“Open wide, bitch,” he repeated, this time quieter. Just when I parted my lips to throw back a teasing insult, he shoved the wet cheese puff into my mouth and slapped his hand over my lips, baring his teeth as he put all his weight on me and continued to grin. I felt the wetness of his mouth in my own. It was the closest I would ever get to kissing the boy of my dreams, and I didn’t even know he was the boy of my dreams yet. I couldn’t be a fag. I wasn’t a fag. I knew it. Homos were just on TV. They were celebrities, and weirdly dressed men in scarves, and silly boys who laughed shrilly and
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I had 5 years of classic psychoanalysis in an attempt to go straight. Didn't happen.
