I fucking hate wearing compression shirts...

Fucking things that I’ve always had to wear since I was fourteen. A byproduct created and then left behind in the aftermath of mother nature playing its cruelest joke on a pubescent boy.

Let me explain...

Instead of flooding my tiny body with testosterone to help my male body develop, my body was taken over by estrogen, making me a brutal victim of a severe chemical imbalance that left my entire early teenage years filled with anger and frustration. It also filled those early years with weekly visits to the family psychiatrist as well as constant visits with my pediatrician. In the end, my condition, while rare, wasn't then and isn't now life-threatening. None of us knew, when all this started, that there's a small number of boys and, eventually later in life, some men that suffer through this condition every year.

The numbers are low; unfortunately for me, I’m part of that group of young men that never really develop their male physique. I don’t have broad shoulders, the appearance of heavy bone structure. I never did develop a slightly deep baritone voice or facial/body hair. I’ve been stuck with a near feminine body since I first hit puberty. Growing up, I was often confused for a tomboy.

A girl trying to be a boy for those of you that don’t know...

My final growth spurt finally happened the summer of my senior year of high school. It left me at a whopping five foot three inches tall. Before then, In those early years when I was going through all of this, my father and I did our best to overcome my feelings about this condition. You see, I may have been given this body, but my mind has been all male from the beginning. My father saw to it that I did all the normal stuff that young boys do, and I loved every minute of it. I was taught to fish and hunt along with basic survival skills at a very young age.

Over the years, I became proficient with a rod and reel. I became deadly accurate with a compound bow and, when needed, a high-powered rifle. I’m also pretty good with 9 mm Glock. Oh, and I’ve been in martial arts in one form or another since I was six. My father had already raised three boys before I showed up. I was what some people may have considered an accident, an afterthought. As my grandfather would say, I was an oops baby. But the cool thing about being that oops baby was that I had my father all to myself. Growing up, as fucked up as I thought I was, it helped to have that one-on-one time with him.

For the longest time, my parents always blamed themselves for all of my so-called deformities. My mothers' doctor had warned her that because she was older, she was 40 when I was born, she and I were at a higher risk for complications. Of course, they don't believe in abortion, so because they had allowed themselves to go through with the pregnancy, they felt that that’s why I had all these issues that I had. Growing up, I would hear my parents and grandparents often call my physical issues deformities. I heard that, and I bought into it, thinking that I was deformed.

Of course, I wasn’t and years of therapy for myself and my parents finally helped get us through those early and ugly teen years. Through those rough years, my sanctuary growing up wasn’t the church; it was the outdoors and a dojo. Martial arts were my father’s brainchild. He surmised that since my brothers were all grown, and by the time I became a teenager, he would be old, I needed something to help me. To teach me how to defend myself against the cruelty of the world…besides being proficient with firearms.

So, from the age of six till the age of thirteen, I studied Karate. Then I switched over to Taekwondo until the age of sixteen. After that, I switched to Jiu-Jitsu until I graduated high school. Finally, from high school graduation until now, I have been studying the discipline of Jeet Kune Do. What is now?

Now is me being twenty years old and in the summer of what is about to be my third year of medical school…as I was saying.

My father also tried to spoon-feed me a steady diet of macho man bullshit on how to be a tough guy. Honestly? I doubt he ever believed half of the shit that he was telling me. So you may ask yourself, why would he want to teach me those things?

Who knows, maybe he just wanted to keep filling my head with the idea that I was just a normal boy and I would eventually grow into a normal guy. Maybe he was terrified for me, and he just didn’t want me to think that I wasn’t normal, that I wasn’t a man. But over the years, I’ve learned that the real lessons that he taught me, I learned while we were out on a lake or by the banks of the river. Lessons I learned during the quiet moments in the forest tracking deer or any other game that we hunted.

It was in those moments when we’d stop and just talk...

You see, the real lessons that he taught me were to be a good person. Be kind and respect others until they do something to show you that they don’t deserve your respect. If that happens, don’t argue or fight with them, just walk away. If they won’t let you walk away, be brutal, be decisive. A few years later, he would come to regret teaching me that last part.

