My heart raced as I walked through the dimly lit, desolate third-floor corridor of the rundown Hampton Inn, a place so shabby that Hilton’s name felt out of place. The hallway seemed to stretch endlessly, amplifying my guilt and anxiety. My phone buzzed in my pocket; I knew it was my wife calling, but I couldn't shift my focus. Beside me, gripping my clammy hand, was Tony, the flamboyant, man-bunned twink who had entered my life less than an hour ago through what should have been an impossible circumstance, now on the verge of altering my sexual orientation. His rainbow-striped tank top, exposing his pale midriff, was the least of my concerns. His massive, fully erect eleven-inch cock was impossible to ignore, bulging obscenely against his matching biker shorts, stretched so tight they seemed ready to burst. Its sheer size dominated the narrow hallway, pulling me forward almost against my will.

Tony was the unexpected result of a decade-old saved search, crafted with such improbable specificity that it was never meant to yield a result. Yet here I was, compelled to pursue a fantasy designed to be unattainable, bound by a mental contract I had signed ten years ago. With each step, the masculinity I once wore as a retired military veteran seemed to slip away. The term "curious" on a profile that had remained stagnant throughout my marriage was on the verge of obsolescence, all at the hands of a man I would have ridiculed as a requirement of fitting into my social circle.

After a long day of travel and client work in Dale County, Alabama, I finally arrived at my hotel around 7:00 PM on a quiet Monday evening. This was my first, and likely only, work trip of the year, an unusual occurrence since I rarely traveled for business. It was also my first time in this small, desolate town near the Fort Rucker military base, where I would be working for the week. With Amy due in just a month, it couldn’t have been a worse time for travel. While the solitude and peace were a welcome break from my usual routine, I couldn’t shake the guilt of leaving her behind in Orlando. Her impending motherhood loomed over me, casting a shadow over my brief escape.

As I walked through the sliding glass doors, expecting the familiar comfort of a Hampton Inn I had become accustomed to through personal travel, I was immediately struck by how off everything felt. Had it not been for my digital key on the Hilton app, I would have thought someone had slapped Hilton signage on a shabby, three-story motel that seemed completely out of place. The hotel’s condition was far from the standard I expected; it resembled an ill-kept relic that had seen better days. The lobby was eerily deserted, with no one at the front desk and a vacant restaurant area that clearly saw little use. The entire space exuded an air of neglect, leaving me surprised that this place was even listed as an option on my employer’s travel booking site. I made my way through the desolate lobby, past the front desk, and headed to the third floor, where my room was located.

I arrived at my room after making my way down the dimly lit hallway, and my suspicion that this was a converted motel bought by Hilton was quickly confirmed. The heavy door had to be manually pushed shut behind me, lacking the automatic closure I’d expected. Inside, the room felt like an unkempt time capsule from the nineties, with a worn, musty carpet that hadn’t been cleaned in years. The furnishings included a stained yellow chair too large for the cramped space and a first-generation flat-screen TV that looked like it had been salvaged from a garage sale. Dust-coated pictures hung crookedly on the walls, and the air conditioning unit in front of the window rattled incessantly, adding to the room's overall neglect. With an eighty-dollar-a-night rate, it was clear that Hilton had no intention of investing in a refresh for this property, catering instead to a clientele that seemed all too fitting for its current state.

I quickly unpacked, eager to shed my business casual attire, a button-down shirt and dress pants that felt foreign after months of working from home. Having already eaten on the way and without plans of leaving the hotel until morning, I changed into basketball shorts and an olive Marine Corps T-shirt, a casual staple. Though I doubted the room’s cleanliness, I could tolerate anything for a few days. I set up my laptop on the small desk, turning the outdated TV to ESPN and letting the Monday Night Football pre-game show play softly in the background as I faced the PowerPoint presentation I needed to complete for the next day.

Let me introduce myself: I’m Steve, a forty-two-year-old retired Marine Corps veteran now working as a federal government contractor. As I mentioned earlier, my wife, Amy, and I have been married for nearly ten years, and we’re expecting our first child in about a month. At 6'4" and 225 pounds, I fit the classic image of military masculinity. With tattoo sleeves covering my tanned, muscular arms, a buzz cut, and a goatee, I have the look of someone who hasn’t missed many days in the gym. Coupled with a lifted truck that seems more at home in a monster truck rally than on residential streets, I project an imposing presence shaped by experiences I wouldn’t wish on anyone. However, as you might have guessed, beneath this tough exterior are demons that would leave even those closest to me utterly shocked.

