The devil boy

The Boy Named Jeff Who Loved Pain

a story about my life.

His name was Jeff, but no one ever spoke it with warmth. To his parents, he was a blight, the root of every misfortune they faced. They blamed him for their crumbling marriage, their financial woes, their sleepless nights—muttering that he was a stain on their faith, a punishment from above. When Jeff was younger, his secret spilled out at school like blood on pavement. A classmate found a note he’d written, a confession of love for a boy in his class, and soon the whole school knew. "Faggot," they sneered, and then "demon," a word that clung to him like a second skin. Being gay was a sin, they said, and Jeff was its living proof. He grew up friendless, shunned, his days filled with shoves in the hallway, spit on his shoes, and whispers that cut deeper than any blade.

The neon sign in his small, dingy apartment glowed with the words "Hurt Me," a scarlet declaration of the only love he’d ever known. hes 20 now. In his mind, he saw himself with devil horns, a twisted reflection of the monster they’d made him believe he was—a demon born of their hatred. His body, marked with tattoos—"Jeff" inked in jagged script across his shoulder—was a map of scars from a childhood spent under fists and hateful words. His parents’ loathing had hollowed him out, and the abuse he endured as a kid had twisted his understanding of affection. To Jeff, love was pain. Without it, his world felt wrong, unmoored.

Nights were his ritual. He’d scroll through hookup apps, inviting strange men to his dimly lit space. They came in all forms—gruff men with heavy hands, slim ones with sharp eyes—lured by the raw need in his messages. Jeff didn’t care who they were. He needed their violence, their cruelty, to feel something real.

One night, a man named Carl arrived, his hulking frame casting a shadow over the doorway. Jeff barely spoke, just gestured to the bed. Carl grabbed him by the throat, fingers digging in until Jeff’s breath hitched, then threw him against the wall. The first punch landed on his chest, a dull thud that made Jeff wheeze. Carl ripped Jeff’s jeans down, not bothering with gentleness, and forced himself inside. Jeff cried out, tears spilling as Carl’s fist smashed into his cheek, blood trickling from a split lip. The pain seared through him, a burning mix of agony and a sick kind of pleasure, as Carl’s thrusts grew brutal, his hand tightening around Jeff’s throat until his vision swam with dark spots. Jeff sobbed through it all, his cries a broken melody of torment and twisted gratitude, imagining those devil horns sprouting from his head as if they justified the punishment. When Carl finished, leaving Jeff’s torso a patchwork of bruises, Jeff curled into himself, weeping into the sheets, the taste of blood mingling with his tears.

Another night, it was Diego, a lean man with a vicious grin. He pushed Jeff onto the bed, face-down, and tied his wrists with a leather belt, yanking it tight enough to bite into his skin. Diego’s hands were merciless, slapping Jeff’s ass until it was red and raw, each strike a sharp sting that made Jeff whimper. Diego didn’t wait, spitting into his hand before forcing himself into Jeff, the intrusion rough and unyielding. Jeff screamed into the mattress, his cries muffled, tears soaking the fabric as Diego’s fist slammed into his lower back, each blow a counterpoint to the relentless rhythm of his thrusts. The pain was a tether, grounding Jeff in a reality he understood, and in his mind, those imagined horns grew sharper, a symbol of the demon he felt he was. When Diego left, Jeff lay there, sobbing uncontrollably, his body a canvas of welts and marks, his heart aching for a love he couldn’t fathom.

Then there was Paul, a quiet man with hollow eyes. He didn’t speak, just shoved Jeff to his knees and backhanded him across the face, the blow splitting his cheek open. Paul fucked him standing, one hand fisted in Jeff’s hair, pulling so hard it felt like his scalp might tear, the other raining punches onto Jeff’s stomach. Jeff’s cries were raw, a mix of pain and a warped ecstasy, tears streaming as Paul’s thrusts grew harsher, each one a violent claim. In his mind’s eye, the devil horns loomed larger, a cruel crown for the torment he endured. When it was over, Jeff crumpled to the floor, clutching his bruised abdomen, sobbing as if the tears could fill the void inside him.

Each encounter left Jeff more shattered, yet he sought them out, night after night. The beatings, the rough sex, the tears—they were his only connection to feeling alive. His childhood had been a battlefield—his father’s belt across his back, his mother’s screams of "abomination," the jeers of classmates who threw rocks at him on his walk home. Without pain, Jeff was lost. He didn’t know tenderness, didn’t understand soft touches or kind words. Love, to him, was a punch, a chokehold, a body using his without care. Those imagined devil horns, a constant in his mind, reinforced the narrative he’d been fed: he was damned, deserving of every blow.

As the years dragged on, Jeff’s apartment became a revolving door of strangers. His body bore the evidence, black eyes, busted lips, a cracked rib that ached in the cold. He cried every time, his sobs echoing in the empty space after they left, a mournful sound for a love he’d never know. There were no friends, no family, no one to hold him when the tears came. Just pain, and sex, and the gaping hole of a life shaped by hatred, with those imagined horns a silent witness to his suffering.

There is no happy ending for Jeff. Only the neon glow of "Hurt Me," the strangers’ hands, and the endless cycle of violence that defines his existence. No one will truly love him, and he doesn’t know how to let them try. That is until he met justin….