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My father, gay, but unknown to many as such, was the first advocate of my homosexuality. In confirmation of my destiny as a faggot, we started very early – too early to mention specifically here. Was I too young to consent? What is too young? I was never coerced, never compelled in any way, never forced to choose cock. It was offered, as a choice, as any choice one might give a child. I chose it over all else. As much as my mother’s breast, and the milk it provided, my father’s cock, and his cum, sustained me. With my father’s cock, though, there was – from the very beginning – a fascination, as infatuation, an obsession, a devotion. Nothing else captivated me so, made me feel more fulfilled, made me happier. I loved licking and tonguing his yummy butthole, too, but I revelled in his cock. My mother knew, of course, as did my brothers. She told them that I was different, that I was a faggot. She called me, Lopette – faggot, in French – a name I still use today. My brothers offered their cocks to suck, too, limp ‘til they were old enough to get hard, then hard, both to suck and to fuck.
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