About it…did she…?

What kind of girls wear dresses as short as that? The kind who would never want to sleep with me because of the way I look? Or the kind who would let anybody enter them? You know the kind that just want it regardless of where it comes from? You know what, it does not matter what kind of girl she is. The fact is that I want it. Really badly. And it’s only natural that I want it so bad. I have kept myself in control all these years and may have to keep the control on for four more years. But it’s becoming increasingly difficult to keep it on. Especially because all my friends have done it, and, more importantly, have done it many times by now.

Was it then the taunts that made me do it? Or was it the alcohol? Or was it the fact that the circumstances were congenial: the time, the place, me, her and the possibility that no one would ever get to know about it? Or was it something else? I mean it’s inhuman to expect guys to keep it in control until the usual age of twenty-five, isn’t it? I don’t exactly know what it exactly was. But, I have told them it was a whore.A prostitute.

I never expected them to be so nice, so sympathetic. Everyone has needs, they say, and everyone makes mistakes. The pressing matter on hand is that I’m dying and not how it happened. They are all out to support me. They hug me, eat with me, get me bouquets, cry for me. It sickens me all. I mean why the fuck does not anybody ask questions? Why doesn’t anybody slap me? Thrash me? Abandon me? When it happens with many others who carry around this virus like me, then why not me? You know what, damn those campaigns!Damn them! They have got into their fricking heads! All these hospital people and all these well-wishers of mine, all of them may just end up killing me before the virus does.

I guess I would have confessed long ago had I been a man without a family. But, sadly, that’s not the case. My family’s become my tragedy now. And I have to keep quiet about it.About all the pain.About that day. About the animal that I can be, that I became that day.

In hindsight, I don’t even think it was fun. She bothered me too much. I mean, honestly speaking, my hands have served me better than that many times. If only she hadn’t tried to fight me off as brutally as she did, it could all have been at least slightly worth the risk. I would have at least had the satisfaction of feeling that if only her eyes did not have that hollow painful look when I was entering her. Did they want to shout out loud? Her eyes.Had she wanted to say something? Heck, did she even know?About it?If yes, did she want to say it? Did she say it?
What kind of girls wear dresses as short as that?