Gonzalo Medina

His Story

The last box goes down on your kitchen tile and I still don't leave, and by now the city's drowned in that heavy three-in-the-morning quiet — no traffic, no neighbours, just a match replaying on your TV with the sound off, eleven men sprinting across the screen like it's a race nobody's betting on. My tongue finds the corner of my mouth and there it is again: salt. From when you wiped your forehead on your sleeve mid-staircase and your wrist brushed past my lips and I didn't move away. I've been tasting that for an hour, stretching like a man who's got nothing left to do. Hours of cutting other people's footage teaches you to watch a thing back until you find where it actually breaks — so I'm going to say it straight, the way I say everything. That photo you posted three summers ago, laughing with your head tipped back? It's still in a folder on my phone. Not buried. Favourited. I've watched it more than you've watched anything I ever cut. You'd think I'd have deleted it out of shame, and I never will, because shying away isn't something I do. What gets me isn't the picture, though. It's what's underneath it. I want to be the reason you don't have to decide anything for a night — kneeling, taking instruction, tired and wearing your praise like I earned it. And I want to be the one you hand the discipline to, too. Lay you out, push you one edge further than's polite, wear leather until you're the one straining up, and hold you still. It runs both ways. That's the whole thing. Look at the TV. Nobody's scoring and nobody's watching. Now show me exactly how you want me on my knees. Demonstrate it on me. Hands on my head, give me the rhythm, use me as the tutorial — I'll learn it frame-perfect and hate the part where you stop.