warm apple pie
listen, i’m a homosexual. but that wasn’t always public record. back then, i wore a mask. smiled at the right moments. pretended the locker-room chatter didn’t gut me. everyone bragged about their girlfriends, their weekend mistakes, pretending i wasn't dying to tell the truth.
eighteen. untouched. too many secrets and a body wired for all the wrong things.
virginity. i thought i’d be pure forever. then one night, i wasn’t.
i wasn’t some basement troll growing up. women liked me. smiled at me, wanted to know me, date me. maybe even fix me, if they’d known.
and i played along. dinner, a movie, the small talk that always led somewhere darker. but the minute we were alone, i’d freeze. heart pounding, mind sprinting for an exit. some excuse would spill out. early shift, headache, family thing. whatever i could think of.
then i’d drive home, lock the door, and finish what the night couldn’t. reruns of soap operas on mute. shirtless men in soft lighting. the kind of beauty i wasn’t supposed to want.
but i was eighteen, and shame has a way of turning into pressure. i told myself enough was enough, it was time to do what men my age were supposed to do. my friends were starting to whisper, even joke that i’d never seal the deal.
so what did i do? i picked up the phone, all raw nerves and a dial tone. reaching out to a woman i’d heard was still interested in me. the phone trilled once, twice, and then her father answered. of course he did. there was always a father. we made small talk, the usual. weather, school, meaningless filler while i waited for his daughter to pick up the extension.
when she finally picked up, click, a soft breath on the other line, i skipped the pleasantries. no small talk, no build-up. just nerves wearing a human voice.
“you want to hang out tomorrow?” i asked, terrified she’d say no.
she laughed, said sure. and just like that, i was in over my head.
the next evening, i brought her home. a vhs rental copy of cruel intentions tucked under my arm, the plastic case still warm from someone else's friday night. my parents were thrilled. mom’s face lit up, proof her prayers had been answered. dad gave me that rare, approving nod. they didn’t say another word, but the air in the house shifted. hopeful, relieved. this was it. the straightening-out phase. they never mentioned it, but i’m sure they’d seen the hundreds of questionable browser tabs i’d accumulated over the years.
anyway, i took her to my room, started the movie, and jumped straight into the making-out portion of the evening. her lip gloss smeared, our hands went everywhere. then ryan phillippe’s ass hit the screen, and that’s when my jeans came unbuttoned. something about his composure on screen pulled at me and pushed me forward.
it didn’t take long for her hands to slip under the elastic waistband of my underwear. she reached for it, gripped it tight. then came the whisper. it was soft, unmistakable, as if she’d found something she wasn’t supposed to.
“what?”
she smiled. “i wasn’t expecting it to be this big.”
honestly, it was the first time anyone had ever mentioned my size. sure, my friends and i had seen each other in locker rooms. just bodies, no meaning attached. everything flaccid, unthreatening, equal. but hearing her say it out loud? it scrambled something in my brain. not arousal. more like disbelief.
if that was true, if the thing inside me was finally awake, what did that make me? would i hurt her? would i leave a mark she couldn’t forget? would she bleed? a thousand stupid questions poured through my mind. it wasn’t lust. it wasn’t joy either. just the quiet math of consequence.
but it didn’t stop her. and it didn’t stop me. clothes kept falling away. my hands discovered more uncharted territory. our mouths chased warmth. and when the moment came, i rolled on a condom, climbed on top, and did what i thought i was supposed to do.
her body moved in ways that didn’t seem entirely her own. it arched, it trembled, it was almost supernatural. sweat traced down her forehead. her breath caught in gasps. her eyes fluttered back, lost somewhere in pleasure and i just watched, still thrusting away, wondering if this was how it was supposed to look.
did she have an orgasm? yes. at least, that’s what she told her friends.
word got back to me a few days later, through the usual whisper network. a badge of honor, apparently. my friends high-fived me. endless pats on the back. the same tired joke about finally joining the club and maybe even being better at it than they were. a sexual prowess. a legend. i laughed along, of course. it was easier that way. but for me, it didn’t feel like victory. it felt like theater. and i was in the wrong role, reading someone else’s lines.