a pleasure journey

I visited Palm Springs looking for solitude, sun, space, and silence. What I found instead was a man who knew exactly how to take me apart. We met on Grindr. His profile was unpretentious. A tennis coach, local, charming. His messages were flirty — they were endearing. Comforting. He made me feel at ease meeting him in a foreign land. We met up at a local bar of his choice. It was like any other first date. We asked each other many questions and shared our stories. He talked about his students with passion in his eyes. I felt like I could trust him. I found myself being enchanted by him. After an hour of chatting, he offered to take me on a nighttime drive to show me the city through his eyes. I agreed, curious where the night might lead. We drove for half an hour. The coach rested his hand on the gearshift, fingers long and still. All of a sudden, without looking over, he said: "Climb to the back." I paused. He didn't. "I have a thing," he added casually. ...

I was eighteen, inexperienced, and overflowing with curiosity. My desires had long been bottled up — not from lack of want, but lack of opportunity. When I met him online, a 45-year-old retired sailor, I wasn’t just looking for sex. I wanted to feel something theatrical. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a quiet confidence and eyes that suggested he’d seen a lot of the world — and would know how to handle someone like me. He invited me over, and I went, heart racing. When he opened the door, I was hit by the scent of cologne and something warmer, earthier — a lived-in kind of masculinity. We sat on the couch, but it wasn’t long before I told him the truth: that I was a virgin. He paused, surprised but kind, telling me we didn’t have to do anything. But I didn’t want gentleness in words. I desired it in touch, in action. So I kissed him. His lips were firm, slow, guiding. I pulled his shirt over his head, running my hands over the hard lines of his chest, exploring the silver hair on ...