Medellín

It had been a few weeks since the shooting, and in theory, life had gone back to normal.

 

But “normal” was a lie. There’s no such thing as normal after your school gets shot up, after your Headmistress is executed in cold blood, after you’re standing in a courtyard while one teenage boy bleeds out, and another is desperately trying to keep him alive.

 

But this was Colombia. According to the Global Safety Index in 2025, Colombia was ranked among the most dangerous countries in the world. According to OSCE data, Colombia’s homicide rate was 25.4 per 100,000, while the European Union was just 1.7 per 100,000 (and the U.S. was 4.97). So yeah, Colombia was a pretty dangerous place.

 

Nevertheless, we were back at school. The blood had been scrubbed from the hallways and front steps. The bullet holes were patched, and the casings were swept up. The shrines were taken down, replaced with banners about resilience and community. We sat in our classrooms again. We turned in our homework. We ate our lunch in the courtyard under that same tree.

 

But it all felt a little... artificial. Like a movie set pretending to be real life.

 

The case hadn’t been solved. The two sicarios – assassins – who had been captured still weren’t talking, and according to Juan Camilo, they likely never would. Either they were too afraid to say anything, or someone had made sure they had nothing left to say. The working theory was that it was another targeted hit on a social justice activist. That kind of violence had become so common here that people didn’t even ask many questions anymore. They just accepted it. Like rain.

 

The DEA didn’t buy it. Neither did my dad. Juan Camilo told me as much one night over dinner. “We think something more is behind it,” he’d said, his Spanish-accented English clipped and low. “But there are many shadows. Too many lies.” I didn’t push. I didn’t want to get dragged into another riddle I couldn’t solve.

 

Despite the uncertainty, I was doing surprisingly better. The teachers had gone easy on us for a while – less homework, fewer tests. I used the time to get caught up. Something about the structure of school made it easier to breathe. In a world that felt unstable, classes were predictable. Familiar. Safe. And weirdly, I was thriving. I was now doing better in school than I ever had in the States. The breather also gave me a lot more time to think about Yeison and what he wanted from me, and whether I was ready to give it to him.

***

 

What I didn’t tell him – and never would – was that Ferney (yes, that was his name) had answered my message almost instantly. Not just answered – he’d been enthusiastic. Within minutes, we’d moved from Grindr to WhatsApp – because of course, everyone in Colombia uses WhatsApp – and started chatting. Just the basics, nothing heavy. We talked a little bit about school, our P.E. class, and how we each thought the other was really hot. Neither of us wanted anything serious, thank God. He was versatile; I was looking for a bottom, and we both wanted it simple. No strings. No expectations.

 

So, when the lockdown finally ended, I convinced Juan Camilo to drop me off at Ferney’s house under the excuse of “studying.” Even just sneaking around like that sent a charge through me. It was intoxicating, knowing that Yeison, Zack, even Miguel – my new friends (if you could even call Miguel a friend at this point) – would never guess I was capable of something like this. That I could slip into a secret life they didn’t even know existed.

 

Ferney was one of the super-wealthy kids. His place was unreal. Big, gleaming pool out back, a private gym, a hot tub in his bathroom like it was nothing. And the best part? His parents, older sister, and little nephew weren’t home. It was perfect. Too perfect.

 

But as much as the thrill lit me up, there was guilt burning underneath. I knew I was playing with fire, chasing something reckless just for the sake of escape. And yet – I couldn’t stop myself. I wanted it. Needed it. The secrecy made it dangerous. The danger made it exciting. And for the first time in weeks, the excitement made me feel like I was alive.

 

First, we showered together, but nothing much happened beyond a few brief kisses, some tight hugs, and a bit of feeling each other up. He had a really nice, hairy bubble butt – although he was totally smooth above the waist – and a huge cock for such a little guy. I liked him; I was really turned on. Then, I got him in the hot tub and ate his ass like I hadn’t eaten in weeks. It was a good thing no one was at home because he was screaming and moaning loud enough to wake the dead, but that just turned me on even more. When we got out of the hot tub, we dried each other off, exchanging sloppy, messy kisses, until I finally dragged him into his bedroom and positioned him on all four.

 

“You got any lube?” I asked.

 

“Top drawer in my nightstand,” he answered breathlessly.

 

That was about the only talking we did while I got his ass good and loosened up with my tongue and fingers. Within minutes, he was begging me to put it in, so I did … hard. He had to bite down on his pillow to muffle the scream. Then I fucked and fucked and fucked, in several positions, before I dumped my load into him and he came hands-free, something I’d only witnessed once before. It made me feel kind of proud of myself.

 

I asked him if he could go again, and he said yes, just to give him a few minutes. We chatted a little in between rounds, and he was really a cool, nice guy. We even cuddled for a while between rounds, and it felt really good. Comfortable. I wouldn’t even mind being friends with him afterward, which is something I rarely, if ever, did with just a hookup. But, unlike so many of the guys I’d hooked up with back home, Ferney turned out to be just a really sweet, nice guy, same age as me, and we found plenty of stuff to talk about.

 

By the time he was ready to go again and was hard as a rock, we went to the gym, and I fucked him again while he lay on his back on the bench press. That angle felt really good to me, and I loved watching the expressions on his face every time I pulled out nearly all the way and then slammed it back in until I was balls deep inside him. I did that for a while as he panted, sweated, and moaned. At one point, he shouted out, in English, “Oh, God!” and I replied, “God can’t help you now.” And then I started thrusting as hard as I could as he jacked himself off feverishly. Within minutes, he’d sprayed his entire chest and stomach with cum and got another load of mine deep inside his ass.

 

It was good sex. Really good. And it had been a long time for me. But, as I feared, I started to feel guilty almost immediately after I came the second time. The darkness was coming back, and I started feeling the lowest of lows. I got dressed as quickly as I could, texted Juan Camilo to come pick me up, and then Ferney and I chatted somewhat awkwardly until Juan Camilo arrived. I gave him a quick goodbye, and then I was off.

