Right now, let’s talk about you.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you. And how you responded. You reached out for me, and you asked me to hold you. You make a choice to hold on and try to move out of the pain rather than giving into it.” Abram smiled at me. “Small steps will still get you where you’re going.”
I kissed him. Reaching down, I wrapped my fingers around his penis. “I wonder what would have happened if I hadn’t decided to buy some rum.”
Abram moved up and over me. I spread my legs apart and felt the weight of him. It felt good. It felt right.
“Then we would have run into each other in some other way.”
I felt him get hard. My left hand touched the side of his face. “I’m glad I didn’t have to wait for that.”
“Are you ready for some new memories?” he asked.
I pivoted my hips. My dick rubbed against his abs. “I’m ready.”
Abram adjusted his position and placed the head of his erection against my hole. The stretch was slow and easy. The sensation was unexpectedly pleasant. He paused, and I brought my hands up to those sexy, hairy pecs of his. He pushed a little farther inside.
“You OK?”
I nodded.
“Don’t hold your breath.” I saw him smile. “Wow, you’re so tight.”
“You’re so big.” I smiled.
He slid in just a little more and leaned forward. I pivoted just a little in response.
“Oh, fuck, Tristan. What did you just do? That felt awesome.”
I pivoted a little more, and Abram’s dick slid inside until our pelvic bones bumped together. His head and chest dropped until our lips met, and as we kissed, he moved in and out of me just enough to drive me crazy with wonderful sensations. The lovemaking was tender, considerate, compassionate. Beautiful.
Abram maintained the slow, steady rhythm for several minutes. Each push forward caused a rush of ever-heightening enjoyment and satisfaction. At one point, his pace quickened. “I’m getting close,” he grunted through clenched teeth.
“Don’t pull out,” I told him.
He pushed his mouth against mine, and I felt the pulses as he filled me with his seed. Then his entire body weight was on me. His breathing was ragged. “That was incredible,” he said into my ear.
The word beautiful still filled my head. I had a new memory, a memory of how it’s supposed to be. This one was one of love and caring and tenderness. The way it’s supposed to be.
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