As 7:30 approached and evening settled in, I sat at the tiny desk, shifting uneasily in the creaky chair, staring at the blank presentation I hadn’t started. I knew I couldn’t focus until I confronted the persistent issue, the shameful secret that had gradually consumed my life, one I thought would magically disappear after marrying Amy. Instead, it deepened exponentially. Almost instinctively, I pulled out my phone and navigated to the popular gay hookup site that had somehow morphed into a voyeuristic extension of my growing bi-curiosity over the past decade. What started as harmless curiosity had spiraled into a double life, where I secretly cyberstalked real-life men who added a disturbing sense of realism to the gigantic porn stars I had become increasingly obsessed with, seemingly beyond my control.

In the beginning, my escalating habit was rooted in an infatuation with porn that predated my marriage. Over time, well-hung men gradually captured my attention, overshadowing the female counterparts who had initially drawn me in. My focus shifted entirely to the thought of replacing them in the scenes I watched. My double life allowed me to indulge in fantasies about orally servicing these massive men, even as I openly mocked that very lifestyle with my Marine buddies during the day. There was no real risk; I knew it would never become a reality. My desires would wash away, sent safely down the shower drain, allowing me to return to my everyday life as if nothing was wrong.

This routine kept my curiosity and urges at bay for years, but deep down, I knew it wasn’t sustainable. Eventually, I began to question what it would take for me to pull the trigger. Was I, a masculine Marine who had been straight my entire life, truly capable of sucking another man's cock? Despite its seeming impossibility, the idea of turning fantasy into reality grew increasingly intriguing. The thought of forcing myself to enter a life of bisexuality under a very specific set of circumstances felt both thrilling and provocative. I began pondering how to explore this curiosity while minimizing risks. This mindset led me back to a feature I had used for years: saved searches, something I never expected would eventually seal my bisexual fate.

My saved search on the website was set up with impossibly specific parameters: Age 18-45, Race Caucasian, Cock Size eleven inches or more, and an even more improbable one-mile radius from my current location. These criteria, especially the cock size that exceeded even the porn stars that had drawn me into this mess in the first place, were strategically designed to ensure I would never find a match. Yet, the existence of this search served as an inner contract I had vowed to honor if the unlikely ever occurred. Establishing that “pull the trigger” criteria was a major turn-on for me, adding an exhilarating layer to my fantasies. If, against all odds, I received a match, I’d be compelled to reach out to this impossible result, seeking to turn my long-held fantasy into reality finally.

Back in my hotel room, I ran the search that hadn’t yielded a result in over a decade when my phone buzzed with an incoming call from Amy, obscuring the website that I knew would ultimately display the familiar “no results found” message.

“Hey, how’s it going?” I answered.

“Pretty good. How’s Alabama treating you?” she laughed, aware of my little enthusiasm for the place.

“Oh, it’s wonderful,” I said with a chuckle. “How’s it going?”

I switched to speakerphone as Amy began sharing a story from her day. While she talked, I decided to multitask, returning to the website and following my well-worn routine. My plan was simple: see the familiar “no results found” message, satisfy my inner curiosity, and then refocus on my presentation once our call ended. But when I minimized the call and the browser reappeared, a shockwave hit me, sending a shiver down my spine. An unexpected result suddenly replaced the message I had grown accustomed to. After years of nothing, I was utterly unprepared for this moment. My hand trembled, nearly dropping my phone as I struggled to comprehend the improbability of what was now staring back at me on the screen.

"You there?" Amy asked, almost as if she could somehow sense my shock.

“Yeah,” I replied, my heart suddenly racing.

“Thought I lost you,” she laughed, continuing her story.

I lost focus on Amy’s story as the unexpected search result suddenly distracted me. The screen name “TonyBo11ogna” appeared at the top of a pictureless profile, with only a generic camera icon indicating no public photo. A green dot in the upper left corner showed that the user was currently online. Most shocking was the location, measured by the built-in location capability of my mobile device, which stated that the profile was just 500 feet away. My heart raced as I clicked on the profile, Amy’s voice fading into the background, and as it loaded, my eyes were immediately drawn to the attributes section.

