Hey guys, I have been reading many stories from this section and it inspired me to write a story of my own first experience. So if you like it, give me a heads-up.
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I become aware of my first thoughts while lying on the floor, watching my feet tap uncontrollably. I’ve always had this nervous energy in moments of anxiety. Wiping the sweat from my face, I curse the unbearable August heat—even for me, it’s too much. How did I survive back in 2009, riding that bus to Karlovci in May? On days like this, I often think about my life nearly a decade ago.
Back then, my thoughts felt clearer, my goals more defined. I had the motivation and energy to move forward. But the path of a high school boy is never straightforward.
“Petar, get up off the floor, you’ll catch a cold,” my mother says, rolling a cigarette at the table.
For weeks now, I’ve felt empty. My mind fixates only on the people I’ve lost touch with. Not just people, but places too. It’s been a while since I was last in Serbia. My whole life has changed—some would call it a radical shift—since my family and I moved to Switzerland in search of a better life. Ah, life… ah, to be an expat.
Trying to sum up the past fifteen years in a few sentences is impossible. Writing a book about it? Even harder. Especially a book like this, in our so-called tolerant and blessed country. But I’ll try. This time, I’ll give it my all. Not necessarily for myself, but for some sixteen-year-old “Petar” out there who needs a story like this—to make sense of his first experience with his best friend. To understand. Maybe, if he’s lucky, to forgive himself and figure out what it really means to love.
I loved Andrej too. Or at least, I think I did. We talked on the phone today for almost an hour. He quit his job and needed someone to listen. And who else but his Petar? His wife? Of course not. She’s too busy, working like a mule. Complicated situation? Not anymore, trust me.
But almost ten years ago, it was. Extremely.
What can you do? A kid is a kid, no matter how grown-up he feels or pretends to be.
After dedicating more than eight years to karate, I started feeling drained. The rhythm I had built demanded that I keep going, but I wasn’t sure how. Regular gym workouts felt inadequate, and I didn’t want to go through the hassle of adapting to yet another karate club. I was at a crossroads—on one side, my old life and habits; on the other, the challenge of a new place, a new school, and a new sport.
Then, one day in Novi Sad, I noticed a flyer taped to a lamppost. An MMA club was accepting new members. Something about it caught my eye, stirring an interest I had never felt before.
Karate, despite all the years I had poured into it, left me restless. It simply wasn’t enough. My body buzzed with adrenaline as I tore the slip of paper with the club’s address and phone number. A new challenge, new limits to push, stepping out of my comfort zone—these things ignited something inside me. They forced me to reflect on the choices that had led me to this point.
Even now, when I think about my need for change, I return to that moment and realize: change is addictive.
That same feeling followed me as I stood in my new room, staring at my reflection in the mirror after a shower. I looked good, yet all I could see were my flaws.
I will never forget stepping out of my father’s Dacia and taking that first step toward the old gym. It was a relic of the communist era, already unfamiliar to my generation. A frozen piece of history, abandoned for over three decades. The massive concrete structure, its faded gray walls peeling, stood as a reminder of a past long gone.
The gym no longer exists—it was demolished sometime around 2015 or 2016.
But I still remember walking inside, overwhelmed by the thick, nostalgic scent of sweat, cigarettes, and history. The red walls seemed untouched, better preserved than the crumbling exterior. The floor was covered in cracked linoleum tiles, and the low ceiling held faded acoustic panels, their color dulled—probably from years of cigarette smoke. The fluorescent lights, though newer, looked precariously detached, as if they were hanging solely by their electrical cables.
It was perfect. But of course, aesthetics had never been a priority in the golden years of Josip Broz Tito.
Old propaganda posters lined the walls, depicting athletic young pioneers—the idealized peak of physical strength and unity. A collection of ancient Soviet equipment sat forgotten in the corner, making me wonder if this place had once been a government-sponsored training facility.
Despite its state of decay, I was in awe. This forgotten building had been reborn as a mixed martial arts club.
Worn-out punching bags swung lazily from the ceiling, their chains creaking with each movement. A ring stood in the center, surrounded by faded mats and metal benches, their seats sagging in the middle.
About fifteen guys were training, their focus unwavering.
Most wore black Adidas shorts, some in tank tops, some shirtless. Sweat glistened on their flushed faces. Their deep, rhythmic breathing filled the space as I followed my father inside. Was it the heaters, too strong for a hall this size? Or just the intensity of their training?
Those few seconds stretched into eternity.
That sound—those breaths—captivated me. The rise and fall of their sweat-covered chests, the glistening beads of exertion that I felt only I could see. That was the moment I first felt something sexual towards men. Though at the time, I didn’t understand it.
I had no idea where my life was heading or how the next few months would define it.
My father gestured for me to follow him toward an office-like room. It was empty, but after a few moments, a tall, broad-shouldered man appeared. Bald, but solidly built—the perfect image of a coach. He shook my father’s hand, then mine, holding my gaze just a second longer than expected.
“Milan. Nice to meet you,” he said with a smile.
The membership fee was paid, my club card handed over in minutes. I was officially part of the team. But despite my excitement, my mind kept drifting back to the guys training.
Milan smiled as I told him about my karate background. He said I had potential here—all I had to do was commit and give it my all. We went outside of the office.
Then, he clapped his hands together, the sharp sound echoing through the gym.
“Alright, guys, gather up!” he called out.
Every single one of them turned to look at him. No exceptions.
“This is Petar, a karate practitioner for seven years. He’s joining us next week.”
Within seconds, I was surrounded. Pats on the shoulder, handshakes, nods, welcoming smiles. I returned them all, my grip firm, my own smile steady. But deep down, I was waiting for something else.
I’m not sure how to describe it.
But maybe—just maybe—you already know.
