Echoes (Patreon)

realhankmccoy on tumbler contacted me, writing about how much he loved the story. The internal struggle between two identities was what he really liked. And the photo, of course. Some light googling showed that his name is Brock Harris and the photo is from a photo shoot with Têtu magazin.

realhankmccoy wrote a part two, that at least at the time of writing is deleted from tumblr for violating community standards.

We though we had my attacks under control.  I’d gone months without one, and life was grand, really.  I was one of the key players on our team, really indispensable, to be honest, though I know that sounds kinda arrogant.

I’d even stopped needing the hypnosis, and hadn’t seen the psychologist in like six weeks.  Whatever those issues were, I thought I was finally past ‘em all.  So it really, really fucking sucked when what I’m about to tell you happened to me.

I had just had dinner, mom had cooked ribeye steak even, dad was proud as hell of all my victories, I was looking forward to the meet on Saturday.  Things were so…fucking… perfect.  Everything in my life was going great, and then this happens.  So here’s the deal:  I’m horny and it’s about nine at night, lights out, didn’t feel like doing homework, and I pull up some porn to watch, right.  Nothing out of the ordinary.  Fuck… it’s so disgusting to even have to say,… anyhow… it’s definitely not my fault and I’m moving past it, otherwise i definitely wouldn’t even be telling anybody.  So sick, dude.

So, I’m watching this bitch get fucked, tits flopping, beating off to it, thinking I’d love to get my face in her tits like usual, get that hot mouth of hers slurping on my dick, and then I start looking at the guy for some reason.  He’s got these real hairy legs, like, really toned quads, even more than mine, and suddenly it’s like I’m looking at that… his legs… as he’s piston-fucking her.  And I’m not just getting jealous or something normal, I’m getting amped or something about it.  And I’m leaking, already, pre on my hands…  Like, my dick is drooling for this guy.  My mind is racing and I’m freaking out.  I turned it off and shoved my computer aside in disgust.  I mean, what else was I gonna do?  It was sick, man.  So fucked up.

So, I text my sports psychologist and say I have to meet him tomorrow, ASAP.  I wanted to write it off as a one-time deal, but my mind just didn’t feel right.  I didn’t jack anymore because it was so sick, but it was like I felt the thoughts would still be there if I beat off, thoughts that were messed up, almost like somebody else’s.  Definitely not thoughts anybody sane would want to have.

So, Johnson, my psych, puts me under hypnosis…. gives me a full 90 minute session… reassures me that it was just a fluke and that I’m so much better than that.  Not only that, but that I’m such a great asset for the team, a son who’s parents are truly proud of him.  And it’s true, man.  It really is.  I absolutely love wrestling and my life is pretty much perfect now that my attacks have been gone.  So why the hell did this humiliating thing happen last night?  He doesn’t know, but says it’s nothing to worry about.

Then I’m wrestling at practice after school.  Already I’ve forgotten it happened, like, it’s done, man… it’s under control and we’ve made so much progress and I’m gonna check in with Johnson again once a week just to make extra sure… he’s got me scheduled… So I’m on top in referee’s position and suddenly, I don’t know man, the feel of my spandex against Mike’s tight ass and, yeah.  I know how sick it is, man.  I start to plump up and get hard.  Like seriously hard.  The bare skin of my arms feels so good against his in a way it never has before.  I feel so fucked up, like I’m going crazy, like I can’t even control my thoughts, like I’m fagging out, just like last night or worse.  I don’t want to be a fucked up fag, man.  That’s the last thing I want.  Johnson said it was just a fluke, but this doesn’t feel like any fucking fluke.  So I get up and leave, right away, and go back to the locker room.  I’m breathing heavily, trying to control myself, trying not to cry over what’s happening to me, to be totally honest.  “FUCK!!” I scream, punching a locker.  I need to cool off.  Nobody’s around.  I just want to grab a shower, pack my bags and go home.