On September 5th I couldn't keep quiet anymore. The following is the first of a series of texts I sent a friend at 7:29 that morning. 

(Alex Gets Fucked)

I'm Bi. And I fucked a guy on August 4th, two days after my birthday, a month and half after opening Grindr for the first time, after talking, chatting to the first guy who messaged me on there, after sending the first picture of my body and getting a compliment, after sexting a stranger for the first time, then second, then third then fourth then fuck I lose count, I connected with a guy, a man, a dude, who's name I didn't know, and after a week of coy messaging, intending for nothing to ever happen, just getting my kicks (at another person's expense, which I politely berate myself for, but ignore), when he says "come over" something clicks in my head, and I say "fine". 
And I make an excuse, and hang up on the friends I've been talking to, turn down the other one who asked if I wanted to get  drinks, and I go to the shower and soap up my asshole, as instructed, by the man who's name I don't know. And I put on a little porn, to try and get in the mood, because I'm not at all excited. I'm numb, because I want to do this, and if I let myself feel anything, I'm not going to do this. So I tell myself I'm so excited (I'm actually nervous) I tell myself I'm too horny to think straight (really not the case, although, think "straight", ahaha) and I put on the tight batman shirt that makes my pecs look so good, and grab some cardamom pods to chew (for fresh and fragrant breath!) And after asking myself, over and over "what the fuck, are you doing this, are you actually fucking doing this, what the fuck are you doing, are you actually doing this?" I left the apartment, and Alex Spivey, nice Jewish virgin boy who had not stopped going to church and does not drink and had only kissed his ex girlfriend chastely and blandly on the lips (never using tongue), got on a bus, chewing cardamom pods (for fresh and fragrant breath!) to go fuck (get fucked) by a guy he'd never met and who's name he didn't know. 
And I got off the bus, at the wrong stop, and walked around the block, messaged him (I'm here) and he buzzed me in. So I stepped in through the gate, and then up the stairs, and then through the long balcony hallways that wrap the thing like a motel (very 70s) and "are you fucking doing this" is a litany in my head. And I knock on the door, and the answer is yes.
And literally all he says when he opens the door is "Hey" and then I'm inside, and it's dark, there's a blue mood light (the fuck?) and low music and then there's a hand on my ribs and he's kissing me, and just like that, I'm farther along than I've ever been with anyone.
And I don't stop going. And I have no idea what I'm doing (when do I start using tongue? The hell am I supposed to do with my tongue?), but he knew that, said it turned him on, and I'm out of his league anyway, so he doesn't seem to mind (turns out he catfished me, but he looks OK and we're already in the middle of this, so I pretend that's fine).
And I'll stop giving details, but we had, I had, we attempted, what the doctors later call "receptive anal sex". On the floor. Turns out it hurts like a bitch, and, no, nameless catfisher, coconut oil is not good enough lube.
And we give up (thank God) and, it was bland. Overall. I've read there are stars, I've heard all the love songs about melting in his arms, but really, it was just exactly what it says on the tin. Touching my chest, kissing? It feels like, a hand on my chest, like someone's mushing their lips on mine. No extra dimension. And I thought "well at least this will never tempt me again" (nope, actually, very wrong) because this is fine, but, this doesn't feel like my drug of choice.
But also, the entire time, the words "I love you" keep rolling around in my head like marbles while we fuck. And I have no idea who this guy is, besides the vague notion he's Asian-ish, seems like he would probably annoy me a little in real life (as if this isn't real life) and doesn't know how lube works.
And when it's done, I go home. I walk home. I refuse his offer of an uber (I don't want him to know where I live) and I go out in the dark, and walk home through the rest of the stragglers wandering through a Friday night at two in the morning. And I glance at myself in my phone camera (gotta check) and there's this red ring around my mouth like smeared lipstick. And that's the first trickle of shame that I feel. It's written all over my face. I got fucked. 
And I make it to my apartment without seeing anyone, and I turn on the shower, because I'm still covered in coconut oil and his sweat and mine, and I cry curled in the shower, because I feel like that's what I'm supposed to do. And I don't know what else to do. And I say I'm sorry, I sob it. But you know what? It feels like God's behind a thick pane of glass, behind a one way mirror, like my sorry bounces off. So I go to bed, I listen to Chance the Rapper naked on the floor and try to feel something. Any kind of shame or horror that feels real, but I feel like I'm forcing it, Like I'm forcing every feeling. And I journal, I write "I had sex, I fucked a guy. I fucked a man, I got fucked, I tried to pretend I liked it, I did like parts of it" and I go to bed, and I know I have to call my Dad. Because that relationship's worth more than my shame. But all I can think about is me on the floor. And the fact that my knees are bruised. And I never leaned his name. And I don't want my Dad to think of me that way. I don't want him to have that in his head. 
So I go to sleep on day 1.