When I was a young boy there were kids around me who thought that being a real man meant not only bed a girl but sharing every intimate detail with their friends. I remember being within earshot of their boasts and feeling sick to my stomach. I also thought that they were assholes.

When I had my first sexual encounter, I guarded the intimate details with my life. The experience was like a jewel I was entrusted with. I was not tempted to share it with anyone. I still feel the same way. I felt that being a man, more importantly, being a mature man, meant keeping these intimate details to myself. I had nothing to prove. I still don’t.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.