There’s a sick kind of truth you don’t realize until you’re staring down the sole of a girl’s shoe—no matter how ‘small’ her feet are supposed to be, your mouth was never built to take them. And yet, that’s exactly where mine ended up. Every push felt like anatomy itself laughing at me, showing me the limits of flesh and bone while those girls—yeah, the same ones who used to copy homework off me in high school—treated my throat like a trash chute for their sneakers and socks. The deeper it went, the less it felt like a fetish and more like a science experiment gone feral: gums tearing, stomach trying to crawl out of me. By the end, their socks looked like crime scene evidence, and I was the scene. But here’s the twisted part—buried under the pain and the panic is a high so pure it makes sense why freaks like me exist.
