It was like some weird combination of panic, pleasure, and complete system override. Wrestling seemed like the right move—tough and disciplined, a sport where I could carve out a place for myself. But his thumb pressed at an angle, right against my hole, that made my knees buckle slightly. Never mind that I was built more like a stick figure than a Spartan. “You want me to get your back?”
I knew I could say no. When he was done soaping up, and I was still trying to act like my body hadn’t just betrayed every assumption I had about myself, we rinsed off side by side. It all started at the beginning of the school year. Then his touch shifted—just a bit firmer, more deliberate. I melted, dropping my head as he massaged little knots and sore spots I didn’t even know I had. His hands were everywhere, exploring, asserting dominance over my body in a way that should have terrified me but instead left me craving more. “What’s your name?” he asked, friendly enough to make me feel slightly less like an intruder. But my eyes kept drifting, pulled by some magnetic force. But my body wasn’t exactly listening. I was putty in his hands.