At the core, he wanted me to be honorable, don’t lie. Be righteous, don’t steal or slander someone’s name in hopes of making yourself look better. I could go on and on; these are just a few of the lessons that he taught me. If I listed them all, you’d probably get bored and stop reading. All the weapons training, the survival skills that I learned, and the martial arts, all of that. I’m not telling you all of this so that you think that I'm some sort of wannabe badass.

I’m telling you this so that you can understand how I was raised. To tell you that I loved that part of my life, somehow all of that stuff kept me grounded, kept me sane. Today, now, having grown into the person that I am now, I have never thought of myself as anything other than a man. I was raised to be a good man, feminine physique and all…

Through all of the anguish that this hormonal imbalance put me through, it still wasn't the hardest thing that I've had to deal with in my life. The hardest thing that I ever had to deal with, to this day, was to tell my father that I’m gay. I had already told my mother a year prior. Telling her was more of a relief than anything else. But telling my father terrified me.

I shouldn't have been scared or ever even doubted him. That's all my fault, that's all on me. I should have known that my father is a good and decent human being. It was just last year after my freshman year of med school. We had gone out to his favorite fishing hole, and the day was starting to wind down. I had known that I was gay since the early months of my senior year. Up until that time, I had no clue that I was anything. You see, for me, sex was never something that I dwelled on. My doctor said that because of my chemical imbalance, I probably wouldn’t have the same urges that most teenage boys have when going through puberty.

I had girlfriends, but they were just that, girl…friends. I never even had the urge to kiss a girl and was shocked when Lacey Stevens kissed me in the tenth grade. I didn’t know how to take it, and I’m pretty sure neither did she. It was the first and last time that a girl/woman would ever kiss me again.

The summer of my senior year, I had my first wet dream. I can’t tell you what that dream was because I can't remember it, but I can tell you that it made quite a mess. When I told my doctor about it, he had some blood work done, and low and behold, my testosterone levels had increased, barely, just barely…

What happened when I told my father about being gay?

My father sat there when I told him, and the silence was deafening. When he finally spoke, he told me that he loved me and all that he wanted was for me to be happy. And if being a girl was what I wanted, he was OK with that. When I heard him say that, and even as scared as I was, I came to life.

I responded right away in a very confident manner. It was as if I was watching myself speak because I kind of got upset with him. I was just a little pissed off. I explained to him, in a rather loud and profound manner, that I was not going to become a girl/woman. I have always been a man, I was born a man and will die a man. I had to explain to him that I had no intentions of having any kind of gender surgery.

"I'm gay, daddy. I'm not becoming a transgender woman! As a man, I prefer the intimate company of a man. Being gay doesn't mean becoming a woman. Jesus, what's with you and my mother?"

He just looked at me when I finished shouting and then he started laughing. He laughed at me! Then he grabbed me and gave me a big bear hug. He told me that he loved me and that trans-what-the-fuck ever or gay, he didn't care. I was his son, and he loved me; that was all that mattered. He was disappointed that I waited a year after telling my mother, but he was proud of me for finally telling him.

"I bet you thought I was going to disown you, didn't you, Bug..." I smiled. He's called me Bug since I can remember, and I didn't tell him, but I'm ashamed to say it: I did think he was going to disown me. Fuck it...

Where was I...?

Oh yeah, I turned eighteen the September of my senior year of high school, and I had hoped that finally, finally, I would grow in stature. I had hoped that my penis would finally fully develop. Sadly, it never did. To this day, my penis is a solid three inches fully erect and almost nonexistent when it's flaccid. It’s not enough that I have feminine features; I also have to pee sitting down because it’s just too much trouble using a urinal. Plus, it has led to some embarrassing situations.

For example, that day during my senior year, I had told myself that I wasn’t going to pee sitting down anymore. I strode into the bathroom and confidently stepped up to the urinal. After finally unleashing the beast, I started to relieve myself.

Then he walks in...

Luis Ortega walked in—he was the campus badass. The star quarterback of what would eventually wind up being the three-time state champion, football team. He took the urinal next to me. There were six other urinals that he could have chosen, six! He picks the one right next to me. It would be the first time that I would become flustered by a man.