 

“How did your studying go?” asked Juan Camilo, a smirk on his face.

 

“It was fine,” I grumbled.

 

“Good. It’s always important to keep your grades up. A good education is essential,” he chided me.

 

But he knew. That hijueputa knew I hadn’t been studying. But he didn’t say a word.

 

I didn’t think I would be doing that again … for a while, at least. I considered my curiosity satisfied … for now. As for Ferney, once I got over the guilt, I might text him and see if he wanted to continue as friends, maybe with some side benefits once in a while. Again, that was usually not like me ever to consider something like that. But he was cute and sweet, and although he seemed to have plenty of friends at school, maybe he had room for one more. Maybe I was changing, in some small way.

 

***

 

Our group had only grown tighter since the shooting, although I sometimes felt that something – or someone – was still missing. But we walked together, ate together, breathed together. Ricardo had finally gotten the bandages removed from his shoulder, and he and Yeison were practically inseparable on the soccer field. I’d sit under our usual tree with Zack, watching them pass the ball back and forth during nearly every lunch break and many times after school, like they had the whole world to themselves. A few times, Ferney even showed up and played with them, leaving his own group of friends.

 

In Medellín, I kept noticing that your real family is your parche, your friend group. Back home, the group chat usually dies after graduation; here, your class year is a badge you keep for life. The same crew from school keeps showing up – for birthdays, barbecues, Secret Santa, weekend trips – and the WhatsApp thread never sleeps. Parents know everyone’s nicknames, people end up as godparents, and rides, job leads, and help in a crisis move through the group without anyone keeping score. From what I’ve seen, it isn’t a phase; it’s a unit that carries you into adulthood.

 

But I hated how jealous that made me, seeing them all hang out, play soccer, and get along great while I was still mostly by myself. But I was not athletic – other than swimming and being able to catch and throw a football and a baseball – and I was not going on that soccer field. They even offered to teach me several times, but I always politely declined.

 

It wasn’t that I didn’t like Ricardo – I did. A lot. We had a special connection that no one else in the group had, and I felt a particular kind of special affection for him. Our friendship would have its ups and downs, but that connection, that affection that we shared, always brought us back. Funnily enough, the “old me” would have most certainly banged him already. Even if we were both tops, we could have figured something out. But he really was a great kid. He was open-minded, direct, gregarious, very mischievous, and, honestly, adorable and very sexy. He was extremely thin, but still had well-defined muscles, and, of course, that cock was just amazing. Maybe one day, if we got drunk and stoned enough, he’d even let me suck him until I swallowed his load.

 

But watching Yeison laugh with him, chase him across the grass, tackle him into the dirt, and lie there breathless beside him, it stirred something sour in my chest. I kept telling myself it was nothing. That it was fine. That I had no right to be jealous because Yeison and I weren’t anything more than friends. We’d just shared that one little kiss. We were all supposed to be friends, creating our own parche, but I kept feeling left out, or not quite knowing how to fit in completely, while I sat back and watched their individual friendships grow stronger.

 

Zack picked up on it immediately, of course. He always did. He’d nudge me with his elbow when he caught me watching them with that look on my face.

 

“You know you’ve got nothing to worry about, right?” he’d say, biting into his sandwich like he wasn’t stirring the pot.

 

“Worry about what?”

 

He raised an eyebrow. “Your eyes are practically throwing daggers at Ricardo and Yeison.”

 

He wasn’t wrong. I was the one who currently had a phobia when it came to relationships. I knew Yeison liked me. But I’d kept him at arm’s length. And I knew Ricardo was gay, so I felt I had every right to be a little jealous and insecure.

 

Nevertheless, Yeison and I had gotten closer over those few weeks as well. We had occasional sleepovers. We’d spend hours wrapped up in each other, cuddling, touching (over our clothes), whispering, and the occasional kiss on the cheek. Quite chaste, actually, which was new to me. Was it time to take it to the next level, as in getting him on his hands and knees, naked on my bed? I was tempted, no doubt.

 

I knew he wanted to. And I did, too. But I was still scared that as soon as I had sex with him, I’d already be bored, and he’d end up being just another heart I’d broken, and I’d lose his friendship as well, possibly ruining our budding parche. I didn’t want that, but I didn’t know how to explain all of this to him. It was just all so messed up.

 

He never pressured me for more, though. But I could feel it in the way his hands lingered, the way he kissed me, the way his breath hitched when I pulled back, the way he looked at me. At particular parts of me. I kept telling myself I was waiting for the right moment – but part of me wondered if I was overthinking things. When had I ever been reluctant to have sex before? I’d just fucked Ferney all over his parents’ house, and it was … good. It filled a need, and maybe I made a new friend.

 

Was I still hung up on Rory? That chapter felt like it belonged to another lifetime. But sometimes I still thought about him when I least expected it – his voice, his hands, his moans, his suffering. Or maybe it was that fear of hurting him, of breaking his heart. Or maybe there was something else, something I couldn’t even admit to myself or allow myself to consider – the fear of falling in love. Or that perhaps I already was. Falling. Quietly. The thought terrified me.

 

Was it love or just lust? Did I even know the difference? I thought so – I loved Rory. All of him. Even the dumb stuff, like biting his nails and flicking them across the room, or taking a dump without closing the bathroom door. Back then, he was my first thought in the morning and my last at night. With Yeison? It wasn’t anywhere near that. More than with Ferney, yeah, but not Rory-level. Maybe love needs time. It didn’t with Rory – I was gone by the end of our first date.

Knowing how rough Yeison’s home life was – most dinners just rice, a fried egg, and an arepa – and how much he was paying to cover the bus fares to and from school, I sometimes daydreamed about asking him to move in with me. I could probably even talk my dad into it; he liked Yeison, like everyone did. It sounded crazy, but I kept picturing us waking up for school together, doing homework, eating dinner, going out sometimes, and crashing side by side at the end of the day and boning him hard before bedtime. Still… yeah, crazy.

