In the throes of adolescent hormones, our lonely teen paces his room, his mind filled with carnal thoughts. 'Mamitas,' he whispers, his hand trailing down his chest, pausing at the waistband of his jeans. He's 'esperando,' waiting for a touch that may never come. His hand slips inside, finding his rigid length, stroking slowly, building a rhythm that promises relief, yet leaves him yearning for more.