When Curiosity Meets Compassion: Estephan’s First Yes

​At twenty, Estephan didn’t feel lost so much as unfinished. College had given him language—theories, labels, discourse—but very little room to feel without judgment. He knew he was bi-curious, not as a trend or rebellion, but as a quiet, persistent hum in his body that grew louder whenever he tried to ignore it.

What unsettled him wasn’t desire itself. It was the weight attached to it.

In locker rooms and group chats, masculinity was treated like a brittle object—one wrong move and it shattered. Submission, especially, was framed as failure. Enjoyment came with footnotes. Curiosity required disclaimers. And anal virginity? That wasn’t even discussed; it was mocked, politicized, or erased entirely.

So when Estephan sought guidance, he wasn’t looking for permission to have sex. He was looking for permission to be himself.

That’s where Oval Rosado Discrete Surrogate Coaching entered his life—and where Dr. Slipzitin’s approach proved different from anything Estephan had encountered before. There was no pressure, no agenda, no rush toward an outcome. Instead, there were conversations. Long ones. Conversations about the body as a neutral landscape, not a battlefield. About desire as information, not a verdict. About submission as a choice, not a downgrade.

Dr. Slipzitin didn’t tell Estephan who he was. He helped him listen to who he already was.

They talked about fear—fear of being labeled, archived, screenshot, reduced. Fear of liking something “too much.” Fear of crossing a line and never being allowed back. But they also talked about comfort: how comfort is built, how trust is paced, how safety is felt internally before it’s negotiated externally.

When the moment finally came—the moment Estephan chose to give up his anal virginity—it wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t chaotic. It was calm. Intentional. Grounded.

What surprised him most wasn’t the physical sensation, but the emotional aftertaste.

There was relief. Not the kind that comes from release, but the kind that comes from alignment. His body wasn’t arguing with his mind anymore. There was pride, too—not performative pride, but a quiet sense of having honored himself. And there was tenderness. Toward his own vulnerability. Toward the younger version of himself who had been scared to even imagine this choice.

Dr. Slipzitin had prepared him for that part. “The feelings after matter just as much as the decision,” he’d said. “Especially in a society that tells you to rush past them.”

Estephan didn’t rush.

He sat with the swirl: softness, strength, uncertainty, joy. He realized that submission hadn’t taken anything from him. It had given him access—to nuance, to trust, to a fuller emotional range. He hadn’t become less of a man. He had become more him.

Oval Rosado’s discrete model meant there was no spectacle, no exposure, no narrative imposed from the outside. Just coaching that honored privacy, agency, and the truth that coming into yourself doesn’t have to be loud to be revolutionary.

For Estephan, giving up his anal virginity wasn’t an ending. It was a beginning—the moment he stopped negotiating with shame and started collaborating with desire.

And that, in a judgmental society obsessed with labels, felt like freedom.