He stood there next to me, and the difference between the two of us was like night and day. Luis stood six-three, six-four, and weighed about 200 lbs. of solid athletic muscle. Here he was, standing next to all five foot three inches of me. All was going well until I happened to catch a glimpse in my peripheral vision of this… thing, this large cock in his hand. I could feel my face start to get warm.

I was blushing and with my pale skin complexion blushing is not something I could then nor now hide!

Mercifully, I had just finished and was in the process of putting my monster cock away when he did the unthinkable. He leaned down and over towards me and gently patted my ass. I could have died right there. Instead of feeling the urge to take out his knee with a good solid kick, I froze.

“Don’t worry about that little dingily thing, killer, you still have this sweet ass.”

I quickly zipped up and headed out. I didn’t even stop and wash my hands. Thankfully there was nobody else in the bathroom right at that moment, but now I was really confused. When I made it to my college course physiology class, I sat down and discovered that I had a hard-on. Not that anyone besides myself would ever notice. I was so confused, all this time growing up and nothing. Now after my ass is patted, in the men's room of all places, I had a hard-on?? From that moment on, I had questions.

I should have been mad at him; no, I should have pissed off!! He called it a dingily thing…

After that day, I had to know, so I did the only logical thing that I could think of. I started watching porn, something that I’d never done before, ever. I wanted to prove to myself that Luis patting my ass had nothing to do with my erection. Unfortunately, as much as I tried, I couldn’t get hard with normal porn. So, I took a deep breath and clicked on a gay clip. I still remember the name of the clip.

“Best friend fucks my twink ass.” His ass, not mine, the clip. Fuck, you know what I mean...

From the beginning, I was hard. I was in awe of the so-called friend and his cock. It didn’t look as big as what Luis had been holding in his hand, but it was big enough. The twink was a smaller guy and looked to be about my height. So I’m a twink, I remember thinking to myself at that moment. But there was a difference between the twink and me. He looked like a guy. His cock was above average, and he had broad shoulders; he had a guy’s body.

I, on the other hand, had allowed my hair to grow over that summer. I had convinced myself that girls like guys with long hair. In all actuality, it just added to my feminine features. I remember one afternoon right after I’d turned eighteen and my mother telling me that I had a handsome face, that I was handsome. She wanted to reinforce my self-esteem that I was all man. A handsome man. She was being a good mother because what she should have said was that I was pretty.

Growing up, I morphed in me, and since I turned eighteen, I’ve had these same physical features. I can admit it now, but back then, I might have punched you in the face if you had told me anything of the sort. I have the face of a pretty young lady—high cheekbones, delicate facial features along with an elegant neck. I have small shoulders and a gracious back that connects to my slim waist forming a perfect hourglass figure.

My hips are curvy, and my ass was then and still is now full, round, and firm. I have the quintessential gorgeous heart-shaped ass. Because of all the physical activity that goes into my martial arts training, my legs are strong, firm, and beautifully muscle toned. But the icing on the cake was and still is my chest.

Back to the porno…

I watched in awe as the taller guy fucked the smaller, more delicate one, the twink. How the twink sucked his partner's cock and eventually how the bigger guy fucked his twink. I was startled when the camera angle caught the twink shooting cum all over his chest as he lay on his back in the missionary position getting fucked. He never even touched his cock, yet he came? I remember thinking, how? I also remember that at that moment, not only was I hard, but my little cock was also drooling a steady stream of precum. That was the moment that I knew.

I’m gay…

The days that followed were filled with research. I had to find out how that guy came without touching his cock. How was it that as big as that cock was going up into his partners' ass, there was no mess? I used Google the way I’d never used it before. Finally, it all made sense and yet made me feel so stupid, all at the same time.

I’m in my second year of med school now, but back during my senior year of high school, I was taking college-level classes to prepare myself for med school. Of course, stupid, if you stimulate the prostate, you can cause ejaculation, I would tell myself. I've since discovered that I have other triggers that can cause me to orgasm, I'll tell you about it later...

