That he has to edit his own history when he tells it out loud because he can’t name me. I don’t want to be a redacted name in his story. I want to be the fucking headline.
But wanting and being able to handle it are two different things. Because what if one day he puts me in the folder of "stuff I regret" next to embarrassing haircuts and bad tattoo ideas?!
I don’t wanna be that.
BUT…
On the other hand.
Here we fucking are. He’s not stupid. He knows this is risky.
He knows his dad would lose his shit. He knows our families don’t exactly roll out pride flags for guys like us.
He’s not here by accident. He’s not drunk. He’s not confused. He’s not being pushed into this. He chose to come here. He chose to stay. He came to me, fully aware of who I am.
He knows about my shit. Not everything, but enough to know there’s danger attached. And still, he’s here.
So what am I doing, acting like I’m the only one with a say?! I keep talking in my head like I’m protecting him from me, but maybe that’s just ego in a different outfit.
Like I’m the only one who understands the stakes, and he’s this clueless little thing who doesn’t get how serious this is.
He does. He’s not fucking stupid. He’s scared too. I’ve seen it in his eyes.
If he can carry that fear and still say "I want this"… who the fuck am I to stand here and decide for both of us??
People are gonna talk either way.
People are gonna hate either way.
His dad’s gonna lose his mind if he finds out he even likes guys. My shit is gonna be dangerous whether I touch him tonight or not.
None of that disappears just because we keep our hands to ourselves. The only thing that changes if wedon’tdo this, is that we both lie awake later, in different beds, thinking about what it would have been like and hating ourselves a little for not being brave enough.
He wants it. I want it.
He’s not being forced. I’m not being forced.
The risk is there. The fear is there. But so is the choice. And I’m suddenly so fucking tired of living like my whole life is just me reacting to other people’s shit. Their opinions, their rules, their threats.
I’m tired of being scared of what might happen every time I feel something real. I keep thinking "he deserves someone who can hold his hand in public."
Okay. Maybe one day I’ll be that someone. Maybe not.
But right now?
The only thing I know for sure is that he deserves to have the life he actually wants, not the version everyone else curated for him. And if the life he wants, right now, includes getting fucked by me in a dark room where no one can see? Then maybe that’s not me ruining him.
Maybe that’s him choosing himself for once. And maybe I get to choose myself too.
I’ve spent so long letting other people decide who I am. The fuckup. The problem. The one you hide from your parents. The guy you only call at night. The bad idea you warn your friends about.
Yeah, it’s dangerous.
Yeah, it’s secret.
Yeah, it could blow up in our faces.
Yeah, he might regret it one day.