Age: 21

Height: 5’8”

Weight: 110lb

Ethnicity: Caucasian

Orientation: Gay

Out: Yes

Dick: 11”, Cut

Hair Color: Brown

Body Hair: None

Naturally, my eyes zeroed in on the “eleven inches” listed under dick size, an impossibility, especially for a Caucasian. How could this be? The guy was eight inches shorter than me and half my weight. How could his cock possibly be more than double the length of mine? A blurred image with a lock icon caught my attention next, indicating a private photo that needed to be shared to view. The profile title, “Need to be drained,” matched the crude bluntness of countless others I’d seen over the years, all seeking emotionless, almost transactional encounters. My focus on Amy's story vanished as I fidgeted in my chair, realizing I had stumbled upon a unicorn, something I never thought I’d find. I silently urged her to finish so I could fully process what lay before me.

“Well, you seem preoccupied,” Amy said, her voice tinged with annoyance.

“Sorry, just stuff for work,” I replied, trying to shake off the distraction caused by the profile.

“No worries, just giving you a hard time,” she laughed.

Desperately trying to end the conversation while still sounding polite, I forced a casual, “Call me before you go to bed,” hoping she wouldn’t pick up on my impatience.

“Will do, love you,” she responded before we hung up. As soon as the call ended, my attention returned to my phone.

Guilt-stricken by my abruptly ended call with Amy, I stared at the profile, overwhelmed by disbelief and indecision. The “Chat” icon, which had always seemed inconsequential, now held an irresistible allure. The mystery behind that locked photo, the result of my impossible search, consumed me, driving me to the edge of my control. With each passing second, the prospect of being in the vicinity of a nearly footlong cock began to erode the defenses I’d maintained for a decade. The empty presentation on my laptop faded into the background as my focus narrowed entirely to my phone. My heart raced, and before I could fully comprehend my actions, my thumbs moved instinctively, clicking the “Chat” icon as my curiosity shattered any remaining restraint.

"Hey, what’s up?" I typed, a mundane message that felt more fitting for a group chat with my buddies than for someone I wanted to impress. Almost against my will, I swallowed hard, hesitating momentarily before finally hitting send.

I was a wreck, my heart racing as I wrestled with conflicting emotions. I hoped for no response, which would let me off the hook and allow me to return home to Amy still a straight man. Yet that hope was overshadowed by an intense desperation to see what lay behind that lock icon. My incomplete profile, which I had hastily filled out a decade ago to use the site, only increased the chances of no response. Untouched since, it featured outdated stats and an auto-calculated age that likely discouraged anyone from taking me seriously. It simply read, “Married man looking for my first time. Interested in giving oral only,” a likely deterrent for most experienced men on the site.

I fidgeted in my chair, more anxious than a retired Marine who had seen combat should be. Five minutes dragged on in my worn-out room, and I struggled to focus on the presentation that seemed increasingly unlikely to get done. On the verge of giving up, my phone shifted, displaying the message “TonyBo11ogna is typing...” and sending a wave of nausea through me, crushing any hope that my message might go ignored.

“Hey!” the response read, causing my heart to nearly stop.

“How’s it going?” I hesitantly replied, still in disbelief that I had gotten a response.

“Doing good. You’re close, hehe,” he replied. The “hehe,” a light, feminine laugh, was unlike anything I’d ever heard in my circle of masculine military friends. It only emphasized the femininity I had already sensed from his petite stature and 110-pound frame.

“Yeah, I know,” I replied, my nervousness clearly coming through in my message.

“Are you at this awful Hampton Inn?” he asked.

“Yep,” I replied.

“Same here. It’s terrible! Hehe,” he responded.

“Certainly not what I’d expect from a Hilton,” I replied.

“New to this lifestyle?” he asked, abruptly shifting the conversation and making my heart race faster, the small talk dying in less than a minute.

“Yeah, brand new,” I said.

“Better late than never, hehe,” he shot back, almost immediately followed by a system-generated message: “TonyBo11ogna has shared a private picture.” The anticipation made me sink further into the creaky old chair.

“Enjoy!” the follow-up message read, tinged with arrogance. Before I could fully grasp what was happening, he had unlocked his private photo as if he sensed my desperation to see it. The sudden shift in the conversation caught me off guard, leaving me unprepared for the rapid escalation.

