In a couple hours, morning will come, but it won’t matter much since I’ve been awake most of the damn night. God forbid I know what adequate sleep feels like.

Above me, the ceiling is dark and plain. When I’d last been lying on the couch like this, Milo had been over me, and for a few brief minutes I’d known a bliss that I’d long denied myself. But as close as I’d come to allowing that bliss to happen, the whole ordeal had ended in a fiery, self-destructive implosion.

To be fair, though, Milo is still above me. He’d drunk far too much to drive himself home, so I convinced him I was comfortable with him staying the night. Of course, he’d claimed the couch, but I couldn’t let him do that. Not after the dedication he’d shown me today. I might be a shithead, but I wasn’t enough of a shithead to make him sleep on the sofa.

I’d told him that if he went up and slept in my bed, eventually I’d join him when I was tired. I didn’t want him staying up with me. I needed time to be alone and think. We went back and forth, but I convinced him in the end. After all, I could tell he was dead tired, and I knew, despite what I was saying, that tonight would be a wash. I nearly went up at two, thinking about how hopeful he’d looked at the prospect of holding each other, but the thought of lying beside him felt more torturous than lying on the sofa alone.

So here I am, wrestling with that decision.

As per usual, I’ve run the full gambit in my isolation—anger, frustration, sadness. I’ve settled on self-loathing, which is usually the finisher. Pinning me to awareness despite the exhaustion inside. My heart hurts from the emotional extremes of the day, from the turmoil that still grips me. Why do I let the dissenting words of others control me? Why have I let them become so ingrained in my psyche that even though I live an independent life I’m still incapable of obtaining the things I want? I have, in my home, someone who wants to make me happy. Someone who, despite my erratic behavior over the past fourteen hours, finds it in himself to remain with me. Milo is a better person than I’ve ever had. Milo is a better person than I deserve, and yet, somehow, he’s here and he’s willing to help me. How does that make any sense at all? And how long will his good faith that I’ll eventually come around last?

I’m managing to destroy it. I’m doing everything I can to drive him away—self-destructive tendencies, disapproving words from people who shouldn’t have any say in whom I love, self-diagnoses that are not based on fact but a desire to cripple myself. None of it is real. And none of it should dictate what choices I make because I want to be with Milo Reid.

I want to love Milo Reid.

And maybe that admission is all that matters.

I am the one standing in my way.

I slide my feet onto the floor, the cold hardwood stinging my skin. Hearing the rain drum a heavy rhythm against the building, I decide to keep the blanket with me, wrapping it around my shoulders to fight the chill in the air. Teeth clenched around my resolve, I cross the living room and step up into the hallway. My home is dark, but I feel my way by memory, navigating past the foyer to the stairs. On my left is the rock wall, a relic of the condo’s 1970s construction. I climb the stairs, one hand tracing a grout line between the rough stones. Through the window, moonlight casts the palest glow through the rain-soaked glass over my path. My steps are light and quiet. Weightless, like a ghost’s. I’m grateful for the carpet on the landing. Through the upper-floor hallway. He kept my door open, hoping I’d join him but probably aware on some level that I had no plans to.

“Milo,” I say softly. I drop the blanket before climbing onto the bed. This is what I want. Nobody else besides the two of us can decide what we do together. I decide to crawl over to him. I place a hand on his bare shoulder, feeling him stir as he’s awoken from sleep. His eyes open in the dark, somehow still glinting like gemstones, and I wonder for a moment if he’ll be angry that I woke him. But then he looks up at me and those fears are dashed.

“Felix,” he says, surprised and happy. Sleep still lingers about his face, the half-aware way that he smiles. It still takes my breath away. “I was hoping you’d—”

“Shh.” I press a light finger against his lips, then replace it with a kiss. “We don’t need to talk right now. I just want this.”

I slide myself beneath the blankets, feeling the warmth of his body between the sheets. He’s sleeping in only his underwear, and a part of me is grateful that that much has been done for me. As I straddle his waist, he opens his mouth, but remembers not to say anything and bites his lower lip instead.