 

Zack, of course, had his own take. “Look,” he said one afternoon as we sat outside eating frozen mango with lime and salt. “I know you’re a delicate little ball of trauma and secrets, but … Yeison’s gonna explode if you don’t either sleep with him or do something grand and romantic.”

 

I nearly choked on my mango. “Explode?”

 

“He’s been in love with you for weeks. Weeks, Hunter. You can’t keep playing coy and hoping cuddles will be enough forever. And it’s not like you’re some shy virgin. You’ve had plenty of sex in your life so far. Just bang the poor kid already.”

 

“I’m not playing anything, Zack. I just want to be sure I’m ready. I don’t wanna end up hurting him just ‘cause I can’t keep my dick in my pants.”

 

“I know. That’s a problem. Maybe we need you to get a chastity belt, and I’ll hold on to the key,” he said, giggling.

 

I just rolled my eyes at him.

 

“I mean, just the other day I was sitting out by the pool, and this kid comes over, sits down next to me, and we start dangling our feet in the water. He looked about our age, maybe a year younger. Gorgeous blue eyes you could drown in – not something you see often in Latinos. Total skinny twink, exactly my type. Then he starts playing footsie with me in the water and tells me he lives on the other side of the compound, that I should come by sometime. Said his name was Daniel.

 

“And the messed-up part? Even after that last hook-up that left me feeling empty and guilty, even if Ferney was really a good kid and we were kind of becoming friends, I actually caught myself thinking about it. Thinking about him. And then I thought about Yeison, and how much I might want something real with him. How could I even imagine committing to someone when these stupid urges keep pulling me around? Urges that never really leave me satisfied anyway. Just… emptier.”

 

“Jeez, where do all these boys come from? Are you like a gay boy magnet?” he laughed.

 

“I wish.”

 

There was one thing, one important thing, I wasn’t telling Zack. Honestly, it was almost impossible to admit it to myself after everything that had happened. Miguel. No matter how badly we failed at even being friends, I still wanted him. Sometimes I wanted him so much it scared me. And that made everything else I was trying to figure out ten times harder.

 

Because I knew – if I ever started something with Yeison, Miguel would hate it. He’d be jealous, furious even. And I didn’t know what he might do if he felt pushed aside. But the thought of it – the idea of forcing his eyes back on me, making him notice me again – it lit something up inside me. Dangerous, reckless, but thrilling all the same. And that devil on my shoulder wouldn’t shut up. It wanted Miguel’s attention. And maybe, deep down, so did I.

 

That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Yeison’s face. The curve of his mouth when he smiled. Those dimples. The way he said gringuito, like it was a word made just for me. I thought about the way his hands trembled the last time I kissed him under the blankets. The way he whispered my name like a question he wasn’t sure I’d answer. I really liked him. I just wasn’t sure I loved him. But maybe like was enough for now.

 

I needed to talk to him. But how? Should I just come out and say, “Hey, you wanna fuck?” You may be surprised to learn that I had used that very same line on quite a few boys, and it almost always worked. But I think that part of me was gone. I wasn’t the same person I was just six months ago. Maybe I was growing up, or maybe the darkness had gradually taken that away from me, too. Dammit, I needed to get my mojo back!

 

But I couldn’t do it face-to-face. I was too afraid I’d stammer or chicken out or ruin the moment. So, I did what any emotionally unstable sixteen-year-old with a phone would do – I texted him.

 

Me: “Yeison, I’ve been thinking about a lot of stuff lately. Like you and me.”

 

Minutes passed. Then:

 

Yeison: “What do you think about, gringuito?”

 

I hesitated. Then, before I could overthink it anymore:

 

Me: “I think we should fuck … have sex … Quiero culear.”

 

The typing bubbles popped up immediately. Then a flood of emojis: shocked faces, laughing tears, flame icons, and one very questionable eggplant.

 

Yeison: “Are you serious?”

 

Me: “Yes. Quiero follarte.”

Yeison: “Why now? I thought maybe we date first?”

 

I stared at the screen, heart racing. I didn’t really know how to answer that question. As much as I wanted just to say, “Because I’m horny as fuck,” that would have been way too crude.

 

Me: “Because I like you, and I’d like to try going further with you … and see what happens.”

 

His reply came quickly:

 

Yeison: “¡Dale! Let’s do it. When?”

 

We talked about the upcoming three-day weekend. We agreed to spend some of it together.

 

Maybe do something fun. Go out. Relax. Try.

 

But of course, there was still one important issue we had to settle first.

 

Yeison: “Are you a top or bottom?”

 

Me: “Mostly top. You?”

 

Yeison: “Mostly bottom, so perfect. In Spanish, ‘activo’ is ‘top’ and ‘pasivo’ is ‘bottom.’ Just so you know!”

 

We finished our conversation, but when I put the phone down, my stomach felt uneasy.

 

It all sounded so... clinical. Scheduled. Like we were checking boxes on some teenage gay romance checklist. I didn’t want it to feel like that. I didn’t want sex with Yeison to be something we planned like a dentist appointment. I wanted it to be spontaneous.

 

Natural. Beautiful.

 

I wanted it to mean something. The way sex should mean something, not the way I’d always treated it. I wanted to give that to him.

 

Which, in a way, terrified me even more.

 

And then, just to make things more complicated, Miguel suddenly started being... nice.

 

It had started small. A polite nod at the front gate. A “chao” at the end of the day. Then lunch once or twice. And then, somehow, we were texting. Hanging out at the park. Talking about movies. Just once in a while. He hadn’t brought up Yeison, and I didn’t bring him up either. We just existed – as “sort of “friendly acquaintances.” And I liked that, but I knew that the moment he found out something was going on with Yeison, he’d lose it, and I’d lose him.