I hesitated before clicking the link, returning me to his profile. The black box with the lock icon had been replaced by a thumbnail-sized image, offering a glimpse of something far beyond what I had expected. A lump formed in my throat as I tapped the picture. It expanded, filling my entire phone screen, and I let out an uncontrollable gasp. The most magnificent cock I had ever seen, both in size and shape, was now on full display. The massive men I had studied in porn paled in comparison. Stamped boldly across the image was his screen name, "TonyBo11ogna," a watermark that served as both a safeguard against theft and a mark of authenticity. I sat there frozen, the “11” in his name now glaringly clear. A classroom ruler rested beside it, verifying its length just shy of twelve inches, anchored by a set of enormous testicles perfectly proportional to the towering shaft.

"You ready?" the new message popped up, minimizing the picture and snapping me back to the chat. The abruptness shook me to my core. A decade of marriage and voyeurism on the site had shielded me from its stark, transactional nature. We hadn’t even exchanged names. This guy didn’t care what I looked like, that it was my first time, or that I had just hung up the phone with my pregnant wife. I was nothing more than a vessel for his pleasure, existing solely to drain him, as his profile bluntly stated. It had only been five minutes since first contact, and now, a faceless stranger in a seedy hotel had suddenly forced me into a decision I never thought I would have to make. I felt paralyzed, struggling to catch my breath.

I returned to his profile and enlarged the picture again, still in denial, as if pretending I needed more convincing could somehow preserve what little fight I had left. The sight was beyond impressive, something I might have dismissed as fake if it weren’t for the hotel stationery sitting on his leg as if he felt the need to prove he was real. My God, it was massive. Staring at this stranger’s anatomy, knowing he was just five hundred feet away, my mind was consumed with the acts I had dreamed of performing on a man like this. Despite my urge to close the incognito window and erase him from my life, I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

Time was slipping away, and the looming threat of competition heightened my urgency. In just thirty minutes, men would be lining up outside his door, eager to seize the opportunity he had offered me. I felt fortunate for this rare chance with such an elusive unicorn, but the anxiety of an impending deadline weighed heavily on me. My hormones drowned out rational thought, pushing me to take action.

“Yeah, I think so, lol,” I responded, almost against my will. The “lol,” a term I loathed and never used in chat, betrayed my nervousness.

“Meet in the lobby in fifteen minutes,” the faceless cock commanded, a statement rather than a question. His emotionless response shifted the pressure onto me, compelling me to make one of the most significant decisions of my life.

I felt numb as I stared at his message, my thumbs moving almost against my will as I typed, “That works.” The thought of my eight-month-pregnant wife at home wasn't enough to deter me. Driven by a fear of missing out and the unspoken threat of him moving on, I finally accepted the impossibility of resistance.

“See you in a few!” he replied, the green dot on his profile disappearing, signaling that he was no longer online.

Pacing around the room for five minutes, I was gripped by a paralyzing fear. My nerves were on edge as I tried to convince myself it wasn’t too late to back out and pretend this hadn’t happened. All I had to do was go into the bathroom, relieve myself, and make this all disappear, yet I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Despite my anxiety and the fear of missing out, I felt an intense urge to follow every directive from this faceless stranger and stick to the schedule he had set. Hesitant about why he had chosen to meet in the lobby instead of his room, I found a small comfort in the idea of a public meeting amid the overwhelming pressure.

Before long, I exited my room, dressed in an olive Marine Corps T-shirt, gray Nike basketball shorts, and flip-flops. My breath caught in my throat as I began my slow, tentative walk down the hallway toward the elevator. Each step felt impossibly heavy as if the weight of what I was about to do dragged me down, making it difficult to move forward. The image of a stranger, now seared into my mind, propelled me forward, but my body resisted with every fiber. I stopped several times along the way, frozen in place, as if my mind was desperately trying to find a way out, urging me to turn back and escape this overwhelming situation. Yet, the pull of curiosity pushed me onward, my pace slow and uncertain, as if I were marching toward something inevitable.

When I reached the elevator, I paused, feeling as if my life had flashed before my eyes once again. I hesitantly pressed the button, and the doors opened almost immediately as if the elevator had been waiting for me. The descent was swift, leaving no room for second thoughts. I stepped out cautiously as the doors opened to the nearly empty lobby. The front desk was now manned by a young woman in her twenties who shared enough similarities with my wife, Amy, to make me feel as though fate was challenging my resolve. As I made my way to the restaurant area, I shoved my hands in my pockets, fidgeting and visibly trembling, behavior that felt entirely out of character for a Marine, as I waited for the unknown.

