It Took Me Years to Accept That I Liked Men
I’m not called Bruno, but that’s the name I choose to tell this story. It has nothing special about it, no connection to anyone; I simply like the way it sounds and it works as a shield. I’m twenty-eight, I was born in a coastal city where the heat hits hard and people talk too much about other people’s lives. And for the first time I’m going to tell the truth without embellishment: it took me years to accept that I liked men, and this is the story of how I stopped lying to myself.
I discovered pleasure pretty young, around twelve. At first I didn’t even know what it was, only that touching myself a certain way left me trembling and short of breath. It was later, amid comments from friends and the odd nervous laugh, that I understood it had a name. What I never wanted to admit was who those private minutes were for. Out in the world I was the typical straight guy in the group. To myself, I faked it too. But my hands knew the truth.
One thing obsessed me above all else: other people’s bodies. Hair, specifically. At school I lived for my classmates’ legs, for who had hair on their arms, for the ones whose chests were already starting to darken while I was still hairless. I found it fascinating and forbidden at the same time. Gym class was a delicious torment, not because of the sport, but because of what came after.
The locker room was my little private hell. That tiled room, damp and smelling of sweat and cheap deodorant, where bodies went from T-shirts to showers without shame. I changed with my eyes on the floor, pretending not to care, while out of the corner of my eye I took in everything: a broad back, a towel slipping, the strip of hair running down an abdomen. Then, at home, I would piece those images together in my head until I ended up gasping against the pillow, ashamed and turned on in equal measure.
The first time I saw a full cock was almost by accident, on a sports trip. A teammate I absolutely could not stand changed in front of me without the slightest concern, completely naked, as if I didn’t exist. I froze for a second too long, just enough time to sear that image into my mind. That night, in the hostel bunk bed, with everyone asleep around me and the mattress creaking with every movement, I jerked off thinking about him until I came in silence, biting my lip so I wouldn’t make a sound. I hated him, and even so I devoted one of the best orgasms of my adolescence to him. The contradictions of the mind don’t care about sympathy, and I was still too young to understand that.
***
Like a good textbook straight guy, I messed around with a girl or two. I even had a girlfriend for a while. It didn’t last, but we did reach a certain level of intimacy: hands under clothes, long kisses, that awkward friction of two bodies finding each other. I never went any further than that with a woman. Not out of disgust or fear, simply because my desire was pointed elsewhere and I kept insisting on not looking it in the face. To this day, I’ve never slept with a woman. And I don’t need to lie about that anymore.
Everything started changing at university, far from home. That distance gave me something I’d never had: freedom. Nobody knew me, nobody expected anything from me, and at night, alone in my rented room, part of me had already accepted the obvious. I downloaded a dating app for men and became just another one of those cowardly profiles that said “straight-curious” and didn’t upload a photo. I looked, I wrote, I deleted the conversation. I moved two steps forward and three back.
The final push came from a friend. One night, after a few beers, he confessed he was gay with a naturalness that left me breathless. No drama, no shame; he said it like someone commenting on the weather. And then, for the first time in my life, the words came out on their own.
—Me too —I said, and I felt something heavy fall off my chest.
From there the circle widened. It turned out half the crew was hiding the same thing: gays, bisexuals, all of them silent, all of them pretending. The others didn’t make a fuss either. Suddenly, the world I’d been so afraid of turned out to be a lot kinder than my fear had led me to believe.
***
My first real time came when I was around twenty-four. Still being discreet, I kept using the app, but without so many detours. I met a guy I liked from the first photo: dark-haired, an easy smile, with that ordinary-guy look that disappears into the crowd on the street. We saw each other several times before taking it further, and I admit the waiting had me on the edge of my mind.
Things heated up in the most unexpected way. We were walking back at night down an empty street, and in a dark doorway he pushed me against the wall and kissed me like I’d never been kissed before. I felt his hand slip inside my trousers, his palm closing around me, and my knees almost gave out. I returned the favor blindly, reaching for his bulge, discovering for the first time another man with my hands. I jerked him off right there, in the middle of the street, terrified someone might pass by and absolutely unable to stop.
That same night, back at his place, I knelt and took him in my mouth. My first blowjob. It was clumsy, I choked, I didn’t really know what to do with my tongue or my hands, but the taste and the heat of his skin drove me insane. When it was his turn to introduce me to penetration, though, it didn’t work. He had trouble finding me, went in badly and too fast, lost the rhythm with every thrust. We tried for a while until the two of us gave up amid awkward laughter. I left with the bittersweet feeling of having finally crossed a line, but without the glory I’d imagined.
That’s why, in my memory, my real first time is another one. It came soon after, with a guy who did know what he was doing. He prepared me patiently, without rushing, with his fingers and his tongue, stretching me until I stopped being scared and started asking for more. He fucked me slowly, reading every expression on my face, and when he finally got all the way in I understood what all those people had been talking about. He didn’t just fuck me with his cock; he added a toy that made me scream into the sheet until I came without being touched. That night I decided bad memories didn’t count. That you choose what you keep.
***
Living away from home gave me years of sex without guilt. I discovered what I really liked: dominant men, masculine men, hairy men, the ones who smell like a macho in an almost animal way. There’s one I remember especially fondly. The date started out all romantic, movie on the sofa, a blanket, his arms around me, and ended up being one of the best fucks of my life.
He was insanely hot, one of those bodies that doesn’t fit in clothes, and he smelled like a man in a way that clouded my judgment. He kissed my neck, bit my shoulder, undressed me with a calm that was pure torture. When he had me on all fours, he buried his face between my legs and ate my ass until I was begging. Then he grabbed my hips with those huge hands and fucked me relentlessly, setting a pace I could only take. I could feel him breathing against my back, growling, whispering filthy things in my ear. I came with his hand clenched around me and his weight crushing me into the mattress.
When he came, he did it with a deep groan I still remember. Afterward he collapsed beside me, sweaty and smiling, and we lay there in silence for a while, catching our breath. That mix of tenderness and savagery is exactly what I look for. Maybe one day I’ll work up the nerve to tell that night in full detail. I neither promise it nor rule it out.
***
I don’t have a movie-star sex life, nor do I collect scandalous anecdotes. I have what almost everyone has: good encounters, forgettable ones, and a handful of nights worth a thousand. I also have my romantic side, why deny it. I’ve been in love, unreturned, with someone who’s not on my team. I’ve had a hard time with it, I’ve been getting over it, and if I were being completely honest I’d admit that if he told me yes, I’d run toward him without a second thought. But he’s straight, so I have to leave it at what it is: just another fantasy.
That’s why I write. Because imagination is the only place where I don’t have to hide anything, where I can be who I am without measuring my words or looking sideways to see who’s listening. Every story is a small revenge against all the years I spent silent, a way of giving desire back the space I denied it for so long. It took me years to accept that I liked men, and as many more to stop pretending otherwise. Today, at last, I tell it without trembling, without lowering my voice, without needing anyone’s permission. And I swear it feels different when you stop lying to yourself.