 

And I was actually starting to enjoy it a little, despite my persistent distrust of him and his motives. His bullying, arrogant, asshole behavior still hadn’t really changed at all at school, as far as I could tell.

 

Yeison didn’t love that. He gave me the eyebrow whenever Miguel’s name came up. But when I reminded him of the old saying – keep your friends close, and your enemies closer – he seemed to accept it … very begrudgingly.

 

The truth was, I didn’t really see Miguel as an enemy anymore. Complicated, yes. Dangerous, maybe. But not an enemy. Of course, there was the attraction – you couldn’t be around Miguel without feeling it. That part was undeniable. But there was something else I saw in him, too, something that felt more real. A kind of loneliness, maybe. The same kind I carried. And that, more than anything, pulled me toward him.

 

It was enough to make me ask myself the question I swore I’d never even consider: Could Miguel and I actually make a relationship work? For now, I knew the answer was almost certainly no. But just letting my mind wander there – just imagining the possibility – was enough to spark a dangerous curiosity I couldn’t quite shake.

 

With the campus now under constant military surveillance – Colombian army soldiers patrolling the courtyard – it almost felt surreal how quiet things had become.

 

Like the danger had passed. Like we were waiting for something else. More danger?

 

In that silence, I thought a lot. About who I was. About what I wanted. About how badly I wanted to feel loved again. Truly loved. Not just touched. Not just wanted.

 

But belonging to someone. Being vulnerable with someone.

 

And sometimes, late at night, wrapped in Yeison’s arms, listening to the soft rise and fall of his breath as he slept, I almost made myself believe I already was.

 

***

 

The long weekend had finally arrived. Colombia and its thirteen public holidays per year. It was kind of crazy.

 

It was the weekend that had been looming in my mind for days, like some kind of test. Not a school test, but a heart test. An emotional reckoning. A point of no return.

 

This was supposed to be the weekend I spent alone with Yeison. Just the two of us. No Zack. No Ricardo. No Ferney. No Miguel. No awkward glances from the guards on campus. No interruptions. Just space – real space – to figure out what we were. What we wanted to be. Whether we could actually be an us, or if my paranoia, jealousy, and internal spiraling would ruin everything. And to fuck his brains out for the first time, too, of course.

 

I kept turning that over in my head: us.

 

Were we an “us”? Or were we just two lonely boys clinging to the idea of something better?

 

Was I really ready for this? Or was I just doing this because I felt lonely? Even I, pathetically, knew that it was probably the latter. The only other real option, though, was Miguel, and he was too … complicated. Of the guys I’d met, Yeison seemed to be the best of them, and he genuinely was a really good guy.

 

In theory, everything should’ve been fine. Yeison had said it was fine. “We are good, gringuito,” he’d told me earlier that week, brushing his fingers down my arm in that soft, grounding way of his. But “fine” wasn’t enough for me – not anymore. I didn’t want “fine.” I wanted everything. I wanted us to be madly in love with each other, like I was with Rory. I was an “all or nothing” kind of guy when it came to relationships (sex was another matter altogether, and I had my own set of rules for that). I didn’t know if I could just “date” someone, nor did I know if I could explain it to Yeison, or if he would even go for it. Given what I’d come to learn about Colombian guys, this just didn’t seem to be a thing, as far as I could tell.

 

I needed to know if he really liked me, wanted me, needed me. If we were sexually compatible, of course. If we were emotionally compatible. If we were ready to call each other “boyfriends” out loud, not just silently through kisses and sleepovers and whispered words in the dark.

 

And then there was always Miguel – God, Miguel – who drove me absolutely insane. Half the time, I wanted to shove him up against a wall and kiss him until we forgot the world existed. The other half, I wanted to punch him straight in the jaw. Right now? Definitely the latter. I’d watched him earlier with his pack of neanderthal friends, cornering a group of younger kids and dumping their backpacks out into the mud like it was the most natural thing in the world. Then, just for fun, they dumped the kids in the mud, too. It made my stomach turn. That wasn’t just a red flag – that was a full-on siren. And it was far from the first time I’d seen him bullying other kids or ragging on them because they didn’t have the right sneakers or because they’d bought their clothes from El Hueco instead of a department store. That was not the kind of boy I should be crushing on. Not even befriending. It should’ve been obvious. He was just an ass. An ass that I still had feelings for. Surprisingly strong feelings.

 

Juan Camilo, in his oddly supportive, semi-guardian mode, helped me score a reservation at one of the nicest steakhouses in all of Medellín – El Diablo. It was sleek, upscale, and serious. The kind of place where you had to speak in hushed tones, and the napkins came folded like origami. It required a coat and tie, which Yeison didn’t own. A few days earlier, Juan Camilo took him to get fitted for a suit. He looked damn nice and grown-up in that suit, too.

 

Nothing too fancy – nothing that screamed money – but tailored enough to show off his lean frame, and sleek enough that I couldn’t stop picturing him in it.

 

Friday afternoon couldn’t come soon enough. As soon as the final school bell rang, I practically bolted for the gate. Our friends sent us off like we were heading to war. “Buena suerte,” Ricardo grinned, slapping my back, but whispering that if I wasn’t satisfied, he had a monstrous dick waiting to slap me across the face with. I couldn’t tell if he was joking or serious. Zack added, “Don’t wimp out,” under his breath. Even Ferney gave me a brief bro hug, which felt extremely awkward since I’d just fucked him not long ago, and now I was going out with someone else, and he didn’t seem to care.

 

Back at the house, we had a couple of hours to kill before dinner. We lounged on the couch, half-watching a movie, half-holding hands. My palm was sweating. Yeison noticed but didn’t say anything – he just squeezed tighter.

 

I couldn’t tell if I was excited or terrified.

 

Maybe both.

 

Around 5:30, Juan Camilo clapped his hands once and said, “Vamos. Time to get ready.”

We showered – separately – and got dressed. I’d worn suits a hundred times before, but Yeison was new to it. He needed help with the buttons and the tie. Juan Camilo stood behind him, knotting the tie with the precision of someone who had done it in military barracks a thousand times.