It never occurred to me that a penis rubbing over the prostate could do the same as a finger massage on the prostate. If you douche with a warm water enema before putting anything in the anal cavity, you eliminate the risk of feces, fuck me, boy did I feel like an idiot.

Finally, it all made perfect sense to me, sort of...

Every time I saw a clip of a man fucking a man that looked like me, small petite, it made me hot. I didn’t think about being the guy doing the fucking. I was enthralled with being the guy getting fucked. So, yes sir, I most definitely was/am gay, and it took me till my senior year of high school and Luis Ortega to make me realize it!

There’s one thing that I’ve mentioned but haven't elaborated on. I've been holding back…

Through all of this, I’ve left out one tiny detail about myself. The main source of embarrassment growing up with my condition was my chest. I have what is considered grade two gynecomastia. What does that mean? Let me enlighten you, I have perfectly round, symmetrically placed albeit small, perky creamy white breasts with dollar coin-sized areolas. Creamy white breasts, the perfect shade of pink colored areolas and topped off with number two size pencil eraser pink nipples...

I’ve had breasts since I first hit puberty, and by my senior year of high school, they have been as I just described. I hated this about my body because this was what everyone considered to be the deformity in my body growing up. I know now that it’s never been a deformity at all.

The hormones in my body were so out of whack growing up that they facilitated the perfect storm that caused the creation of my breasts. Understand, I don’t have man boobs. Disgusting, flabby hanging down man boobs? Hell, fuck no.

Today, if you took a picture of me and some young women my age, blocked out our heads, and just showed us topless, my small handful of breasts would look just as nice or better than the others. Again, I have no issues admitting this now. Growing up? No, hell no, I hated them. No, check that, I fucking hated them.

Growing up, my parents could have had them removed. My pediatrician advised them against it. He said that eventually, my hormones would balance out, and they’d go away with time. That never happened. When I turned eighteen, it became my decision to make. I could have had them surgically removed. I could have taken hormones, but it was around that time that I started to appreciate my life thus appreciate my body.

My attitude started to change...

Then I discovered that I was gay, and I decided to pause any decision about taking hormone supplements or having surgeries. I did continue to wear the compression shirts despite detesting those fucking shirts from hell. I couldn’t stop wearing those; I had to hide my buddies. If I didn’t, I would draw too much attention to myself. I could handle the attention of not hiding them, but the fear back then and to this day has always been that it might embolden some homophobic ass hole to say or try something stupid, and I can’t have that.

Years earlier...

In the eighth grade, the class bully thought it would be a good idea to embarrass me. He had noticed what I had been hiding because I foolishly made the stupid decision of not wearing my compression shirt that day. They weren’t as defined as they are now; they were still itty bitties, but you could still notice them. Had the fucking idiot just run his mouth, it probably would have ended there. But when he grabbed one and tried to rip it off of my chest, I snapped. I beat the boy so bad that I broke his wrist, his leg and almost crushed his windpipe!

I accidentally almost killed him...

I almost went to jail, I unwittingly exposed the body that I was trying to hide, and I put the fear of God in all of my classmates. It was years before they stopped looking at me like I was some violent freak of nature.

My father paid for the boys’ medical expenses and put a nice little amount of money in a college fund for the asshole. That last part was enough to have the father of the piece of shit drop all charges against me. Since that day, I never left the house without wearing a compression shirt, ever. It fucking sucks…

Oh, I almost forgot, senior year again. Something interesting happened, payback... 

Towards the end of my senior year, I was finishing up with my final trainers' meeting. I was a trainer in the athletic department, and I had just handed over the responsibilities to my replacement. The football team was going through spring football practices, and those seniors that were going on to college ball were doing their university-mandated workouts.

Luis had accepted a scholarship to the local university, the same one that I also attend now. He was expected to join the team during the summer semester and had come in with a groin pull. In all the years as a trainer, I’d never so much as even taped his ankles. I don’t believe it was because he didn’t want me to tape him up, it just worked out that way.