Even in the dark I’m in awe of him. This beautiful, beautiful man both inside and out. I want him. I want to be with him. I want to accept his concern for me. His understanding. His vitality. And I want him physically too. I want every part of him. My body responds, my hips rolling back and forth. This is something I’ve never done before. This. All this is entirely new to me, and I’m unpracticed and out of my element but damn if it doesn’t feel right. I can feel him coming to life beneath me, swelling as he had when we’d finished our movies and lust had taken over. He moans with pleasure, eyes closed, and I feel a rush of pride at having done this to him. He’s fully awake now. Holding me by the waist and pressing me down over his engorged member.

Penis, I think, demanding that I use the right word. The longer I hide from these terms the way I’ve been taught, the longer they have power over me.

Before I know it, he’s rolled me over so that I’m on my back and he’s pulling my shirt over my head like he did before and he’s tugging my pants down and then my underwear so that I’m completely naked. Despite the cold, he whips off the covers and I lie exposed to the dark room. Vulnerable and in plain view, but utterly unperturbed. I want him to see me. I want him to reach forward and grab my dick.

But as much as I want that for me, I want what I came for. Getting on my knees, I grab the waistband of his briefs. He straightens, watching with voyeuristic pleasure as I pull down and expose his rigid cock. Even in the darkness, his impressive member is unmistakable, standing at a shallow angle away from his abdomen.

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“Felix,” he whispers, begging me to do something with the torturous desire he’s suffering from.

“I don’t, um…have things,” I admit.

“I brought them just in case.” I can hear the smile in his voice. “I didn’t want to miss an opportunity. Are you sure you want to?”

I nod, and then in case he can’t see, whisper a firm “Yes.”

He leans over the side of the bed and grabs his wallet from my nightstand. From inside, he withdraws a condom and two silver packets I’m assuming are personal lubricant. I hadn’t realized such things existed, but it makes more sense than traveling around with a bottle on you at all times.

“Lay back,” he says, and I do so, staring up at the ceiling and willing myself to breathe slowly. I want everything to happen at once, but I know that there must be some procedure to follow.

I feel something cold against my asshole.

Surprised, I let out a yelp and scoot away. Milo lets out a small laugh, and I can’t help but do the same.

“Sorry, I should’ve warned you,” he says.

“Oh,” I say, realizing what had happened.

“Can I—”

“Yeah, I’m ready now.”

The cold sensation returns. His finger lightly massages the area for a moment before pressing its way inside. My mouth opens, unsure what to make of the sensation. “You doing okay?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Just breathe.” He starts kissing me, and though I’m still unsure what to make of his finger inside me, the throbbing of his erection against my side keeps me from going flaccid. He’s undoubtedly more experienced than I am, so I let him lead the way, wondering how on earth anything bigger than his finger is going to fit in there. Once or twice, the notion surfaces that what we’re about to do is against everything I’ve been taught, but I push the thoughts away, my desires more powerful than any dissent. I still want him. I still want his skin against mine. I still want him inside me.

Then he gets up on his knees again. He lifts the condom close to his face, looking for a place to tear the wrapper. My heart races as he draws it out of the packaging, this small round item that carries with it so much meaning. Knowing I have little to offer, I simply watch as with one hand he holds the base of his penis and with the other rolls the condom on. The act is highly arousing. Even more so when he empties the second packet of lube over his hand and spreads it on himself.

“I want to be on top,” I say.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Milo lies back. He grabs a few tissues from my nightstand to wipe the excess lube off his hand, then watches as I position myself.

“Are you sure?” he asks, one more time. “It’s easier on your first time if I—”

“I’m sure,” I whisper. He reaches between my legs to angle himself correctly. Doubt flashes across my mind, wondering if this is actually going to feel good or not. I know what I’ve heard, but how can that possibly be, given how large his finger felt. I turn instead to the anticipation on his face, the unmasked desire in his eyes. I don’t want to stop now. I want to deliver that pleasure for him. I lower myself, gritting my teeth when I feel him pressed against my entrance.

