Today I let my fingers linger a little too long when I touched the barista’s face at the café. His jawline felt sharp under my fingertips, and I couldn’t help wondering what his cock would feel like in my hand instead. The way he hesitated before pulling away—was it discomfort, or curiosity? I wish people understood: touch is my only way to see the world now. And sometimes, that world includes imagining how a stranger’s skin would taste, how his hips would press into mine if he pinned me against the counter. My parents would freak if they knew where my mind goes while they think I’m just ‘practicing independence’ on these outings. But damn, I’m tired of this being the only secret I’m allowed to have.