It had been almost a full school year since that September day when we had our little encounter in the bathroom. I’d since come to terms with my sexuality. But I had yet to act out on my discovery, I fully remembered the person that started me down that road of discovery. Except for all the porn clips I'd watched since then, there wasn’t a single guy that could cause a stir in me.

Except for one, this man-child jumping up on my trainers' table at that moment...

He sat there for a moment, not saying a word, then he winks at me and starts to lay back. “It’s my groin, killer. It feels kind of tight. Maybe you could rub it out for me.” I had thought a lot about Luis over the months, and he wasn’t going to fluster me this time. Rub it out for him. I let out a quiet laugh.

“So, you want me to rub it out?” I asked, waiting for his response.

Lifting his head to look at me, he responded, “Yeah, killer, rub it out for me.”

There were a few other people in the training room, but the way we spoke to each other, nobody seemed to catch on. I knew what he meant, and he knew that I knew what he meant. I could feel myself start to get wet; my little cock was starting to dribble. He laid back and grabbed some towels to fold into a pillow and then one more to throw over his eyes to block the bright fluorescent lights overhead.

I put some oil on my hands and went to work on that massive thigh of his. Rubbing his thigh, my hands made their way under the hem of his baggy workout shorts, all the way up to his groin. When the athletes are coming in for a rubdown, they are told to always have their jockstraps on. The reason being you can’t have things getting in the way of the trainers’ hands when he’s working on you.

Luis knew this rule, and in a split second, I discovered that he wasn’t wearing his jockstrap at that moment. With my hands under the cover of his baggy shorts, I froze. Then I continued to rub his muscle, but my pinky had made contact with the head of his cock.

Instead of shying away or allowing him to embarrass me, I started petting the head of his cock with my pinky, allowing it to go over his large pee hole. In seconds I felt the gooey precum liquid start to drip from him. Nobody in the room could tell that anything nefarious was taking place other than the normal high-thigh muscle rub down.

Luis, on the other hand, knew. It only took a few strokes of my pinky against the top of that massive cockhead before his head shot up...

“I think you got it, killer!” He exclaimed as he sat up while at the same time throwing the towel that was over his eyes over his waist.

“You sure I got it because I could go a little longer,” I replied as I grabbed a towel of my own to wipe off the massage oil from my hands.

“Oh no, killer, that’s good, you’re the best.” He jumped off the table and scurried along. But not before I called out one final dig.

“I found a big knot near your groin, you sure you don’t want me to rub it out for you?”

There was no answer, but I did get a couple of awkward looks from a few of my fellow trainers. I didn’t care about them; I had gotten Luis back for that awkward moment in the bathroom at the beginning of the year. At the end of this exchange, it was him running away. One thing was for sure after touching my first cock that day. I couldn’t wait for the next time.

After graduation, I moved out of my parents’ home. It didn’t sit well with them because there was no need for me to move out. My father owns and operates one of the biggest construction companies in the state. My mother had started her career by keeping his books, but over the years, she now oversees a staff of accountants and lawyers that keep my fathers' company going and out of trouble. Despite all of my troubles and anguish growing up, when it came to a family with money, I won the lottery at birth. Money is not an issue in my family. But still, I want to do things for myself, at least for now. So, I moved out.

That was when I told my mother that I was gay…

When I told her, she giggled. According to her, she always knew that I was gay. She was waiting for me to discover it on my own. “I love you, mom, but you are so full of shit,” I quickly shot back. Because she was. No way she knew, but she stuck to it, and since then, she’s stuck to her story. That’s when she decided that God had given her the daughter that she never had.

“Mom, just because I’m gay doesn’t mean that I want to be a woman!”

She thought I was hilarious. I told her that I had no intentions of being a transgendered woman. I am not one of those people that feel that they were born into the wrong gender. I don't want to correct mother nature's mistake because there was no mistake; I am who I am. If you or anyone you know is trans, I fully support you/them. I’m just not one of those people.

I sat my mother down and explained to her that I was comfortable being a man. I had no control over my physical characteristics or of being on the receiving end of this hormonal imbalance. I was good with who I was becoming and how I looked.

“I’m a guy mom, a man, and I will always be just that,” I said to her in a confident voice.

