I have heard a story.
A story of a man, who will grab your hand when no one is around and look into your eyes and tell you about certain things that your parents cant provide. Certain feelings, that only outsiders can make you feel. In all this time, the photo of his daughter in a frilly pink frock will run through your mind.
A story of a man, who will stroke your back, for reassurance, of course. Then slowly, but reassuringly, he will move his hands south, the tourist wishes to explore. In all this while, you will stay put, play a game of freeze with yourself, act like you don’t know. You will allow yourself to be explored.
A story of a man, who is looking out for you as you climb up a staircase. He will affectionately place his hands on your waist, his four fingers pressed on your stomach, which you suck in, from shock. His palms will press against your hips, and his thumbs will move up and down your back. All this while, you will look up at the last stair, and stare.
A story of a man who will allow you the privilege of sitting behind him on his bike. He will zoom through the city and then take you home, he will expect something, he always does, and all this while, you will wonder why bike rides are more appealing to you than you are yourself.
I have heard a story. I have heard many more stories, but so have you. Don’t tell me you don’t know these stories, I mean, these are your stories only, no?