Who could have guessed that this was only the first step before falling down the rabbit hole?
————————————-
I become aware of my first thoughts while lying on the floor, watching my feet tap uncontrollably. I’ve always had this nervous energy in moments of anxiety. Wiping the sweat from my face, I curse the unbearable August heat—even for me, it’s too much. How did I survive back in 2009, riding that bus to Karlovci in May? On days like this, I often think about my life nearly a decade ago.
Back then, my thoughts felt clearer, my goals more defined. I had the motivation and energy to move forward. But the path of a high school boy is never straightforward.
“Petar, get up off the floor, you’ll catch a cold,” my mother says, rolling a cigarette at the table.
For weeks now, I’ve felt empty. My mind fixates only on the people I’ve lost touch with. Not just people, but places too. It’s been a while since I was last in Serbia. My whole life has changed—some would call it a radical shift—since my family and I moved to Switzerland in search of a better life. Ah, life… ah, to be an expat.
Trying to sum up the past fifteen years in a few sentences is impossible. Writing a book about it? Even harder. Especially a book like this, in our so-called tolerant and blessed country. But I’ll try. This time, I’ll give it my all. Not necessarily for myself, but for some sixteen-year-old “Petar” out there who needs a story like this—to make sense of his first experience with his best friend. To understand. Maybe, if he’s lucky, to forgive himself and figure out what it really means to love.
I loved Andrej too. Or at least, I think I did. We talked on the phone today for almost an hour. He quit his job and needed someone to listen. And who else but his Petar? His wife? Of course not. She’s too busy, working like a mule. Complicated situation? Not anymore, trust me.
But almost ten years ago, it was. Extremely.
What can you do? A kid is a kid, no matter how grown-up he feels or pretends to be.
After dedicating more than eight years to karate, I started feeling drained. The rhythm I had built demanded that I keep going, but I wasn’t sure how. Regular gym workouts felt inadequate, and I didn’t want to go through the hassle of adapting to yet another karate club. I was at a crossroads—on one side, my old life and habits; on the other, the challenge of a new place, a new school, and a new sport.
Then, one day in Novi Sad, I noticed a flyer taped to a lamppost. An MMA club was accepting new members. Something about it caught my eye, stirring an interest I had never felt before.
Karate, despite all the years I had poured into it, left me restless. It simply wasn’t enough. My body buzzed with adrenaline as I tore the slip of paper with the club’s address and phone number. A new challenge, new limits to push, stepping out of my comfort zone—these things ignited something inside me. They forced me to reflect on the choices that had led me to this point.
Even now, when I think about my need for change, I return to that moment and realize: change is addictive.
That same feeling followed me as I stood in my new room, staring at my reflection in the mirror after a shower. I looked good, yet all I could see were my flaws.
I will never forget stepping out of my father’s Dacia and taking that first step toward the old gym. It was a relic of the communist era, already unfamiliar to my generation. A frozen piece of history, abandoned for over three decades. The massive concrete structure, its faded gray walls peeling, stood as a reminder of a past long gone.
The gym no longer exists—it was demolished sometime around 2015 or 2016.
But I still remember walking inside, overwhelmed by the thick, nostalgic scent of sweat, cigarettes, and history. The red walls seemed untouched, better preserved than the crumbling exterior. The floor was covered in cracked linoleum tiles, and the low ceiling held faded acoustic panels, their color dulled—probably from years of cigarette smoke. The fluorescent lights, though newer, looked precariously detached, as if they were hanging solely by their electrical cables.
It was perfect. But of course, aesthetics had never been a priority in the golden years of Josip Broz Tito.
Old propaganda posters lined the walls, depicting athletic young pioneers—the idealized peak of physical strength and unity. A collection of ancient Soviet equipment sat forgotten in the corner, making me wonder if this place had once been a government-sponsored training facility.
Despite its state of decay, I was in awe. This forgotten building had been reborn as a mixed martial arts club.
Worn-out punching bags swung lazily from the ceiling, their chains creaking with each movement. A ring stood in the center, surrounded by faded mats and metal benches, their seats sagging in the middle.
About fifteen guys were training, their focus unwavering.
Most wore black Adidas shorts, some in tank tops, some shirtless. Sweat glistened on their flushed faces. Their deep, rhythmic breathing filled the space as I followed my father inside. Was it the heaters, too strong for a hall this size? Or just the intensity of their training?
Those few seconds stretched into eternity.
That sound—those breaths—captivated me. The rise and fall of their sweat-covered chests, the glistening beads of exertion that I felt only I could see. That was the moment I first felt something sexual towards men. Though at the time, I didn’t understand it.
I had no idea where my life was heading or how the next few months would define it.
My father gestured for me to follow him toward an office-like room. It was empty, but after a few moments, a tall, broad-shouldered man appeared. Bald, but solidly built—the perfect image of a coach. He shook my father’s hand, then mine, holding my gaze just a second longer than expected.
“Milan. Nice to meet you,” he said with a smile.
The membership fee was paid, my club card handed over in minutes. I was officially part of the team. But despite my excitement, my mind kept drifting back to the guys training.
Milan smiled as I told him about my karate background. He said I had potential here—all I had to do was commit and give it my all. We went outside of the office.
Then, he clapped his hands together, the sharp sound echoing through the gym.
“Alright, guys, gather up!” he called out.
Every single one of them turned to look at him. No exceptions.
“This is Petar, a karate practitioner for seven years. He’s joining us next week.”
Within seconds, I was surrounded. Pats on the shoulder, handshakes, nods, welcoming smiles. I returned them all, my grip firm, my own smile steady. But deep down, I was waiting for something else.
I’m not sure how to describe it.
But maybe—just maybe—you already know.
Who could have guessed that this was only the first step before falling down the rabbit hole?