“OK, Mr. Man, tell me, what specific role do you see yourself in a gay relationship? What is it that excites you about the idea of being with a man?”

I couldn’t believe she was asking me these questions, but I knew that she wouldn’t stop until I answered her. I paused and thought about how to respond. But I didn't have to, she knew.

“Listen to me, I know you’re a man, I’ve never doubted that. But I know that you are a kind, sweet, delicate person who is closer to my role as a woman with your father than you are to his role of being the man in my relationship with him.” Again, the silence was deafening. She was right, and I had no response because she was right.

“See, the daughter I never had…”

I just rolled off the couch and onto the floor, grabbing a throw pillow on the way down to face plant myself. Putting my mouth into it so I could scream as loud as I could.

From that day forward, our mother-son relationship had taken on a new meaning. We became friends as well as mother and son. She decorated my apartment and then she started buying me clothes. Clothes that accented my figure and my newfound comfort zones. I looked pretty in the clothes that she bought me. It took me a minute to figure out that she was getting most of my new shorts, pants, and shirts from the young miss departments of the high-end boutiques around town.

At first, I wanted to be offended, but then I saw how I looked and felt in what she bought me, and I was OK with it. I’ve even started to develop my very own sense of style. Now instead of her shopping for me on her own, I go with her. I put on the jeans that she’s bought for me and the pretty tops without my compression shirt.

Remember, I don’t have large breasts, but they are perfectly round and perfectly perky and can fill a small size bra. I'm an A-cup, thank you very much. So yes, I even started wearing a bra. Not because I want to be a woman, but because I am so sick and fucking tired of wearing a constrictive, suffocating compression shirt all the fucking time! I fucking hate it. And if I don’t wear something over my buddies, I’ll have people gawking at them, and I can’t risk that.

So yes, dressing as a young woman is easier for me than going out in public dressed as a young man with tits…

I drew the line at women's panties; I refuse to wear women's panties, period. Then I discovered men's panties. Underwear that is designed for men but just as sexy, just as pretty, just as hot as anything that Victoria's Secret brand puts out. The selection is never-ending. Even with me having such a small penis, the extra room in the crotch area helps with the comfort fit. And if the fit is good, then the confidence is great. The rest is indescribable.

I have a hairstylist that has done my hair since I first started med school. She keeps my hair to my liking. I’ve gone from the dirty blonde hair color to a more sophisticated gray/platinum blonde highlights look. When I go out dressed like a young woman, almost nobody can tell if I’m a man. I say mostly because there is one group of people that almost always figures it out.

They are almost always married, men in their thirties to mid-forties, pigs...

I can't tell you how many times those motherfuckers have spotted my little charade. I’ve gotten many a knowing look from this group of men which has led to some, shall we say, interesting encounters. Men introducing themselves, being stupid, and asking if my mother and I are sisters. Slipping me business cards when they think she’s not looking. We’ve had our meals paid for more times than I can think of. My mother, who is sixty now, takes it all in stride, god love her.

“You know, honey, if you had a vagina, you’d own the world.” Yeah...my mother said that. She has no filter…

About a year had passed since I had moved out on my own, and I still had my virginity. Med school is very time-consuming, and I had gotten a job waiting tables at a high-end Italian restaurant during that year. My father knew the owner and mentioned that he had a son wanting to pay his way through med school. They laughed, then he told my father to have me call him, and I was hired on the spot. I started bussing tables and was promoted to host; then I mentioned to the owner that I needed to make money, so he made me a server. Tips are fucking awesome, and I can pay my way now.

Sort of, my parents pay for the actual tuition, books, fees, etc...I pay for my rent, my utilities, gas, and insurance for the car that my parents bought me. Oh, and to be clear, I dress like a man when I work or go to school.

Fucking compression shirt and all…

The wait staff at Antone's has always been, from day one, a very intriguing and progressively liberal bunch. The conversations during breaks have always been lively and never at all boring. Once I felt myself become comfortable with the group, I started to lower my guard down, and I allowed people to get to know me; I was accepted into the inner circle, which shouldn't have surprised me.