“Can I help you?” the young blonde asked behind the front desk.

“No thanks, just waiting for someone,” I replied, my nerves frayed as I silently hoped she would go back to wherever she had been earlier, saving me from the awkwardness of greeting a total stranger in front of her.

I stood there, nearly frozen, plagued by the fact that opportunities to back out were slipping away by the second. I could still dash out the sliding doors into the parking lot or even pretend to be someone else when he arrived; after all, he had no idea what I looked like. Despite these options, I fidgeted restlessly; my nerves stretched to their breaking point as I anxiously awaited the arrival of an unknown man from an unknown direction. Every slight sound jolted my senses, sending my heart racing. The reality that a man who had entered my life just twenty minutes ago, someone I knew nothing about and had never seen, would soon change my sexual orientation weighed heavily on my mind. What the hell was I doing?

The sudden chime of the elevator I had exited moments earlier tightened my chest, amplifying the already palpable tension. The timing left little doubt about who would emerge. As I glanced up, a petite figure stepped out, embodying the flamboyant stereotype I had long associated with the gay community. He moved in slow motion, wearing a rainbow tank top that barely covered his midriff and matching biker shorts that looked like they had been painted on. Even from twenty feet away, the massive bulge in his shorts was unmistakable. His 5'8" frame and slight build only accentuated the enormity of his fully erect cock, thick as a shaving cream can and wrapped around his waist; its tip pressed firmly against his hip. The spandex struggled to contain it, along with a cell phone pressed against his side. The front of his shorts bulged with a pair of enormous balls, each individually encased by the spandex, their size reminiscent of jumbo Grade-A eggs, forming an avocado-like mass. As he approached, I could see the girl behind the front desk staring in unison, her gaze only deepening my embarrassment. My eyes were locked on his shorts, leaving me no chance to retreat or pretend to be someone else.

I felt as if I had stumbled into a gay bar, even though I was simply in a hotel lobby. A wave of shame washed over me as I processed the man approaching, anxiety gnawing at me as I feared judgment not only from the girl at the desk but also from Amy and my Marine buddies, who weren’t even there. For the first time, I was forced to face the reality of the actual person attached to the type of cock I had long fantasized about, a detail I had never truly considered.

He stood nearly eight inches shorter than me, slim at his claimed 110 pounds, with pale skin that seemed untouched by the sun and a face marked by old acne scars. His oversized glasses magnified his ordinary eyes, and the massive man bun on top of his head only reinforced my preconceived notions. He looked every bit of his twenty-one years, barely old enough to drink legally, and resembled the quintessential high school nerd living in his parent’s basement, the exact type my friends and I would have mocked in my more immature days. Yet none of that mattered, overshadowed by the undeniable mass in his shorts.

“I’m Tony,” he said, walking straight up to me and extending his hand, my identity betrayed by my uncontrollable fixation on his crotch. He flashed a grin that revealed crooked, uneven teeth framed by braces, some protruding, others spaced irregularly. His presence diminished my usual physical intimidation, rendering the contrast between us irrelevant. His smile exuded a confidence that his less-than-attractive appearance would have little impact on how the evening would unfold.

My mind raced as I stood there, uneasy about being so close to someone like Tony. His flamboyant outfit felt entirely out of place, and the thought of the gigantic hard-on straining against it only heightened my anxiety. What was he thinking? What if there were other people around? Tony was precisely the type I would typically avoid in public, dreading any association. His vibrant attire and noticeable lisp were constant reminders of the world I was about to enter, a world I had once ridiculed.

“Hey, I’m Steve,” I said, extending my hand to meet his, my voice barely a whisper, attempting to avoid drawing more attention from the girl at the front desk. Tony’s flamboyant presence was already undermining my usual sense of masculinity, making me regret wearing my Marine Corps T-shirt for this introduction. As I extended my hand, my grip almost crushed his limp handshake, highlighting not just my nervous energy but also the stark physical size difference between his petite, feminine stature and my own. My heart raced, and my cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“Oh, firm, Steve,” he giggled, his lisp accentuating my name, as he retracted his hand and playfully shook it out after our handshake.

