Yes, He Ate My Heart And Then He Ate My Brain

I still blush whenever I remember that night. The last quarterly exams of the school year were over, and we only had a week or two to finish our school clearance before the dormitory closes for the year. Without the feminizing and taming powers of artificial estrogen back then, I was as mustached and horny as a good 15-year-old adolescent should. It didn't help that a roommate was an affirmed deep sleeper, which often got him in trouble when he doesn't wake up for class. (He also happened to be a somniloquist--he raised himself one random night to deliver an impassioned rendition of the English alphabet before slumping back to bed, and never had even a vague memory of it the next day.)

And I liked him.

Or at least since he started pairing clean plain white shirt with his similarly clean plain white shorts. Or was it the haircut? Or the fact that I got to caress him every time he cuts classes to play Pokémon Gold & Silver on my computer (which was ingeniously hidden inside a cabinet to escape inspection from the dorm manager). I hated him though for getting crabby over petty things. I still hold a grudge on him to this day for snapping at me when I asked for a few sheets of intermediate pad paper.

But he lay there for the taking that night, face up without a blanket covering him, wearing tight, pinkish shorts with a strategically-located zipper. And there might not be another chance. He failed his removal exam that would have kept him a scholar in school for the next year. He'd be gone for good.

"I love him."

Or so I thought I felt when I texted that to my aloe vera-loving confidant when I could no longer contain how much I missed him. I missed him, so much that by the following school year I headed with a half-Japanese friend to Malolos to visit his home, with only anecdotal clues to guide us. But for then I was back at the province for the summer, with only the warmth of his soft, unconscious cheek on my lips to reminisce (and of course, something else, but I don't want to ruin the romantic narrative yet--oh wait, I already have >_<').

Then the idiot comes out gay many years later, revealing he had been conscious all along back then that I molested him, mocking me for my feigned repentance, and brags of his own mischievous exploits with men. If there's any consolation, he's become damn hotter if his pictures were to be believed. Unlike another guy I had a crush on (NOT Paul, mind you) who's now married to a masked V-lookalike and is now a professional drag queen.

What the HELL is with me falling for gay men?!?!?!