The Boy of Serious Jokes
At twenty-one, I moved to a bustling Colombian city to pursue a course in textile arts. The university residences were a melting pot of cultures, but none stood out more than Juan Carlos. He was nineteen, extroverted, and possessed a magnetic energy. With his olive skin and lean, athletic build, he commanded attention without even trying.
Juan Carlos had a habit of teasing me. He was the life of the party, always cracking jokes and calling me by feminine nicknames. Most often, he would boldly claim in front of our friends that one day, my backside would be his. I always laughed it off, though secretly, the thought of him sent a thrill through my veins. I was gay, a fact I kept hidden from everyone, including him.
The tension between us grew until one rainy Tuesday when we found ourselves alone in the common room. The banter stopped. He stepped closer, his gaze dropping to my lips. ‘I’m tired of joking,’ he whispered, his voice dropping an octave. He pressed me against the wall, his hand sliding firmly down to grip my hip. The playful mask had vanished, replaced by a raw, hungry desire that mirrored my own. When he finally kissed me, it wasn’t a joke; it was a promise kept.