The silhouettes of their running bodies in the dusk often evoked a sense of heroicism in me, that sense of golden masculinity, strong, powerful, ready to conquer the world, which I myself lack. At the age of fifteen, I was thin and had a rather pale, melancholic complexion. My natural air of melancholy was often mistaken for unhappiness caused by some trouble, hence my fellow students always tried to cheer me up in vain. I knew exactly the cause of this melancholy: I was in love, not with a particular person, but with the notion of love and masculinity. My burgeoning body longed to be touched, kissed, dominated. Its thirst demands to be quenched by a virile body. Every night, in the dark silence of the night, my hand would caress my entire body and experience the unknown excitements of new territories. I would pause for a long time at my penis, wondering at its changing shape, the hard, powerful phallus in contrast with the softness of the balls, I would gently touch it first, moist. The hem demurely covered the welts of her stockings, unless she moved suddenly or bent over. Add a pair of Christian Louboutin platform pumps with seven-inch stiletto heels, jewelry, perfume, makeup and hair and my lover was hot. So was the embrace she gave me before she went out the door, complete with grinding her pussy into my crotch.“No other boy I ever dated would have let me walk out the door looking like this unless he was attached to my side like a remora,” she posited. “You are the ‘real man’ in my life. Don’t think for a moment I don’t recognize that – and appreciate it.”She paused for a moment, her eyes fixed on a point over my shoulder as her mind wandered. A coy smile tugged at the corners of her glossy lips as her attention returned.“Just think of all those boys who will be there tonight,” she continued in her saucy, accented ‘Alexis’ voice, reinforcing her words with the pressure of her pussy rubbing back and forth against my clothed flesh. “They will see me and want.
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