Finntrests
February 2026
Over the past few weeks, I’ve been deep in edits and revisions, from which I’m sharing a brief vignette before my monthly link roundup below.
Thank you so much for your continued support for Getting To Naked.
Hugs, Finn
Shortly after I turned sixteen, Dad sat down on the edge of my bed, nervously smoothing my comforter with his palm. Our knees were almost touching. He cared about my soul, he said, placing his hand on my shoulder. It felt clunky, uncomfortably heavy.
“You’re a big boy now.”
I was not a boy.
“I hope you don’t touch your wee wee and think about girls at school.” I almost laughed out loud, but knew better. My heart suddenly pounding, I avoided his eyes. My mind drifted back to when I was young, showering with him, mesmerized by the dangle of his cock at eye level. Though he never mentioned it, I worried he’d catch me staring—a wordless message passing between us: see me, don’t see me.
Then, after starting puberty around twelve years old, I proudly showed him my swelling testicles and sprouts of pubic hair that’d seemingly coiled into being overnight.
“Wow, look at that!” He lit up. I hoped he was genuinely proud of my cock. Just showing it to him felt more naked than ever.
Now I was old enough to drive. If I’d had somewhere to go, I would have driven away and never come back.
Dad went on, “Jesus said whoever lusts after a woman commits adultery with her already in his heart…You haven’t done that, have you?”
“No,” I said, inflecting my voice with performative scorn.
His body visibly relaxed. “Good.” He cocked his head to the side and smiled, then quoted scripture. “If thou doest not well, sin croucheth at the door.”
And it does.
The day before, I had skipped the last hour of class and loitered at the mall outside the JCPenney salon. A stylist, coming in from a cigarette break in the parking lot, locked eyes with mine. A wordless message passed between us. Ever so slightly, I rubbed my cock through my jeans and nodded my head. He waved for me to follow, and I did, both of us moving like ghosts through racks of clothing to the back of the store. Into the men’s room, to the furthest stall. We were alone. Not a word exchanged, he locked the stall behind us. I stepped up onto the toilet and squatted, so only the stylist’s feet would be visible beneath the divider.
His arms were colorfully sleeved in tattoos. As he unzipped his fly, I stared at a small tattoo of scissors on his hand. His hard-on was forcing his white cotton briefs to the side, and I pulled down the waistband, freeing his penis to pulse up and down in the air with heartbeats. Silently, it snaked into my mouth. The clasp of his hands secured my skull as his hips thrust into my face. My cock was still inside my jeans, bound and leaking through my underwear, when, without warning, he ejaculated.
The door burst open.
“Steve?”
Eyes panicked, he put his finger to his lips to say Shhh. I had no intention of making sound. His cock was still wedged in my throat. Salty slugs crawled down my esophagus. I was trapped inside my body, inside the stall, inside my life. Hearing his name was jarring, even dangerous, because real names evaporated fantasies of anonymity. I was driving nowhere but home.
Steve tried to sound normal, “I’m taking a piss, what?”
“You’ve been gone a long time.”
“Not really. I just smoked a cigarette. I’ll be right back.” He held my head firmly in place, his eyes drilling into mine: don’t move, don’t make a sound. I didn’t. But inside my head were screams: mucous membranes…cuts in my mouth…viral loads…fevers…night sweats…
The intruder wouldn’t leave. “Hurry up.”
“I’m coming…Jesus…” Steve zipped his wilting cock back into his jeans. At last, the bathroom door creaked, and the intruder was gone. Steve didn’t even look back, just bolted after him.
Alone, I locked myself in the stall. My jaw was wide open, a pool of semen leaking out the corners of my lips. I spit into the toilet. Again again again.
And now here was my father—who carried pistols to protect his God-given rights—plopped down on my bed like a teddy bear, chirping about Jesus and wee wees. My father, the stranger.
I stared at my lap and clenched my jaw, waiting for him to leave. I knew I had to say something soon, or he’d catch me thinking. When I looked back up, his eyes were searching mine. I don’t know, maybe for an alliance. But our only shared language: see me, don’t see me.
Confidently, I met his gaze. “I won’t lust after girls at school, I promise.”
