Be Who You are Meant to Be

You have a girlfriend.

She's kind. Patient. Soft where it counts, sweet where it matters. She calls you her man. Her rock. Her future.

She thinks you're straight.

So does everyone else.

You fuck her. You tell her she's beautiful. You go down on her with your eyes shut, pretending you're into it. Pretending it's enough. Pretending you're not dying inside.

You're not broken.

You're just lying.

Because while she's moaning your name, your brain is somewhere else--kneeling. Mouth open. Eyes full of cock.

You're not bi.

You're not confused.

You're a faggot.

You've always known.

Even if you've never said it out loud.

Even if you've spent years choking it down, burying it beneath gym sessions and blowjob jokes and carefully timed compliments about women's tits.

You're not straight.

You're just very good at pretending.

But when you're alone?

When the lights are out and the door's locked and the browser's in incognito mode?

You're exactly what you are.

A cock-hungry, shame-soaked, cum-addicted faggot.

That word hits like lightning.

You never use it in public. You'd never dare.

But in your head? It's gospel.

You edge to it. You breathe it. You say it into your fist while you fuck yourself in the dark, one hand choking your own throat, the other buried between your legs, working a dildo you swore you'd never buy, never use again.

You lie to everyone but your hand.

Your hand knows.

It knows you don't want her.

Not really.

You want him.

Not a him.

All of them.

Rough men. Tall men. Sweaty men with gym bags and veiny forearms and the kind of swagger that makes your knees twitch. Builders on lunch break. Dads at the park. Lads on the bus in tight joggers with visible outlines that haunt your dreams.

You've never touched one.

Not outside your fantasies.

But inside?

You've been used. Destroyed. Broken in a hundred different ways by a hundred different cocks you've never seen in real life.

You've sucked them in your head until your jaw aches. Bent over for them in your mind until your hole spasms with ghosted muscle memory.

You moan for them when she's asleep beside you, curled in your arms, dreaming of houses and babies and rings.

You moan into your pillow.

"Fuck me. Please. Use me. Ruin me."

You beg for it like it's prayer.

And God never answers.

So you do it yourself.

You edge with gay hypno. You've memorized the best clips. The sluttiest voices. The ones that say, "You're not a man. You're a hole. You're a faggot cocksleeve."

You nod along like it's true.

Because it is.

And when it's time to come, you don't stroke yourself like a man. You fuck yourself like a whore. Legs up. Plug in. Mouth open.

You imagine him finishing in your mouth.

You imagine him holding your head down while he unloads, and you swallow it because what else would a faggot do?

You don't even come from your cock anymore. Not properly. You come from the idea. From the fantasy. From the shame. From the word.

Faggot.

You know you should feel bad.

You do.

Sometimes you cry after.

You close the tabs. Clean the sheets. Slide back into bed with her and let her kiss your cheek while your insides ache with secrets.

She doesn't know that you want to be spitroasted.

She doesn't know that you edge to videos of sissy sluts in full drag begging to be bred.

She doesn't know about the folder on your phone.

It's hidden behind an innocent-looking app. The contents? Disgusting.

Selfies. Bent over. Toys inside. Lipstick smeared across your mouth. That one video where you whisper "Please fuck me, Daddy" while you ride a thick dildo in fishnets.

She's never seen you like that.

No one has.

Except him.

The stranger from Kik.

You don't even know his name.

He never showed his face.

Just his cock.

Thick. Uncut. Beautiful.

He sent voice notes.

Said things like, "I bet your girl has no idea her boyfriend's a cocksucking little faggot."

You came so hard the first time he said that you nearly blacked out.

You begged him for more. For orders. For punishment.

He told you to wear her panties under your jeans. Told you to go to Tesco like that and send him photos. Told you to stand at the urinal with your clit tucked back and whisper, "I want to suck every cock in this room."

You did it.

You moaned in the car after. Came untouched just thinking about it.

And then you wiped off, drove home, kissed her on the forehead like nothing happened.

But something had happened.

A crack.

A shift.

A piece of you broke loose and refused to go back.

Now you can't stop.

You watch gangbangs every night.

You edge for hours to blacked-out videos of faceless men using sissies like toilets. Holes soaked in cum. Collars tight. Faces ruined. You moan for them. You call them Daddy. You imagine your girlfriend watching from the doorway while you choke on cock and beg for more.

You'd cry if she saw.

But not from shame.

From relief.

Because you're tired of pretending.

Tired of lying.

Tired of being her man when all you want is to be some stranger's bitch.

You don't want romance.

You want to be tied up in a back room of a gay sauna and used by a line of men who don't even ask your name.

You want them to slap you. Spit on you. Use your throat until you gag and your nose runs and your mascara streaks down your cheeks.

You want to be left there. Dripping. Wrecked.

Cum leaking from every hole.

You want to be told: "You're not a man. You're a fag. A thing. A cumrag with a pulse."

You want it to feel real.

Because when it does?

When you lose yourself in that fantasy?

That's when you finally feel like you.

Not her boyfriend.

Not the nice guy.

Not the straight mask you've worn since Year 7 when the boys started calling each other gay and you realized you couldn't ever tell.

You've been silent for so long your throat hurts.

But your mouth still works.

And you know what it's for.

You imagine him grabbing you by the jaw, pressing his cock to your lips and growling, "Don't speak. Just open."

You do.

In your dreams.

In the bathroom.

In the middle of the night when she's fast asleep.

You get on your knees and you open.

You picture the weight of it. The heat. The taste.

You picture him holding the back of your head and saying, "No teeth, faggot. Just tongue."

You'd moan around him.

Eyes watering.

Hole twitching.

Because you've practiced. You've trained. You've gagged yourself on toys bigger than you can take just to be ready for the day someone finally uses you.

And still--no one knows.

Not even her.

She thinks you're faithful.

And you are.

Technically.

You haven't cheated.

Not with your body.

Only with your mind.

Only with your cum.

Only with every filthy, depraved, desperate part of you that screams to be bent over and filled.

Sometimes you imagine telling her.

Not gently.

Not kindly.

Brutally.

You imagine dropping to your knees in the middle of the lounge and whispering, "I don't love you like that. I never did. I'm a faggot, and I want cock."

You imagine her face breaking.

And you imagine coming the moment it happens.

Because even her pain would feel more honest than this charade.

You'd rather be hated than wrong.

You're not her boyfriend.

You're not a man in the way you've pretended to be.

You're a whore.

A cumdump.

A cockslut in waiting.

And one day soon, you're going to give in.

You'll go to the sauna you've walked past a dozen times. The one with the red door and no sign. You'll pay your entry, walk in with shaking hands and a twitching hole, and you'll strip.

You'll sit.

You'll wait.

And he'll come.

Some man with shoulders like concrete and a cock like a weapon.

He won't ask.

He'll just nod.

And you'll kneel.

You'll worship.

You'll finally taste what you've only dreamed of.

And when he cums?

You'll take it.

On your face.

Down your throat.

Inside your hole.

Wherever he wants.

Because he'll see it in your eyes.

That you're not a man.

You're not a boyfriend.

You're just a faggot who's finally come home.