But I didn’t. When he found my most private entrance, he pushed in, and I saw stars. I was trying to keep cool, but inside, I was short-circuiting. His body moved with this casual, effortless bounce that I couldn’t stop watching—even though I knew I shouldn’t be. My body had reacted before I could even process what was happening. Dear God, please don’t let me be gay, I thought, repeating it like a mantra. “You want me to get your back?”
I knew I could say no. “Later, freshie.”
“Later,” I said, voice cracking like it had been dunked in puberty all over again. I, on the other hand, looked like I’d been sketched by a child with a shaky hand. When he finally removed his thumb, I felt empty, bereft, like a part of me had been ripped away. My problem stood before me, attached to my body, pointing straight ahead like it had a mind of its own. Or maybe found one I hadn’t known was there.
