My name is Ravi, and this is the unfiltered truth of how I became addicted to men, one reckless, skin-on-skin collision at a time. It starts at seventeen in a broken-down classroom where my best friend Varun teaches me that friendship can turn into hunger in the space of one sweaty heartbeat. From the last bench to the empty football field, from stolen touches under desks to getting wrecked against concrete walls, he claims me raw and never looks back. High school is just the beginning. College dorms at 2 a.m., hostel bathrooms echoing with muffled moans, the rooftop under monsoon rain, a stranger’s tongue down my throat while the city sleeps. Every year I think I’ve hit the limit of how filthy I can get; every year someone proves me wrong. Then adulthood hits: late nights in glass offices, suits ripped open in conference rooms, married bosses who risk everything to bend me over their desks, gym showers that smell like chlorine and sin, anonymous hook-up apps that deliver sweat-slick bodies to cheap hotel rooms. No condoms. No apologies. Just skin, teeth, cum, and the constant, pounding need for more. This isn’t love. This is obsession. This is every guy who ever looked at me and decided I was theirs to ruin. From the boy who first stole my breath to the men who still steal it now, every chapter is another stain I never want to wash off. If you want sweet romance, look elsewher