“Would it be okay if he helped me bring your Christmas packages in?”
I shrug. “I guess.”
She slips out and returns a couple minutes later with a gangly teen about my age, holding a box almost bigger than his head. “This is my nephew, Dawson,” Tammy beams.
He lowers the box between our cots and looks at me. Kind eyes. Not sharp. Not mocking. Just… kind. And pretty.
He steps forward and extends his hand. “Hey. I'm Dawson.”
I freeze. Noticing boys with pretty eyes is what got us here. I stare at his outstretched hand, then deliberately drop my gaze to the floor, refusing to touch him.
“Honey,” my mom says softly, embarrassed, “don't be rude.”
I don't move. I don't look at him. Because I might feel something—and I can't afford that. Not here. Not anywhere.
Not ever.
Dawson drops his hand. “That's cool,” he mutters.
Tammy gently ushers her nephew back out. The curtain swishes closed. We're alone again. Just mom, me, and the box that sits between us, labeled Family 22. I lay back and stare at the ceiling.
I will never be in this position again. Not dependent. Not exposed. Not reduced to a number. Not vulnerable in front of a boy with kind eyes.
It's right here, on this thin cot in a curtained-off square of a shelter, that I make the promise.
When I grow up, I will never relinquish control to anyone. Absolutely no one.
One
Secret
Ryan
I have a secret. I like dick. No, I love dick. Like, really, really love it. Give me all the cock.
I huff out a breath on a laugh, fingers tightening in the fabric beneath my palms. It’s insane how admitting it—even just in my own head—still makes my pulse spike. I’m a grown ass man. An NFL quarterback. Franchise face. Sunday Football’s golden boy. I should feel confident in my own skin. But this feels like a dirty confession whispered in the dark.
The first time I discovered my prostate senior year of high school, I fucking levitated. One second, I was curious, experimenting while jacking off. The next, I was staring at my ceiling wondering if that’s what spiritual gurus mean when they talk about astral projection.
More like ass-tral ejaculation.
Abusing my P-spot became a nightly occurrence after that mind-melting first experience. Pretty soon, my fingers—and several questionable objects—well, they weren’t enough.
A faint sound snaps me back to the present.
Shit. What was that?
My breath stills as I listen hard, every muscle locked tight. Nothing. Just the faint hum of the air conditioner and my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
I need to relax. The anticipation is killing me.
Anyway, I had finally worked up the courage to find a dude willing to fuck me. It wasn’t difficult. Well… mostly.
I was an eighteen-year-old high school football quarterback phenom. Built right. Cannon for an arm. The pride of a football town in the South. I wasn’t short on offers—from girls. But being the talk of the town made it nearly impossible to explore undetected.
So, I did what any young, horny, closeted idiot with access to a car and enough nerve would do. I jumped in my Mustang one weekend and drove to Florida by myself. I got myself prepped at the hotel—thank you, Reddit—and used my fake ID to get into a gay bar. I can still feel the bass vibrating through my chest. The glare of neon lights. The scent of sweat and cologne.
I spotted him almost immediately. Muscly. Olive-toned. Confident. I practically threw myself at him. His name was Giancarlo. Puerto Rican. In town on vacation. Was down to fuck.
