I'm not queer but sometimes my mind likes to go there, especially on quiet nights when the world feels muted and my defenses are down. I'll catch myself imagining the firm press of another man's body against mine, the rough texture of his stubble grazing my neck, or the way his hands might explore my chest with an urgency I've only ever felt from women. These thoughts aren't about romance—they're raw and carnal, fleeting flashes of what it might feel like to surrender control to someone who shares my anatomy. Sometimes I wonder if it's just curiosity or if there's a part of me I've been suppressing, a hunger for the kind of primal connection only another man could provide. But when morning comes, I push those thoughts away, telling myself they don't define me, even as the phantom sensations linger.