My Forbidden Escapes Abroad

I've been hiding this for too long, the itch that sends me across oceans to places where poverty hangs heavy in the air. I seek out those young, eager faces in the shadows of forgotten streets, the ones society overlooks, and I dive into the raw, unbridled heat that I know is wrong but feels so damn intoxicating. It's the way their skin glows under dim lights, the contrast of my hands on their smaller bodies, driving me wild with a hunger that never quite fades. I pay for their time, their silence, and in return, I take what I crave – rough, desperate encounters that leave me breathless and guilty as hell. The thrill of crossing lines, of blending power and desire in ways that twist my gut, it's like fire in my veins. I remember the sticky nights, the hurried breaths, the forbidden whispers that echo in my mind long after I've left. It's not about love or connection; it's pure, selfish lust, exploiting vulnerability for my own release. And yeah, I know it's messed up, that it stains my soul, but the rush, the taboo rush of it all pulls me back every time. I'm trapped in this cycle, chasing that high, wondering if I'll ever stop or if this darkness is just who I am now.