An awkward silence settled between us as I stood there, paralyzed and unsure of my next move. Tony seemed to revel in my anxiety as if taunting me to take one last look at the younger near-clone of my wife, a final reminder of my old life before he changed me forever. The weight of embarrassment was crushing, intensified by the judgment I felt from a stranger who didn’t even know me. All I wanted at that moment was to escape the lobby. His grin remained fixed as he looked up at me, his neck craned back to accommodate our eight-inch height difference. The disparity between our bodies felt almost laughable, further belittling me as I grappled with this unsettling new reality.

“Ready?” he asked, his tone dripping with arrogant confidence, a broad smile lighting up his face. It was a rhetorical question; he didn’t wait for my response before turning and heading back toward the elevator. My nerves were on edge as I glanced between the hotel employee, who had clearly overheard everything and wore a knowing smirk, and Tony’s retreating figure. Unable to make eye contact with her, my gaze was instead drawn to his exposed lower back, where the rainbow-patterned spandex clung to his tight, bubble-shaped ass, an aspect of Tony that, though not at all appealing to me, was impossible to ignore.

My decade-long fantasy had done little to prepare me for the reality I now faced. In my mind, a big cock would simply materialize, and I’d indulge in it without consequence, no aftermath, no guilt, no emotion. There were no awkward encounters in a hotel lobby, no trailing behind some twink to his room, no logistics, and certainly no hotel attendant observing me as I marched toward a new life of bisexuality. Most importantly, there was no dealing with the man attached to it, especially not someone like Tony. Yet Tony was fully aware of the impact and influence of his endowment on a man like me. He understood how his gift could transform even the most masculine men into bisexuals or even homosexuals. As I followed him like a trained dog, utterly oblivious to our destination, I realized I had succumbed to being his outlet, entirely under his sway.

The elevator doors opened swiftly, having remained stationary since Tony’s arrival a few minutes earlier. He stepped inside without a second thought while I hesitated at the threshold, casting one last glance at the grinning hotel attendant. Her knowing smile seemed to underscore the gravity of my impending decision. After a brief pause, I stepped inside, and as the doors closed behind me, the white noise of the empty lobby faded away, leaving us in the cramped, musty confines of the elevator. Tony seemed to relish the tension and nervous energy emanating from me, his slow, deliberate movements only heightening my unease. With an air of indifferent certainty, he pressed the button for the third floor, my floor, as if the life he was about to change meant nothing to him.

The elevator’s ascent felt torturously slow, each second heightening my anxiety. The claustrophobic space left me with nowhere to look but down at Tony’s almost comically tight biker shorts. The massive bulge, thick and imposing, was perfectly outlined by the spandex, precisely as it had appeared in the photo I’d seen just twenty minutes earlier. Where most men were intimidated by my presence, Tony seemed to easily dominate the elevator, fully aware of his control over me. I couldn’t muster the courage to meet his eyes, ashamed of what awaited me. I averted my gaze while his hands rested confidently on his hips as if proudly displaying his gift. His smirk remained in my peripheral vision, only interrupted by the elevator’s ding as we finally reached the third floor.

As the elevator doors slid open, Tony unexpectedly seized my hand with a dominant grip far more forceful than our earlier handshake, pushing me beyond my comfort zone with a sudden, imposing display of forced intimacy. My instinct to pull away only made him tighten his hold. In the foyer, a mirror seemed intentionally placed to taunt me, cruelly reflecting a man who, just an hour ago, had embodied peak masculinity in a Marine Corps t-shirt, now holding hands with a feminine twink in skimpy, rainbow-patterned attire, whose pants seemed on the verge of bursting at their seams. I hadn’t fully come to terms with the fact that my life was about to change at the hands of this man, who paused briefly, almost as if to force me to take in the last image of myself as a straight man. The hallway split at the end of the foyer: my room was down the corridor to the left, but Tony led me to the right.

The musty corridor Tony led me down seemed to stretch endlessly, with flickering or dead wall sconces casting an uneven, dim light. His deliberate pace turned each step into a prolonged walk of shame. My palm grew clammy in his grip as I resigned myself to the reality of holding hands with the man who was about to change my life. The desolate hallway and the minimal risk of being seen offered only a slight reprieve from my mounting anxiety. I calculated the five-hundred-foot distance from my room in my head, knowing we would come to a stop at any second. As my pocket began to vibrate, the buzz was noticeable even in the quiet corridor. Tony flashed a snaggle-toothed grin, seemingly aware of what I already knew; it was Amy calling to say goodnight.

To be continued...