 

When Yeison finally turned around, fully dressed, my breath caught in my throat.

 

He looked incredible. Sharp navy jacket, crisp white shirt, dark slacks that fit like they were made for him. His curls were still slightly damp, and a faint cloud of cologne hovered around him like citrus and spice and skin.

 

Even Juan Camilo gave a rare smile. “Muy bien. Guapísimo.”

 

Doña Susana nodded in agreement. “Parece todo un hombre, un caballero.”

 

Yeison looked at me, nervous, seeking approval.

 

“You… you look beautiful,” I whispered, stepping closer. “Like… wow.”

 

He blushed. “You too, mi gringuito.”

 

We kissed – just a small one, lips brushing, a promise for later.

 

Then we were off.

 

And that really fucked me over. Here I was, with an incredibly handsome sixteen-year-old boy who wanted to be with me, who wanted to love me, who wanted what I ultimately wanted, something real and serious. He was sweet. He was kind. He helped little old ladies cross the street. And did I mention how adorable and sexy he was? I would literally have to be crazy not to be head over heels in love with this boy and begging him to be with me forever. Sure, I noticed little traces of possessiveness and jealousy there, but no guy is perfect, and those were things we could work on … together.

 

Basically, I would have to be the stupidest gay boy in the world to not take a shot at what had been sitting in front of me for weeks, practically begging me to give him a chance. And I didn’t think I was stupid.

 

The restaurant where Juan Camilo took us, El Diablo, was everything I’d hoped for – dim lighting, dark wood, hushed voices, steak knives that probably cost more than our shoes. The waiter greeted us like we were royalty. Yeison looked around like he’d stepped into a dream.

 

“Too much?” I asked, leaning in.

 

He shook his head, eyes wide. “It's perfect. I didn’t know there were places like this in Medellín. But… the menu is… no entiendo muy bien.”

 

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll order for you.”

 

We shared a foie gras appetizer, which Yeison made a face at until he tasted it and murmured, “Okay… this is crazy good.” I ordered a New York strip for him, a porterhouse for myself. Both dry-aged, medium-rare, still nice and bloody. The kind of steaks you could cut with a spoon. Every bite melted in our mouths. By far, the best steak I’d eaten in Colombia so far … by a large margin.

 

Yeison kept looking at me between bites, like he was seeing me with new eyes. His leg brushed against mine under the table. His fingers found my hand and didn’t let go.

 

“I never thought I’d go to a place like this,” he said. “Not with someone like you.”

 

“Someone like me?”

 

He smiled shyly. “Fancy. Sweet. Serious.”

 

“I’m not that fancy,” I chuckled. “I’d honestly rather get McDonald's and eat it on my bed while watching TV. This is only for very special occasions.”

 

“But you are serious,” he said again, firmer. “I like that. It is real. And you make me feel special.”

 

The ride back home was quiet, except for the way he held my hand the whole time, tighter than before.

 

Back at the house, we took our second showers of the night, this time to rinse off the restaurant and nerves. We changed into just our boxers, climbed into bed, and pulled the blankets around us. The TV played in the background, but neither of us was paying much attention.

 

We touched each other slowly, deliberately, exploring again like it was the first time. My fingers traced the line of his ribs, the smooth curve of his back, the small scar near his hipbone. He kissed my neck. I kissed his chest. Every inch of contact felt like a spark.

 

Like affirmation.

 

It was nothing like a hook-up. Not even close. And that made me feel better, that maybe I really did have feelings for Yeison. That maybe this could work and end my vicious cycle.

 

We kissed for a long time. We circled every inch of our mouths with our tongues. With hands in hair and whispered moans and breaths that came in quick, trembling pulls. I could feel how badly he wanted me. And how much I wanted him too.

 

But then... the food.

 

Our full stomachs reminded us we were human.

 

He pulled away with a laugh, collapsing onto his back. “I adore you, but damn, this steak is in the way.”

 

I laughed too, collapsing beside him. “Worth it.”

 

We lay there, entangled, catching our breath, our legs wrapped around each other, chests pressed together.

 

His eyes met mine, startled by the sudden vulnerability. He brushed a finger down my cheek and leaned closer.

 

He cupped my face in both hands and said softly, “I feel… I feel like I want you close all the time. Even when we're not talking. Even when we are just watching a movie or doing nothing. I feel like… when I don’t see you, my day is less … happy.”

 

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “So, you like me?”

 

He nodded. “I like you so much, Hunter. And… I want more. I've been ready for more. But sometimes… you pull away. And I think maybe you don’t want me like that.”

 

My heart cracked just a little bit.

 

“I thought you might tell me you didn’t want to be with me this weekend,” he whispered.

 

“Yeison… no. Never. I was scared, too. I still am.”

 

“Scared of what?”

 

“Of loving someone again. Of being loved. Of losing them. Of messing it all up. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a relationship, and I stopped because I was tired of hurting people and getting hurt. It’s like I cause my own pain. I don’t know why. And I was tired of hurting myself and losing control of my thoughts and emotions. Does that make sense?”

 

He pulled me into his arms. “Then don’t mess it up. Just stay.”

 

“I’m willing to try,” I said, “but I’m not as great a guy as you think. I make a lot of mistakes. I have a lot of dark, depressing thoughts, I’m anxious all the time, I’ve slept with a lot of boys after knowing them for just a few hours, and I cheated on my last boyfriend. I just want to be honest with you. I want you to know what you’re getting yourself into with me.”

 

“Nobody is perfect, and maybe we can make each other better. I still want to try,” he said, his eyes boring into mine with a fierce determination.

