Your age = 22
His age = 60
(His son’s age ≈ your age)
For the last several weeks, people have been asking you the same question: “Who is he?” Finally, as you lie in bed and gaze into the darkness, you ask yourself, “Indeed, who is he?”
He’s a prison guard.
You were smitten with him since you first saw that taut face, his delicate yet strong bone structure, pointed nose, and deep-set pale blue eyes. You were consumed by an overwhelming desire to grab him frantically and tear his shirt off, strangle him with your wild arms and kiss those lips until they’re bruised, aching, bleeding, and whispering words that would make God blush.
This eventually happened—minus the blood—and it felt like the most natural thing in the world. Why did you ever waste your time with boys your own age? Not only had they been insufferably callow, they now all seemed incredibly incompetent in bed compared to the Prison Guard. With him, there’s no awkwardness, no uncertainties. The first time he came to your apartment, he had wrapped his arms around you from behind, rested his chin on your shoulder, and proceeded to unbutton your shirt like a professional.
Who is he? It’s an absurd cliché: he’s a man who makes you feel special, understands your heart and your struggles, and offers a love and support that you have never known.
You're aware that if the two of you are ever discovered, you’ll be judged mercilessly. Fine, you think to yourself.
Let them keep asking, “Who is he?”