I was seventeen years old the first time that a lover hit me on the ass and asked me if I liked it.
Well, okay, he wasn’t a lover. He was really just some guy I’d picked up on the street; just some guy I’d smiled at, who smiled back and bought me ice cream and took me home. Just some guy I’d fucked and fucked and fucked, for hours and hours, in every position we could think of, until the skin of his dick was rubbed raw and I could barely walk. It doesn’t matter who he was. What matters is what I said when he hit me on the ass and asked me if I liked it.
What I said was No.
No, I don’t want to do that, I lied. I’m not into that.
He backed off immediately. I’m not into that stuff either, he lied.
And I spent the rest of that night, and all the rest of the nights we spent together, thinking to myself: Tell him you changed your mind. Tell him you want to try it. You know he really wants to; you know he’ll do it if you ask him. Go ahead. Ask him. I spent the rest of that night, and all the rest of the nights we spent together, trying to find the courage to change my mind…and failing.
So now I want a second chance. I want to tell the story the way I wish it had come out. I want to do it over.