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“What the…?”
This image was straight-up pornography. Yet, somehow still impressive. How did he get so much detail on a foggy mirror? It was crazy. I was clearly going to have to step up my game.
That night, redrawing the donkey, I extended its dick to circle back around into its own ass. In other words, I was telling him to fuck himself. Let’s see him beat that.
He did. He drew a naked guy that miraculously resembled him, fucking a guy that resembled me. Was he telling me, “Fuck you”?
Oh, that was good… and super hot. Relieving myself to the thought of it, I held back my moans when I came. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he had made me cum. He didn’t deserve it. And to be honest, I was a little mad at him.
Was it fair? No, it wasn’t. But neither was torturing me with the thought of having sex with him. Didn’t he understand how hard this was for me?
Of course, I wanted to have sex with him. Of course, I wanted to feel his large hands around my waist as he manhandled me like a ragdoll.
Spreading my legs apart with his feet, he would force my naked torso forward, spreading my cheeks. With my hands against the wall, he would take hold of his oversized cock and brush it against my hole. He would tease me until he knew I couldn’t take it anymore.
Then, when my knees threatened to crumble from lust, he would push into me. Throwing my head back from the painful pleasure, he would stick his finger in my mouth. Caught on his hook, he would fuck me. I wouldn’t be able to do anything about it.
Drilled into the wall, I would groan until my legs shook. He would know just how long to hold on until cumming. Then, when he did, it would be an explosion. I would cum along with him. And still unable to take my palms off the wall, I would cover the floor like an animal.
Needing to relieve myself for the second time thanks to Claude’s mirror drawing, I finished my shower and returned to the living room defeated. Staring at him, he clearly had no idea what he did to me. That was probably my fault. When I told him how I felt, it was always in the past tense. That was in part because I didn’t want to make him feel uncomfortable. But was that the only reason?
After driving my best friend away and failing to make things work with Jason, it was safe to say that I had issues. Was it wrong not to want to be hurt again? How far back did my hurt go? I know it didn’t help seeing the disappointment on my father’s face when he realized I was different. He even acted differently toward me after that.
Part of the reason I had started helping Papa with football was to show him that I wasn’t a disappointment. I could be the child he wanted. Maybe I was still trying to be that for my father, but luckily enough, somewhere along the way, I began to enjoy what I did.
I liked guys that looked like Claude, and where could I find that type? On a football field.
On top of that, I enjoyed helping players figure things out. I liked being a part of a team. I didn’t have the build to withstand a 200 lb man running at me at full speed. But I could come up with plays that helped players win the game.
Football and I were the perfect combination. What started out as a way to prove something to my father turned into something I liked doing. But that didn’t take away the pain that got me into it. Rejection hurt, whether it was from Papa, the guys on the team, or my best friend.
I wanted to be with Claude. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. But what I wanted more was for him not to leave me again. And if I had to choose, I would choose a guaranteed little of what I liked, over risking it all for what I truly wanted.
“Have you ever been to a pride festival?” I asked him over dinner that night.
“No. Why would I?” Claude asked sincerely.
“I don’t know. You can’t think of any reason?” I asked suggestively.
“I’m not gay,” Claude said defensively.
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You were implying it.”
“I was implying it because,” I stopped myself before reminding him of when he had his dick in my ass. “Why don’t you tell me what you are?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, how do you identify?”
“I don’t.”
“Oh, are you one of those ‘I don’t believe in labels’ types?” I asked dismissively.
“Is there something wrong with that?”
“No. It’s fine. I just think it’s convenient. That’s all.”