“Breathe,” he reminds me.

And I do, forcing slow, full breaths as I apply more and more pressure. I can’t imagine this will work. This can’t be right. We’re not compatible and I should’ve known the second I laid eyes—

With a silent pop, he slips through. I gasp in surprise and then again as a wave of pain washes through me. This is too much—nothing that size is meant to go through there.

“Breathe,” he says again.

And I do.

The minutes extend, but Milo is incredibly patient—never forcing me to go faster or moving himself to quicken the pace. I will myself to breathe, doubtful that any pleasure can come from this experiment. I’ve made a mistake, but I persist, determined that I not be wrong for once in my life.

“Are you doing okay?” Milo asks again.

“I’d be fine if you had a pencil dick,” I joke. This makes him laugh, which is a bad move, and I nearly pull away completely.

Finally, with a determined exhale, I sit all the way down.

And everything changes.

Relaxed at last, pleasure sweeps through my body, cascading down from the very top of my head until it curls my toes. My mouth falls open and I arch my back, a sense of intimacy filling my mind. I look down at Milo and his face is lost in a rapturous bliss, eyes closed to better give himself over to the feeling. His hands, once holding me by the waist, hover over my skin. In this moment, I know that I have never shared this closeness with another human being, and it’s exactly what I wanted.

“You feel so good,” he whispers.

“So do you,” I say. Then I do the only thing that makes sense. I move. Rocking my hips back and forth. Figuring out what works best takes a few tries, but before long I find a rhythm that erases everything I knew before about pleasure. I can feel him swollen inside me, filling me in a way I’ve never experienced. Perfectly formed so that every aspect of my body, of his body, the weight, the nerve endings, the blood pounding, the rise and fall, the sighs, the moans, the friction, all meld together in a way that can’t possibly be wrong.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

A chill runs down my spine and my rhythm falters.

No, don’t let them in.

I pull my focus back to sex, back to Milo underneath me.

Eyes on my back. A presence in the dark, watching as I make love to this man.

No. Focus on the pleasure on Milo’s face. Look at how euphoric he is. Don’t turn away. You won’t see anything behind you because there isn’t anything behind you. This. This is real. Milo is real. Don’t let him slip away.

I grind harder. Pushing him deeper inside me. This elicits an involuntary gasp of pain from my lips. Milo mistakes it for pleasure and smiles. God, that smile. I want to see that smile every day.

Behind me, I hear the door of my closet swing open, the unmistakable creak of the old hinges. Another chill runs down my spine but I refuse to look. They will not take this moment away from me. This moment is mine.

Mine.

I squeeze my eyes shut, moving faster now. I’ve lost some of my rhythm, and an erratic movement sends another painful shock through my rectum, but Milo’s moan keeps me going.

Incoherent whispers. No more signs of the tapping. Now they have voices, dim enough that I can’t make out the words but voices nonetheless. I can hear them moving too—crawling out of the darkness like monsters in a childhood nightmare. Their fingers claw at the carpet. No mistaking them now. Milo must not hear them though; his behavior hasn’t changed.

Don’t let this get away from you.

I persevere, tears pouring down the sides of my face. All that’s left are the motions. Hips oscillating. But the eyes are on me now. And their presence is right behind me. And their voices fill the room. And they repeat the words of my aunt, and the last words of my sister, and the curses of my parents. And their fingers are sharp on my skin, tracing my spine. My tears are dripping from my chin.

“Get out of this house, you fucking abomination, and don’t come back, pervert! YOU DISGUSTING FAGGOT!”

“Felix?”

The claws dig in, ripping downward with flesh-tearing force.

My cry of pain escapes as a sob and I throw myself aside.

I barely register Milo’s yelp of pain as I begin shoving my clothes back on.

“Felix! Wait!” Milo calls from somewhere in the room. The presence hasn’t left, though, and the voices continue taunting me. I don’t want to look—I can’t bear to look. And as I stuff the last item of clothing onto my body, I flee the room.