 

I pulled him closer to me, if that was even possible, and kissed him as aggressively as I could, relishing his soft moans as our tongues wrestled for dominance in his mouth. As we were kissing, I reached down and took off his underwear, anxious to find out what treasure was hidden inside. Even though I couldn’t see much in the mostly dark room, I could tell that it was of quite a respectable size, uncut, and curved toward the right. I also noticed that he shaved his pubic hair, something I had heard was quite common in Colombia, for both gays and straights, but not something I was entirely used to. Of course, I manscaped, but I never shaved it all off completely.

 

While I fondled Yeison’s cock and balls gently, and we continued to kiss passionately, he grabbed for my underwear, too, and slipped them off. I let out an involuntary groan as he wrapped his hand around my hard-on and began softly stroking me. I was already so out of control from lust and afraid that I would lose it at any moment, I flipped him on his back and began kissing every inch of his body gently, from his head down to his beautiful feet, spending extra time lapping at his balls and his perineum. While my hands tweaked the dime-sized nipples on his smooth chest, I began roughly rubbing our cocks together. He was going crazy under my touch, and the more excited he got, the hornier it made me. I lay down on top of him and wrapped my arms tightly around him, our hard cocks pressed together. We began to grind against each other as we kissed, slowly at first, and then more roughly and passionately as he squirmed beneath me, moaning. He ran his hands up and down my back as I continued to thrust against him, eventually grabbing onto my ass, trying to get me to grind even harder. I was already getting so close just from rubbing together, that if I wanted to be inside him and cum inside him, I’d have to do it quickly.

 

“I’m going to fuck you now,” I whispered throatily into his ear.

 

“¡Ay sí, papito, qué rico! ¡Quiero tu chimbo en mu culito!” he whimpered.

 

I may not have understood what he was saying, but I certainly got the gist.

 

I rolled him over on his stomach and got my first good look at his beautiful ass in the moonlight. It was small, fleshy, and pale. His cheeks were perfectly smooth, except for a light trail of hair in his crack. I then repeated my full-body kisses, from behind his ears, all the way back down to his beautiful feet again, and then sucked each of his delectable toes into my mouth. I couldn’t ignore that beautiful boy butt any longer, though, so I crawled up further and planted big, wet kisses all over his butt cheeks before spreading his cheeks apart and getting my first glance at his perfect little pink pucker. I was so turned on that I couldn’t wait a moment more, and immediately buried my face in his luscious ass and attacked his hole with my tongue, swirling around it, pressing it in as far as it would go, eliciting such powerful moans from Yeison that I had to make him scream into a pillow so as not to wake up Officer Santiago downstairs who might think I was being attacked.

 

“I want to make you feel good, too, gringuito,” Yeison moaned, as I continued my tongue bath between his balls and his perineum.

 

“You’re already making me feel sooo good, babe, but it will feel even better for me in a minute,” I replied, breathlessly. “Do you want that?”

 

“Sí, por favor,” he pleaded. “I want to do it all with you.”

 

I then shifted us to our sides into a sixty-nine position and gave him some brief instructions, and he dove into it with gusto. His dick was so perfect, I just wanted to suck and suck until my jaw fell off, and believe me, we nearly got to that point of no return. I was stunned that Yeison could even last that long, as we’d been going at it for a good thirty minutes already.

 

Eventually, and with great difficulty, I withdrew his cock from my mouth and rolled him back onto his stomach again. I lay on top of him gently, kissing all over his neck, as my rock-hard member rested between his fleshy butt cheeks, and I began to grind against him, which nearly sent me over the edge again. I really didn’t think I could last much longer.

 

“Do you want to try it now, mi amor?” I asked him, breathlessly.

 

“Yes, please. I need it,” he moaned.

 

I immediately went back to tonguing his pucker to get him as wet and loose as possible, then introduced one finger at a time while he groaned and writhed all over the bed. I bathed his hole with my tongue even more, and then, for good measure, I spat into my hand, spreading my thick saliva all over my cock. Thankfully, it wasn’t my first time, and it took no time at all before my crown found his hole and I began to press in slowly. His yelps let me know that it was hurting him, so I withdrew and gave him a few moments to relax before I tried again. By the third time, I was finally able to get past his sphincter as he let out a deep moan, and inch by inch, I slowly entered him further, until my pubic hair was rubbing up against his ass. I then held it there for several moments, giving him time to adjust.

 

“Hagale pues. I’m ready,” he whispered, contorting his body around to kiss me on the lips.

 

With that, I started gently moving in and out, in and out, eliciting louder and more forceful moans from Yeison. I kept checking to make sure he wasn’t in any pain, but he assured me that it was starting to feel good. I then began increasing the force of my thrusts, hitting bottom and then slowly pulling out until only my crown was left inside him, then immediately plunging back in repeatedly. It was so intense and erotic, I couldn’t remember the last time I had a fuck this good, where he was fucking back up against me, not just lying there while I fucked him and did all the work.

 

By that time, the bed had been nearly destroyed from his grasping at the sheets. I continued to drive in and out of him for the next few minutes, dripping sweat all over his back, until the tightness and warmth of his insides became too much for me to hold back any longer. I wrapped my arms around him tightly, buried my face in the nape of his neck, and with only a few more powerful thrusts, I emptied myself completely inside of him, and his moans grew even more intense. Despite having already spent myself, I kept moving inside him, still painfully hard, until his hole clenched down on me and felt him spend himself on the sheets.

 

I collapsed on top of him, eliciting another moan, and tried to get my thoughts and breathing in order. When I had finally caught my breath enough to pull out and lie down beside him, my brain was mush, and I couldn’t think of anything to say. We didn’t speak for a while. Just held each other. Our skin warm, our hearts racing. One of the stereotypes of Latino men that seemed to hold true during all the time I spent in Colombia is that they really know how to fuck.

 

Later, after everything – the kissing, the touching, the softness, the closeness – we were lying side by side in the dark, hands clasped between us.

 

He kissed the back of my neck and whispered, “Do you love me?”

 

I paused for a long moment. Wasn’t it a little soon to get into that? We’d just had the most incredible sex, and I just wanted to relax and bask in the afterglow, not … talk about feelings.

