Miles Brooks has overcome. That’s what he claims, at least, but if the conversion therapy tactics his father used on him are anything like the ones Miles uses on me, I’m not sure how much validity that claim holds. I’m an open-minded twink, but even I have my limits. He can’t truly believe that one-on-one guided mastur-you-know-what-tion sessions can be the catalyst to a heterosexual awakening. It's hard to take any of this seriously when the man has literally been inside me, even if he no longer remembers any of it. None of this is my fault, so you can take that judgment out of your tone. I’m not the one who got blackout-passout on sleeping pills, invited his best friend over, and shoved my tongue into his mouth before he even entered the house. I didn’t even know about the damn pills until two months later, nor did I know about the Ambien-like amnesia side effect they produce. Now that I know, I can’t stop our nightly cuddles. Once the pill kicks in, he physically will not allow me to stay away. The worst part is, I don’t want him to. The heart wants what it wants, and mine wants Miles Brooks. My childhood best friend, problematic age gap be damned. My pastor-slash-potential-master. My conversion therapy king.