MY OWN QUERELLE DE BREST

Note: Querelle de Brest is a novel by Jean Genet, published in 1947 (I recommend it)

A memory is always a story or maybe it's the other way around once you take ownership of a story. It doesn't matter, the fact is that my memories continue to warm me today and the search for their repetition makes me lose myself in filthy dives and all sorts of dangerous places, although I don't lose hope of dying an old man in my bed, preferably accompanied by a couple of stud muffins who could comfort me with everything at their disposal (dildos, clamps, whips, etc.).

If you can handle these stories, if they warm you up and motivate you to go out looking for more, it's clear that you're as much of a slut as I am, so don't judge me too harshly, since I don't do this (I mean writing), because as for dedicating myself to whoring... always!

THE DISCOVERY.

Every day I came back from school by bus. There were classes in the morning and afternoon. In winter, the return in the afternoon was almost at dusk and from the bus, for a stretch, we passed by the port walls allowing a glimpse inside. I noticed silhouettes moving suspiciously between the freight cars, trucks, and storage warehouses.

It didn't take long for me to make plans and carry them out. I was curious, better said, my ass and cock were tingling. I was very young, always hard and fantasizing, and it comforts me to see that I'm still tingling and I'm no longer that young (it's a comfort).

The thing is, I plucked up the courage and the following Monday after class in the afternoon, I let the bus pass and walked directly to the port area of my city.

I'm not trying to boast, but I was looking really good. I wore my fitted jeans, a fitted white t-shirt, a backpack on my shoulder, and at an indecent age. Being on the swimming team meant I had a very appealing body, broad chest and shoulders, a narrow waist, a pert butt, great thighs, curly black hair, and a pretty face; I would have fucked myself if I could. I knew what people were staring at as I walked by, and it made me strut a little; I think this has saved me from coming out worse off in some of the places I’ve been (parks, dark streets, etc.…)

By the time I reached the port, it was dark. On one side of the road that crossed the port area, there were many trucks parked in a line, both national and foreign; on the other side, several tracks with freight cars and warehouses with their docks to supply those cars. Every few meters, industrial lamps emitted a yellowish and dim light. It was all a little dark and creepy, and I fell in love with the area at once and, shaking but with a determined step, I approached the parked trucks.

Barely at the height of the third truck, I saw the silhouette of a guy smoking; I was in a slightly lighter area and stopped to tie my shoelaces. My eyes got used to the dimness, and I saw that the silhouette turned and...