The present, and presumably permanent, owner of my virginity had his own taken in a Spanish brothel. For his son’s thirteenth, Ad’s father bought him a prostitute’s privilege at red-light Brothel in Valencia. Paternal affections aside, of course, I’d still call the action unnecessary.
He’d always been gorgeous, hypnosis, a sexual child. But his father was a business-sort, the type to purchase insurance for vaginal interest. A man who’d choke on a son smeared with hair gel or make-up or cum.
By his late teens, Addison ravished his story of corruption, pairing the plume with a sheepish grin. “Tall,” he’d answer (I asked), “She was…tall. Just, really tall... and nice, too, really nice.”
Then he’d grin again, mustering every ounce of ego against his former self, “I mean, imagine what she must have thought, little kid like me…"
I laughed, shaking my head "...probably better than her regular clients".
Ad disagreed, "I was thirteen. How embarrassing for her, really...with absolutely no clue what I was doing.”
As if you do now, I should have said.
Then he’d lift his chin and look up, up, up, and ring out in blazing laughter, the sort that swept right by you, then lingered around. A horribly living and haunted presence.