Most were in their early to mid-twenties and were either previous or current college students. Pretty soon, I was being invited to the after-work gatherings and into the day-to-day politics of the crew. I got to know who did what with who and who was getting serious with who. It was like a mini soap opera/reality show all wrapped into one. At times it was messy, then at times, it was clean, and often it was a real hot mess, but it was a distraction from my studies and the perfect yin to the yang of my Jeet Kune Do classes. It was the movie Waiters on steroids.

It was during one of these after-work get-togethers that I ran into a face that I hadn't seen since my sophomore year of high school…

Way back in the day, during the hot as fuck two-a-day practices in August of my sophomore year. Phillip Moon was supposed to lead our high school team to a state championship that year. He was a senior and during practice on that hot late afternoon, he dropped back to pass. Just as he let go of the ball, he was hit at the knees. The hit shredded his knee, and not only was his senior year over his entire football career was over.

When I got to him, he grabbed my hand and would not let it go. He was in tears. He tried as hard as he could to hold it together. He finally let go of my hand as they loaded him onto the ambulance a half-hour later. That entire time as I held his hand, he looked so scared and weak. I could see right through his feeble attempts of acting like he was all right. While he held my hand, I wanted to say something, but nothing came out.

As the ambulance drove away, I looked over to the practice field and saw that one of my classmates, a sophomore, Luis Ortega, had been brought in as the replacement for the not-so-great anymore Phillip Moon.

“I know you, you’re that kid that held my hand when I blew my knee in practice my senior year.” When he spoke, it took a second glance then I instantly recognized those blue eyes and the wavey blonde hair.

“Hey, wow, long time no see. How are you?” Looking up at him as I responded. I would find out later that he was dating one of the waitresses and she had stood him up that night, leaving him on his own.

We talked for a bit, and I could tell he was starting to hit on me. At first, it caught me off guard, but then I gathered my composure and decided to go with it. We’re grown, I thought to myself, and it had been long enough. Phillip was handsome, and I sort of knew him. I didn’t like that I was still in my work clothes but whatever. Plus, if I was really who I thought I was, why not play this thing, whatever this thing was, out?

Phillip stood a good six-two, and he had kept his shape. He had held his weight proportionate to his height. As I said, he was handsome, which had caught my attention right away before remembering who he was. He was coming on to me but in a way that if he was wrong and I wasn’t gay, he could claim the conversation as a big misunderstanding which I thought was cute.

I had already said goodnight to my little group, and I was making my way to the front door when we bumped into each other. After starting our conversation and discovering that I was on my way out, he politely opened the front door for me, keeping the conversation flirty yet polite. He offered to walk me to my car, and I graciously accepted. Just before reaching my car, he made his move.

Go, Phillip Moon…

He stepped into me and placed his hands on my arms, looking down at me. He had that look that led me to believe that he wasn’t going to be denied.

“Stop me if I’m wrong, but I have to at least try,” he said as he started lowering his face to mine.

I was caught off guard, but I didn’t stop him. I could have, but I didn’t. At that moment, I experienced my first kiss from a man. It was gentle, it was soft, and when his tongue entered my mouth, I whimpered softly. I remember that moment as one of my fondest memories. The kiss, the effort was sweet, and it lay claim to my innocence.

I kissed him back, finding myself reacting to his advance by sliding my hands around his neck and pulling myself up on my toes to press my mouth to his.

“Do you want to get out of here?” He asked as he pulled back from the kiss.

“I’ve never done this. Where do you want to go?” I replied.

“Wait, you’re still a virgin?” When he said that, I felt like he’d ruined the moment. Up until that moment, I was enjoying myself; now he sounded like some guy looking for a piece of ass. Which, I'm pretty sure he was, or was he? And what the fuck did I care? Because I'm pretty sure that I was looking for dick, or was I? I remember thinking, fuck! I was new to all of this, and now I was second-guessing myself.

“Wow, that’s awesome, I take it back.” Thinking quick and changing the direction of his tone. He had broken the short awkward silent pause that was created by my hesitation to answer his earlier comment. His change of tone and change of attitude kind of added to my confusion. One minute he’s being sweet, then I feel like he’s being crass, and now he’s back to being sweet?

