Chapter 1

The air conditioner rattled and groaned as if it were on its last legs, pushing lukewarm, musty air across the threadbare carpet of my third-floor Comfort Inn room. Monday Night Football pregame played softly on ESPN in the background as I sat hunched over the particle-board desk, staring at a blank PowerPoint presentation I had zero interest in starting.

On speakerphone, Amy talked about the twins doing their latest lunchtime dance party against her ribs. Thirty-eight weeks pregnant, and I could hear the exhaustion bleeding through her voice, even as she tried to sound upbeat.

“I still feel terrible leaving you,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck.

“It’s just a week,” she replied. The words were a little too measured, the subtle edge of annoyance poorly hidden.

She made it sound so simple.

It wasn’t just a week.

For nearly ten years, I had been living this life. I transitioned from active-duty Navy to government contractor almost overnight, bouncing between cheap hotels that barely met the government per diem. Endless mediocre rooms. Endless travel. Endless nights alone, far away from my life back in Orlando.

This week, it was Dale County, Alabama, a dusty, forgettable military town built around Fort Rucker.

As Amy went on, my thumb moved on autopilot. Incognito window. Website. Saved search. The familiar guilt twisted in my gut as it always did. But after nearly a decade, this sick routine had become pure muscle memory.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

I was a decorated Navy SEAL. A man who, barely fifteen years ago, had boarded a Blackhawk helicopter in the dead of night, fast-roped into the heart of darkness, and stormed Osama bin Laden’s compound with the most elite warriors America had ever produced.

And yet here I was.

The shame still burned deep every single time my finger hovered over that saved search.

I had clicked that button thousands of times, every time wondering how the hell I had ended up here. My reasons were cliché. The same pathetic story shared by millions of other men who never thought the idea of sucking another man’s cock could ever creep into their heads.

What began as harmless porn to kill time slowly morphed into something darker. Something compulsive. Week after week of lonely hotel rooms, greasy takeout, and far too many empty hours staring at a glowing screen had taken its toll.

It wasn’t my fault, I kept telling myself.

It was Peter North’s fault. John Holmes’ fault. Danny D’s fault. Every other massive-dicked bastard who ever appeared on my laptop was to blame.

I tried everything to kill the bi-curiosity that kept clawing its way back into my mind. I weaponized the same brutal mental discipline from my SEAL training, replaying the most violent raids and operations, forcing myself to remember the blood, the chaos, and the crushing weight of taking lives.

But nothing ever worked.

At home, I could squash the curiosity. Once back in Orlando, I’d bury it deep, make love to Amy, and play the perfect devoted husband trying to start a family.

But every Monday evening, the second I checked into another hotel room, the desire would come roaring back; stronger, hungrier, and more insistent than before.

It wasn’t long before my mind took it to the next level.

Like any man sliding down this slippery slope, I began wondering what it would take to swap places with the women on the receiving end of those monsters. What would it actually take for a six-and-a-half-foot, 250-pound killing machine who had only ever known the touch of a woman to drop to his knees in front of another man?

The thought terrified me, but it also turned me on more than anything ever had.

At first, it was just fantasy. But the thoughts grew darker and more dangerous with every passing week.

Soon the porn wasn’t enough. Those larger-than-life actors on screen weren’t real.

Before I could stop myself, I had created a burner profile on a gay hookup site. The act felt like a deep betrayal; to Amy, to our unborn children, and to the brothers I had gone to battle beside.