eighteen.

gay-chronicles


18.


MY FIRST KISS went a little like this:

It’s October of 2014–sometime during Fall Break of freshman year of college. Not all of my high school ways have left me, including my insane obsession with boys in the hopeless-romantic, desperate and single (and fat and loud) kind of way.

My undying, figurative boner for this particular individual hasn’t gone away for months. I’ve dreamt about him, some wet. I’ve imagined how I’d hold him or how we’d sing together in the car as his long, regularly dyed black emo hair flew in the wind. In school hallways, it was hard to spot him in a crowd of over-sized children (high schoolers) because he stands at five feet five inches. Even years later, he’s not grown an inch…

For this entry, I’d like to give him a code name: Diamond.

I met his sparkly blue eyes in theater class. Freshman or Sophomore year–I don’t remember, but it’s not super important.

He regularly wore a hoodie, baggy gym shorts and an old, worn-out set of Crocs on his very pale feet. I can’t recall what color. His “best friend” at the time was very fun to talk to–oh, god! she has a baby, now. She was a senior ready to graduate and didn’t have much care for what grade she’d get in an elective theater class. She was there because she had to be.

Not Diamond. There was something in him that signaled he needed to be there. In the halls, he’d walk with his head down, distracted from whatever high schoolers think about, but when he entered the threshold of this particular classroom, he’d be smiling from ear to ear.

Our friendship grew slowly. We’d share things about ourselves, some things we haven’t told to very many people, some things we haven’t entirely admitted to ourselves. I told him why I live with my grandparents or why I hate my stepdad and he told me about his family and his girlfriend.

I still remember her.

She was good at art and had a beautiful smile. She was going through the “emo phase,” too. Once, I wanted to do the emo phase thing, but that would never fly with my grandparents. Plus, I’m already an outcast: an awkward, overweight, biracial theater kid that can sing soprano parts in choir. If that’s not a phase in itself, I don’t know what is…

Diamond’s girlfriend and I became friends, too. She often had red highlights that I envied. But one day after school–just like in the movies, the three of us were near Diamond‘s locker. People fled by to go home, some running into us. We held our ground, we fought the crowd and we were doing the cool after school hangout thing, but when the conversation ended, they kissed. (As any couple does, I’m sure!)

They held on each other’s lips for longer than a peck, and I think I saw someone’s tongue slip. They must have been masters.

I became apprehensive.  I didn’t really know how to act–do I look the other way? Do I stare? Of course not, that’d indicate I like what I’m seeing. All I knew is that this kiss blew her red highlights out of the fucking water. I was red with envy.

My closeted ways prevented me from showing any jealousy. All I gave was my absolute support of their high school relationships that wouldn’t last.

I was right: They didn’t last.

Months later, he has come out to me as bisexual. During theater class when the bell hadn’t yet rung, we were behind a thin curtain on the “mini stage” where we’d often perform small skits. He begins fantasizing and drooling over this boy who dances in after school theater. This boy is a complete twink; equally blue eyes, skinny, blonde hair with the buzzed sides and just a little on top that hangs over his right eye. He’s the type that dances to Gaga on the regular and started smoking weed before it became cool.

We name him ‘Diamond,’ as a code word between us. Diamond explicitly states how he wouldn’t mind having unprotected sex with Diamond or that he has a fetish of being choked; yes, we are at this level of comfort with each other now. I raise my eyebrows at him, the whole “go for it!” thing.

But, Diamond and Diamond never had a chance. See, Diamond (the closeted Blondie) also had a girlfriend.

As Diamond and I grew, there was no doubt in my mind–or his–that I liked him.

But, we never had a chance, either. I accepted that.

Until October of 2014. Fall Break.

I’m out of the closet to most friends at this point–it’s incredible how one can be comfortable with their friends knowing but not their own family.

My grandparents surprised me with a phone call while I was away at college. They started by saying, “We’ve got some news, but we don’t want you to get upset.” SHE got a job offer in Alaska and HE was going along for the ride.

They’d be gone for months. I’m 18–much like the number of this entry–and I can make my own adults decisions, now.

I play it off real cool, “Aw, wow! That’s awesome for you guys. I’m not too upset. I promise.”

I did some quick math in my head:

Alaska = An Empty House. An Empty House = A Party. A Party = Alcohol. Alcohol = Fun.

I invited around 8 people. I think? But Diamond was for sure on the list. I forgot who supplied the booze, but I am forever grateful.

So, now there’s a handful of theater kids in both my adult-free living room and my bedroom. We are all having long talks, our words slurred.

I don’t recall the conversation. But I hang off the side of my bed, a friend sitting next to me laughing at my rather large butt. She slaps it. This is Diamond’s best-est friend, now. We can call her Fifi if you want.

