I can remember his dick in amazing detail – a scar-like line ran from the slit to the frenulum, bulging outwards. I can remember his smell – sweet sweat, not pungent but gentle and endlessly intoxicating. I can remember his taste – salty, youthful, slightly soapy, different from my own but instantly recognisable for what it was.
His name? No, that’s gone. Couldn’t tell you. This many years later, I doubt I could pick him out of a line-up either.
What I remember most is not those physical feelings, the sights and smells and tastes of sex that would eventually become commonplace. What I remember most is the reaction of my brain. This was the point of no return. (Take off your shirt). This was where the line was being drawn. (I’ll unbutton your jeans). There was no mistake now. (A hand on the back of my pants). I was gay. It was a relief to know for certain, to be sure of what I’d been sure of since I was 4 or 5 years old. (Getting your pants down in your excited state makes us both laugh). There was no going back now. (Do you like that?). No denying it. (Touch me like this). This was just ever so right. This was forever.