 

“Is that really important to you?” I asked.

 

“Yes, very,” he said, propping his head up with his elbow to look me in the eyes. “I just gave myself to you.”

 

“Then sure, I love you,” I conceded, to keep him happy while I continued to struggle with exactly how I was feeling.

 

He nodded against the pillow. “Sí, te amo. I have loved you for a long time already.”

 

“Was this really your first time?” I asked, running my fingers through his soft curls.

 

“Yes, the first time,” he said, although the way he knew how to fuck so well left me with some doubts as to whether he was telling me the truth. But at that moment, it didn’t really matter. Right now, I imagined all my little sperm rushing around inside of him. It made me feel like I was a part of him, and that he was mine.

 

He turned over to face me, his forehead pressing gently to mine.

 

“So… we are boyfriends now?”

 

I smiled gently at him and rustled his hair. “Let’s just take it one step at a time.” And I definitely needed more time to figure out how I really felt. Just being a good lay didn’t mean he’d make a good boyfriend. But he was more than that. He was sweet, kind, honest, athletic, a little innocent … I really liked all of those things about him.

 

We kissed one last time. No urgency. No fear.

 

And then we fell asleep – wrapped in each other’s arms, fingers still interlaced – more calm and relaxed than I’d felt in a very, very long time.

 

***

 

The rest of the weekend unfolded like something out of a dream – sun-soaked, laughter-filled, a perfect kind of imperfect that made everything feel real and alive. The kind of weekend that stays with you, imprinted somewhere in your skin, and helps to melt away a few of those nagging fears and doubts.

 

On Saturday, we somehow managed to convince Juan Camilo to take us to Looping Park, the open-air skate and recreation space tucked into Ciudad del Río, just south of El Poblado. It wasn’t an amusement park – not technically. But it had this raw, unpredictable energy, like anything could happen. Graffiti-covered ramps, twisting metal sculptures, wide-open plazas crawling with life. Kids on scooters zipped between painters working on murals. Teenagers blasted reggaetón from portable speakers while abuelos played chess under the shade of broad almond trees. The whole place felt like chaos and calm smashed together – concrete jungle meets art gallery meets urban jungle gym.

 

The highlight? The absurdity.

 

Yeison found an old shopping cart someone had abandoned near a wall splashed in neon graffiti. Without hesitation, he jumped in like it was a go-kart and threw his arms out dramatically.

 

“¡Ey! Hunter, empújame,” he grinned like a maniac.

 

“You’re going to die,” I muttered – but I pushed him anyway. The wheels rattled and squealed as we rolled across the bricks. Yeison held out his arms like a telenovela damsel in distress.

 

“¡Ayúdame, príncipe!” he wailed.

 

I doubled over laughing. “You’re insane.”

 

He turned over his shoulder. “No, no. I’m an innovator. I’m avant-garde.”

 

“That’s not what that means.”

 

“Art doesn’t need permission,” he said, spinning in the cart as it clattered to a stop near a tree.

 

We ended up turning the whole park into our personal playground. We took turns skating down a smooth concrete slope using a half-broken longboard a little kid let us borrow. We played tag between the giant metal sculptures near the museum, slipping between legs of abstract horses and faceless torsos like we were in some surreal obstacle course. We even made up a game: spot the weirdest couple dancing to music that wasn’t playing.

 

One pair – probably in their sixties – was doing a full-on salsa routine near the churro cart, oblivious to the world. That made me hungry for churros, and I had to stop to get some, with raspberry sauce and arequipe.

 

I glanced over at Yeison – shirt sleeves rolled up, sweat on his collarbone, that wild, stupid grin stretching across his face – and I swear, I felt something stir in my chest. I was envious that he was able to smile like that, so genuine, so carefree.

 

There was something about Yeison in moments like that. Unfiltered. Playful. A little goofy. But genuine. So painfully, beautifully genuine. And it kinda made me like him a little more. Maybe he had enough sunshine and optimism in his heart for the both of us.

 

At one point, I asked if his parents used to bring him to places like this when he was little. He just shook his head. “Nah. They had to work all the time, seven days a week, and we didn’t have extra money even for transportation. I came alone sometimes, if I had a few pesos for the bus or metro. Just to watch people be happy.”

 

He didn’t say it like a sob story – just like it was the truth. But it hit me hard anyway.

 

I wanted to give him every ridiculous, chaotic, sun-drenched afternoon he never had. I wanted to fill his life with color and sound and laughter – stuff that didn’t cost anything but meant everything.

 

“Then we’ll keep coming back,” I said.

 

Yeison blinked at me. “¿De verdad?”

 

“Every dumb Saturday if we have to. There are lots of fun places to go in Medellin.”

 

He grinned. “Okay. You’re going to be my emotional support gringo.”

 

I laughed so hard I had to lean against a sculpture for balance.

 

Juan Camilo, who’d been sitting on a bench the whole time like a tired camp counselor, finally stood and clapped his hands. “Alright, circus children. Time for ice cream. Before one of you ends up in the ER.”

 

Yeison saluted him. “Capitán Ice Cream.” Even the way he pronounced “ice cream” in English was pretty adorable.

 

I smiled as we walked toward the little heladería just outside the park. Looping Park wasn’t fancy. No rollercoasters. No polished attractions. No tickets or turnstiles.

 

But it didn’t need any of that.

 

It was loud and gritty and alive.

 

And for a couple of hours, it felt like freedom.

 

It certainly wasn’t what an American would think of as an amusement park, but the locals sure seemed to love it.

 

After the park, we headed downtown to La Minorista, a chaotic, sprawling market buried in the grittier part of El Centro, along Calle 55A. Even Juan Camilo looked tense as we parked, his eyes darting constantly. “You stay close,” he said firmly. “No jokes.”

