Occasionally

Alex remembers.

The second semester of my freshman year was eventful, to say at the very least. There was a lot of activities to do—from nights at a bar in Taft, wherever our feet leads us, to study sessions in one of our blocmate's apartment in Recto. There were school activities here and there—from theater performances to cheering at the Araneta for UAAP. I was living the college life I had dreamt of.

And there was him. The Man Who Must Not Be Named. He was one of my professors for a minor class I had to take that semester. I was scrawny back then—wearing a La Salle shirt that was a size bigger than me, skinny jeans, and a pair of nice shoes gifted by my mother. He, on the other hand, exudes a professional—from his well-fitted long sleeves and black pants, a green tie for the La Sallian colors, and a suitcase. Occasionally, he would also bring his laptop when he needs to show a presentation, but usually, he would just bring himself and his big notebook for recording attendance.

I was still a model student back then. I graduated high school with honors; I got a discount for my tuition fee for the first year that could continue if I can maintain my grades. Not that my family ever needed to save money as we were well-off—my older sister had just graduated and is now working at a private firm in Makati, and my younger brother had just graduated elementary.

And The Man would always compliment me whenever I was handing out my assignments to him, adding small notes on my papers, or casually saying a compliment after class. There was a hint of something at his smile whenever our eyes would meet after class. Of course, trying to be polite, I too would smile at him and wave goodbye.

I was sixteen back then. I didn't know anything.

The following year, on my second year in college, I met him again in a club. It was a Thursday night, and my friends and I had agreed to go to a club for the first time. Before, we would just go to bars in Taft and stay drunk until midnight. Then, we realized that we could go a little more adventurous and try to experience that kind of fun*. We were getting older and wiser, so it seems.*

I didn't remember the name of the club that my friends and I went to. I just went with them—they told me to dress sharp and fashionable, which I didn't know by then. So I just wore a plain teal shirt and jeans. I combed my hair upwards and wore contacts instead of my usual glasses. I thought I looked dashing back then.

The club is hot and heavy—the blinding lights scatter in the open dance floor. The mixture of strong alcohol, sweat, and cigarette smoke was intoxicating. I couldn't hear what my friends were saying due to the banging speakers, playing some hyper pop and EDM music. People were already trashed and dancing. We, on the other hand, went with the flow.

And he was there, along with some of his friends. The once cool exterior was loosened up—his sleeves were folded up to his elbow, tie removed, and the first two buttons of his polo opened. He was casually chatting and drinking and dancing and everything at once. My friends and I also did some partying on the dance floor, or take some shots now and then. But my eyes wouldn't leave him—I was always trying to find him, hoping that I could at least say hi. It was a rare feat that I saw a professor in these establishments.

I didn't have to wait when he, along with his friends, approached our group.

There were some pleasantries before that until they decided to treat us with some drinks. All of us cheered, of course. We were young and dumb and a little bit broke—wiser, my ass. All we wanted was to have some fun without ever thinking about the consequences of our actions.

I felt an arm going around me. It was The Man. He was a bit taller than me. Since I knew long ago that I was gay, this sensation felt... electrocuting. Maybe it was just the vodka making me feel this way. But there was something about his voice, his warm breath, and his face that tells me that there may be a little more to this admiration to him.

We would dance together after that. Laugh together while drinking shots. His arm casually moved from my shoulders down to my hips. Is this normal? Is this real? Is this even moral?

And then he whispered to my ear: "Wanna get out of here?"

We did.

I followed him to his car parked a few meters away from the club.

I was drunk. I was drunk. I was drunk.

As soon as the doors were shut, he pulled me to him, a little hard if I say so. I was taken aback when he dived his lips onto mine, and it continued to move. I was thinking to myself, Well, fuck. Now I'm kissing my professor. I just lost my first kiss to my professor. I am kissing someone right now.

I closed my eyes and decided to enjoy this. He was a good kisser, in all honesty. The way that he bites my lips and slips his tongue in mine. The way his lips travel from my mouth to my neck, to my ears, and to my lips again. The way his hands moved around my vodka-stained shirt—slowly running under it, finding my chest, and caressing it, forming circles on my nipples.

Soon enough, he would pull my shirt up and unbutton his polo. I did the same to him, the way I remembered from the porn that I had watched. His kiss would go deeper and deeper. And going down, down, down. He would savor my chest and lick the vodka out. I moan, moan, and moan. I didn't even care if someone would see us. I didn't even care that it was my professor doing this. I... wanted this.

That was the truth. I was drunk and I wanted this to happen. I was drunk and I didn't know what happened. I just let it happen. And I let it be. I enjoyed it.

But, I was also young. I was months away from being eighteen. I was years away from being a mature adult.

He unbuckled my belt while kissing me. Wow, he was really experienced to his that he was multitasking. Soon enough, his hands would reach my boxers, gently stroking my hard dick. I, too, would do the same, albeit not as fast as him. It was my first time touching another man's boner. We were roughly the same size, albeit his was a little wider in girth.

To my surprise, he lunged down, eating me whole. Like a beast that he was. I could feel the base of his throat and the softness of his lips. His tongue would casually circle around my dick, then down to my balls, and back at it again. Soon enough, he was also stroking himself. Me, on the other hand, would just close my eyes and moan louder and louder.

I soon found my hands grasping the ends of his hair while I thrust and thrust deeper to his mouth. He would gag, and I would take it slow. But he would continue.

Minutes after, I came to his mouth and he swallowed it whole.

He would kiss me while I wait for him to finish.

He came on my jeans.

We were catching our breaths after. And then, he reached my shirt that was thrown at the back of his car. I didn't even notice. He would buckle his belt and I do the same. He said some words I didn't quite catch because all I could think about was how sleepy I was.

We went back to the bar after that, and my friends didn't even notice that I was gone for more than thirty minutes. They didn't even notice that my jeans would smell weird. They didn't notice the redness of my lips or the hickey that would soon turn red. And I, too, decided to not make it a big deal.

It was just sex. I was young and drunk and horny and gay.

I didn't know better.