I was such a fucking newb that night, so if you're confused, don't worry, I lived it and I was fucking lost...

“I’m sorry that came out wrong,” he continued. “I think it's sweet that you’re a virgin, and I would like to get to know you. I don't want you to think that I was assuming that you...I mean. What I mean is, would you be interested in going out with me?”

I had started to think that Phillip was just as new to this as I was. He had gone from sounding confident and sure of himself to sounding like the very same thoughts that were going through my mind. Looking at that face as he waited for my response, any response, he looked so precious, so cute.

I wanted him…

That night would turn out to be a night of firsts for me, and weeks later, I would find out that it would be a night of firsts for the great Phillip Moon as well. I could feel my face getting hot, which meant that I was starting to blush. It was dark, so it wasn't that noticeable, and I had become a bit lost for words. I slid my hands back down to my side and took a step back.

"Where's your car?” I asked. He laughed then pointed to the car behind me.

I smiled, and he pushed the button on his key fob to unlock the door. He opened the front door for me, but I insisted we get in the back seat and that he gets in first. I wanted him to slide over. He looked confused at first, but I put him at ease with a coy little smile that I had only recently begun to perfect. As soon as we were settled, I wasted no time.

We started making out, and he placed his hand on my stomach while sliding his other hand behind me to pull me closer. He started sliding his hand up my stomach and was almost at my breast. That's when I sort of panicked and broke our kiss and went for his belt. I quickly started unfastening his pants.

I don’t know if him coming close to my breast freaked me out or if I just had to do what I was about to do. Something came over me at that moment, and I had to have him...

I had his pants open and reached in to grab his cock. By my aggressive moves, you couldn’t tell that it was the first time for me or that I’d never held another man's cock. But I knew it was my first time, and I couldn't get over how thick and heavy his cock felt in my hand. I lowered my face to it, his clean musky scent hitting me and driving me over the edge. He was already rock hard, and I attacked his cock, taking it into my mouth.

His cock was about average in length, but it more than made up for it in thickness. I struggled to open my mouth wide enough at first, but eventually, I had his cock buried to the back of my throat.
I began sucking his cock like I knew what I was doing. I did, but I didn't.

Looking back, I should have taken my time, gone slow. Instead, I was slurping on his cock with a passion...

In a matter of minutes, he started warning me that he was going to come. That turned me on even more! He could have just been a pig and not said a word, just dump his load into my mouth, but he was being considerate of me. At least, that’s how I chose to take it at that moment.

When his body clenched up, all the research that I’d done by watching all those blowjob clips online was no match for what was about to happen. Stream after stream of thick gooey cum began dumping into my mouth and splashing the back of my throat before sliding down it. I devoured his cum; I couldn’t get enough. Even the taste was enjoyable; I wanted more.

Using my thumb on the underside of his cock I pushed up, getting every little drop out of it that I could. When I finished, I sat up, looked at him in those gorgeous baby blues, and slowly batted my eyes before smiling at him.

“Fuck babe, that was awesome. Oh my god, I need to catch my breath.” He said to me, his eyes sparkling.

He inhaled and exhaled, then started to put his cock back into his pants. I slid over the middle console to check myself in the rearview mirror to make sure that I didn’t have any cum on the corners of my mouth or anywhere else, for that matter. When I knew that I was good, I slid into the backseat again.

“I’m glad you liked it. I enjoyed it too.” I said to him, speaking in a soft tone. “You did take my mouth's virginity tonight, and you were perfect.” I giggled then I kissed him.

Reaching behind me, I opened the car door and handed him my phone. I told him to call his phone, which he did, and it buzzed in his pocket.

“You have my phone number, and I have yours. Text me sometime.” I finished my sentence and stepped out of the car. I closed the door, and as I walked away, I could feel the mess that I made in my pants. I didn’t know if I had cum, but I did know my little cock drooled out a lot of its very own gooey stuff. That night happened right before Christmas of my freshman year.

Right now you ask? Right now, right now...? Right now I need to get ready for work. Now, where was I? Oh yeah, I fucking hate these compression shirts...!