A lump forms in my throat, but I say nothing. I just listen. It feels like he needs me to.
“And it doesn’t help that dating as a gay feminine guy is…” he huffs, then looks away, jaw tight. “It’s brutal, Lucas. We are treated like the bottom of the barrel. Not just by masc guys, but by other feminine gay guys too. Like… we’re not desirable unless we’re pretending to be something we’re not.”
His voice quiets. There’s something painful in it now, something close to shame.
“I’ll be honest. I don’t want to date another feminine guy. I’m not attracted to them. And I know that’s hypocritical, but it’s the truth. I want someone masculine. Someone who’ll take care of me and still see me as beautiful in the way I am, and don’t get me wrong, I’m not blaming or shaming masculine gay men for typically preferring other masculine guys, but fuck, being a feminine gay and seen as the most unattractive to gay men sucks.”
He lifts his eyes to me again, and they shine—not with tears, exactly, but something heavier.
“Most of the men who are into me are straight or closeted,” he says. “They’ll hook up with me behind closed doors, hide me from their friends, then ghost me the moment it starts to feel real. And I can’t even blame them, not really. And the men that are into me have a fetish for feminine men like us.”
His voice drops to a whisper.
“It hurts. Every time. Because all I want is… to be loved. Out loud. By someone who’s not ashamed to hold my hand in daylight. Someone who sees me, all of me, and stays.”
My chest aches. I reach for his hand again, squeezing it gently.
“You’ll find someone,” I sign. “Someone who sees you the way you deserve to be seen.”
He snorts gently. “Says the boy who’s been glowing like Rapunzel ever since his rich sugar daddy swept him off his feet.”
I glare at him and sign. “Stop calling him that.”
“So…” he says, waving me off, “you enjoyed getting fingered in the ass, huh?”
I feel the heat flood my face and ears before I can stop it.
I nod, cheeks flushing deeper as I sign,
“I can’t stop thinking about it.”
His eyes widen a little with a grin tugging at his mouth, but it’s not mocking—just warm. A little awed, he leans back and lets out a low chuckle.
“And now you’re thinking of letting him have sex with you? You’re ready?” he asks. “Like… really?”
I nod, but not immediately. It takes me a second. The kind of second where your chest tightens a little, but your heart still says yes.
“I think I am,” I sign. Then, after a pause,“But I’m scared too.”
He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and I think he can feel the shift in me, that mix of nerves and anticipation trembling beneath the surface of my skin.
“Alright,” he says with an exhale, sitting up straighter. “I guess it’s time for The Talk.”
I blink at him, confused.
“The talk?” I sign.
He gives me a playful look.
“Yep. The first-time bottoming talk. The ‘how not to die of embarrassment or pain’ talk. The ‘Tyler cares about you too much to let you not go in blind’ talk.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. Still, my chest tightens with something warm and grateful. He notices. He always does.
“I wish someone had this talk with me before my first time,” Tyler says softly. “So I’m going to tell you everything I wish I’d known… and everything I know now. No sugarcoating. No porn-filter. Just the truth, okay?”
I nod, my fingers curled loosely in my lap.
“First of all,” he says, voice gentler now, “bottoming is vulnerable. It’s not just sex—it’s trust. Real trust. With your body, your safety, your comfort. That has to come first. Always.”