 

But once we stepped inside the market proper, the tension evaporated. The place was alive – loud, colorful, intoxicating. Stalls stretched endlessly in every direction. Vendors shouted prices and fruit names I couldn’t begin to pronounce. The air was thick with the smell of ripened produce, fresh herbs, and crushed sugar cane. It was a riot of sensation.

 

We made it our mission to find as many weird, tropical fruits as we could – especially ones I’d never heard of before. And we found a lot.

 

There were granadillas, bright orange with a shell like a ping-pong ball, their insides filled with slimy, alien-looking seeds that tasted sweet and floral, almost like jasmine.

 

Maracuyá – passion fruit – had a sharp, tangy kick that hit the back of my throat and made my eyes water, but in a good way. Lulo was citrusy and tart, with a taste somewhere between lime and rhubarb. Tomate de árbol, with its deep red skin, had a strange tomato-meets-plum vibe, but Yeison promised it made excellent juice.

Star fruit – carambola – looked exactly like its name and had a subtle, honey-like flavor.

Gulupa and uchuva burst on the tongue with their sour-sweet complexity, like candy that hadn’t decided what it wanted to be yet. Pithaya, the vibrant yellow dragon fruit, was mild and cooling, like eating flowers and cucumbers at once (also supposedly a cure for constipation). Curuba was mellow and earthy, while zapote tasted like caramelized pumpkin. And then there was borojó – the infamous “natural Viagra” of Colombia. Yeison raised an eyebrow when he saw it, and gave me a playful, wicked little smirk.

 

“You want this one, yes?”

 

“I think I’m scared of that one.”

 

He leaned in and whispered, “Don’t be.”

 

We laughed like idiots, loaded up our bags, and made our way back to the SUV, sticky with juice and still trying to rinse some of the more aggressive flavors off our tongues.

 

Since we were already in the area, Juan Camilo decided to give us a driving tour through downtown. We passed Plaza de Botero, where the oversized bronze sculptures stood proudly in the heat – plump figures frozen mid-stride, tourists snapping photos beside them. The Palacio de la Cultura Rafael Uribe Uribe loomed beside it, gothic and grand, supposedly haunted, with its black-and-white tiled domes looking almost out of place beneath the Medellín sun.

 

Then we passed by El Hueco, a marketplace so packed and chaotic it made La Minorista look calm. There were knockoff sneakers, belts, jeans, electronics – anything and everything you could imagine stacked in crooked towers and carts. People ran from stall to stall, music blaring from cheap speakers, the smell of street food wafting in from every direction.

 

“There’s no place to park,” Juan Camilo said, peering through the windshield. “I’ll bring you back another time. When I can protect you better. It's also not a very safe place, but mostly just pick-pockets.”

 

Yeison shrugged. “Most of my clothes are from here anyway,” he said with a little grin.

 

“Good price. Style.”

 

I leaned in closer. “I think you’d look good in anything … or better, nothing at all.”

 

He rolled his eyes, but his blush said everything.

 

By mid-afternoon, we were back home, arms sore from hauling our tropical loot. Doña Susana immediately took over, clucking with delight at the bounty. She laid everything out across the kitchen counter like a rainbow exploded – yellows, oranges, pinks, greens, purples. She began slicing, blending, mixing, laughing at our reactions as we tasted.

 

Some fruits were smooth and syrupy, dripping down our chins like melted candy. Others were shockingly sour, forcing our mouths into puckered grimaces until she dumped in a generous scoop of sugar. The juices were thick, fragrant, bursting with life. One glass of borojó and I thought my eyebrows would launch off my face from the intensity. Juan Camilo told me that a little goes a long way.

 

“¡Este te pone bravo!” Yeison joked, patting his chest. “Muy, muy fuerte.”

 

After the feast, we took our second showers of the day and changed into pajamas – boxers and old T-shirts. We settled in for dinner: meatloaf, mashed potatoes, green beans, and gravy, an American comfort-food fantasy that Doña Susana had somehow nailed. The mashed potatoes were buttery and smooth, the meatloaf rich and perfectly seasoned. It felt like home – some version of home, at least. I gave her an “A” for effort.

 

After dinner, we collapsed onto my bed again, totally spent.

 

“I had so much fun with you today,” I said, turning to look at Yeison.

 

“Me too!” he replied, giving me one of his patented dimpled smiles. “I hope we can do things like this more often, when we are really … boyfriends.”

 

There was that word again. I knew he was really pushing me. I didn’t know how much longer I’d be able to hold out, because he was so damn cute:  fun, sweet, and innocent. And surprisingly, even having had sex with him the night before, I hadn’t lost interest like I usually did. So maybe, just maybe …

 

“I would give you the moon and the stars if I could,” I whispered to him, as I planted a soft kiss on the tip of his nose. His eyes went completely gaga at that moment, and it made me so happy to see him happy.

 

We put on a movie, arms draped around each other, our bodies fitting together like puzzle pieces that finally made sense. I could feel the steady beat of his heart against my side, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed me in.

 

We made it through the first movie, barely.

 

But somewhere in the second, our hands started wandering, lips finding each other in the dark. We kissed deeply, hungrily, slowly. I pressed myself into him, our bodies warm from the day, still sticky with sugar and sweat and everything we'd shared. His mouth tasted like maracuyá and toothpaste. Sweet and tart.

 

We didn’t go all the way – he was still a little sore from last night – but we touched and kissed like we might, like the possibility was close enough to hold. And honestly, that was more than enough. The electricity between us seemed real, and for once, it didn’t scare me. It grounded me. It made me think that we could really build something from this.

 

When we finally collapsed beside each other, flushed and breathless, I curled into him, burying my face in his neck. He smelled like fruit and soap and something that was just Yeison.

 

He smiled gently at me and said, “Estoy enloquecido por ti. That means ‘I am crazy about you.’”

 

His fingers brushed lightly through my hair, and we drifted off like that, tangled together under the soft hum of the ceiling fan, still tasting fruit on our lips, the warmth of the day wrapped around us like a memory we never wanted to let go.

 

 

 

 

 

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