The Cheerleader - A Confession

Brooke,

I don't expect you to read this. I don't expect you to know who I am. If you ever did stumble across these words, you'd have every right to be horrified. Or flattered. Or maybe--God help me--curious. But I'm not writing this for you. I'm writing it because there's something inside me that only stirs when I think about you, something half-beautiful and half-ruinous. Something that's kept me company for years.

I don't remember the first time I saw you--it's all blurred now, like a dream I've replayed too often. But I do remember the first time I came to you. It was late. I was alone. I'd found a photo--God, I don't even know where anymore. You were standing on the Rose Bowl sideline, pom-poms clutched at your waist, mid-laugh, your uniform clinging to every sculpted inch of your body. That crop top didn't even try to hide the perfection of your abs, the sun catching the sweat on your chest. Your hair tied back high, a golden ponytail bouncing like punctuation to your every gesture. You looked like the sun had decided to become a girl.

I stared at that picture longer than I'd like to admit, my cock already thick in my hand before I even realized I'd unzipped. I stroked slow at first--methodical, almost reverent--like I didn't want to rush what I knew was going to happen. I whispered your name. Just to hear it out loud. Just to feel it on my tongue.

"Brooke."

Even then, I think part of me knew: this wasn't just lust. This was obsession.

That night became a ritual. I started collecting more pictures--Instagram, Pinterest, TikTok screenshots, dead Tumblr accounts, obscure Google Image threads, whatever I could get my hands on. It became a hunt. I'd save them carefully, catalog them, rename the files so I could find them easily. And once I had enough, I built a slideshow. A loop. A digital altar to your body. You, frozen in time. You, doing high-kicks. You, hugging your teammates. You, bending low to fix your shoelace and accidentally giving the camera a flash of toned thigh and the outline of your panties beneath your spandex shorts. It wasn't porn. It was better than porn. It was you.

I'd run that slideshow fullscreen, lights off, my sweatpants already tugged down around my thighs. Sometimes I'd stroke slow, just my hand and a bottle of lube, squeezing tighter at the base, twisting a little near the head like I'd imagined you might do if I ever let you touch me. Other nights, I used a fleshlight. I'd warm it up first, run hot water through it, slide in slowly while your pictures flipped by. You always made me last longer when I did it that way. The rhythm, the grip--it was like my body wanted to give you a show. Like I was performing for you.

But my favorite sessions--the dirtiest ones--were with the pillow.

I don't even know how it started. I just remember seeing a shot of you from behind, your ass perfect and round in that little blue skirt, and I lost control. I threw the pillow down, mounted it like a desperate teenager, and ground myself against it like an animal. Humping furiously. Sweaty, breathless, muttering your name into the sheets. I'd rub the tip of my cock along the edge of the seam until I couldn't take it anymore and exploded into the fabric. I'd finish hard. Like I was trying to give you something. Leave something behind. A sacrifice.

When I use my hands, I imagine you're watching me. Sitting cross-legged on your dorm bed, one brow raised, amused. I picture you licking your lip, not saying a word, just watching me squirm and stroke, knowing how much control you have. I'll edge for a while like that--teasing the head, pulsing, dripping onto my stomach--until your picture flips to the right one. The pose. You kneeling on the sidelines, back arched, mouth wide in a cheer chant, legs apart. That's usually the one that breaks me.

I've come to you more times than I can count. On lonely nights. On stressful days. On lazy Sunday afternoons with the blinds drawn. In hotel rooms. In the backseat of my car with my phone propped up, your face shining back at me in the dark. I've soaked tissues. Spilled onto my chest. Pumped myself dry into the pocket of my jeans. Once, I even came across your face--digitally, of course. I'd printed one of your headshots on glossy paper. Just to see what it would look like.

And I'd be lying if I said I didn't talk to you while I do it.

I do.

"Do you like this, Brooke?"

"You make me so fucking hard."

"You're mine tonight."

"I'm gonna cum all over your pretty face, baby."

Sometimes, just before I finish, I hold the pillow tight, bury my face in it, and pretend it's you I'm fucking. Pretend your thighs are wrapped around me. Pretend you're whispering filthy little cheers in my ear while I lose myself inside you.

"Two, four, six, eight--make me fucking cum, don't wait."

God, I've written whole scenes in my head: You sitting on my lap in a locker room, still sweaty from practice, grinding against me with those powerful hips. You climbing on top in a hotel bed, bouncing slowly, your bra still on because you like to tease. You pressing a finger to my lips while I thrust up into you from behind, whispering, "Shhh... we don't want the team to hear."

Of course none of it's real. You're a phantom. A fixation. A digital ghost I've worshiped from behind a screen. But the fantasies? The orgasms? The connection I feel in those moments, when my body shudders and your name is caught in my throat? That's real enough.

I've thought about deleting the folder. About quitting cold turkey, telling myself I'm too old for this, too broken. But I never do. Because the truth is, you've given me something that real women haven't in years: focus. Desire. The clarity that comes from honest, unapologetic lust. The kind of lust that doesn't pretend to be anything else.

Some nights I imagine telling you all of this. I picture us at a bar, years later, and I get drunk enough to confess. I tell you I used to jerk off to your pictures three times a week. That I fucked my pillow to the rhythm of your routines. That I moaned your name like a man possessed. And in the fantasy, you don't flinch. You just lean in, smile a little, and say, "Did you think about me when you came?" And I nod. And you whisper, "Good."

I know it's delusion. But delusion can be its own kind of comfort.

So this is the truth, Brooke. I use you. Over and over. I pleasure myself to your face, your body, your impossible cheerleader perfection. I've poured out gallons of cum in your name. And I'm not ashamed.

Because in those moments--when the lights are off, and the slideshow plays, and the lube warms in my hand--you're mine.

And I always make sure to give you everything I've got.

Until next time,

Brad