Diamond is in the floor near my closet, just a few feet away from my bed looking up at us. I laugh at the sound my butt makes against Fifi’s palm.

I want to be closer to him. The moment feels special, because everyone was happy. I had thrown a successful party already. I was definitely happy. A plop myself onto the floor and place my head in his lap. We look at each other, our upside down smiles entertaining one another.

I lick my lips–they are chapped from dehydration, I’m sure, but that was my signal. He’s already turned away speaking with Fifi.

I reach up to his face, carefree of what she might say and feel the stubble on his cheeks and feel his prickly upper lip with my thumb. Hand eye coordination is surprisingly well.

I lick them again, damn it. This is a subconscious craving being let loose. Notice me. Diamond pays no attention to me, but puts his fingers through my hair. He seems to be ignoring me and talks to Fifi.

After eternity of staring at him, into his sparkly blue eyes, at his beautifully shaped lips, their laughing fades to silence. Fifi is dozes off.

In a rush of heat that shoots through my body, I see Diamond lean toward me.

Suddenly,

Our lips touch.

Upside down.

Like fucking Mary Jane Watson and Spider-Man!

Our lips dance together, much like his kiss in the hallway. His tongue slips into my mouth and for as weird as it felt, I fell in love with how he tasted. I didn’t want it to end.

Sexual tension is everywhere and my thoughts are becoming more and more clouded by the lust I have for this man.

Memory blanks here, but somehow, we’ve mutually decided to get in my Full sized bed–all four of us: Fifi, Diamond, Me and my Fat Ass. The lights are out, only the light shining from underneath my closet door. I’m unsure where everyone else ended up, but Diamond lies between Fifi and I. Fifi snores, a blacked out mess and a hangover waiting to be had.

But he lay awake.

With me. Drunk as fuck, but with me. I touch his chest and run my hand down it. Then over his stomach. I stop.

I remember something.

I feel for his face, graze his chin and slowly reach for his throat. I grab and press against it, then tighten my hand around it and he lets out a moan unlike I’ve ever heard. Whoa. I wanted to hear it again, so I squeezed harder. Another moan, louder now. I place my thumb over his lips; I didn’t want him to be too loud.

I’m not longer in control; something inside me takes over.

I release his throat and run my hand down his chest, then stomach. Then past his waste until I find something hard waiting for me to grab onto. Beneath his shorts, he’s harder than a god damned rock. My imagination soars.

Without hesitation, I feel him up, the only thing separating our flesh was mesh fabric. I feel something grow in my own jeans, and somehow he knew it was happening. He reaches at my belt, assisting my to unbuckle. Then, I feel him lower his own shorts, his ass hanging over the drawstring. He turns away from me, offering himself to me. I do my best to take position and turn toward him, nearly falling off the bed.

To be fair, it’s very cramped. And we aren’t alone…oh, the guilt! What shame! What horn-dogs we seem to be.

Things go dizzy. My dick grazes his ass cheek. He holds himself opens, our hands touching as we hold his ass cheek out of the way. I attempt entering him, my dick kissing his warm asshole, but suddenly…things just stop working.


Dear reader, I’ve misled you in this entry. Not only is this story of my first kiss, but also the first and only time I ever experienced “Whiskey Dick.”

We didn’t discuss this when we woke, nor did we discuss it at another drunken kickback a year or two later. Whatever our friendship status is now, we may never discuss it, but bet your ass my first kiss was a Spider-Man kiss and I almost drunk-fucked my friend at my own party. With someone else sleeping right beside us.

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ninety-two

gay-chronicles


92.


I CAN ONLY IMAGINE what I’m feeling with my hair parted on the left and the majority of my curly, black mane hanging on the right.

In my hand, I hold an iPhone 5 fit with a light blue Apple brand phone case–silicone, because it feels the best.

I take a bathroom selfie in the bathroom of my 3rd floor apartment on my university’s campus. I’m looking good. I’m sure I feel cute and comfortable in my 4XL baggy shirt. This royal blue “robe” of mine is easily recognized as 1 out of the 5 or so shirts I stole from my mom at age 13 when I moved out. Even at age 20, I brood over the thoughts of stealing them in hopes to have something to remember her. I had been using them to sleep in for years, but it felt different in that moment. You see, in that moment I didn’t know for sure if I would ever see her again.

I’ve seen her plenty since.

And now I admit I’ve seen her more than I’m comfortable with at times.


Without a doubt, my intentions are to show friends the possibilities of my hair via Snapchat. It’s sophomore year of college, my hair has been steadily growing since the year before and I’ve not yet yearned to cut it. (At 20, I have my thoughts.)

I meticulously twist my locks around a thermal brush in hopes my hair will curl into, well, something similar to this:

 

October 4, 2015 @ 12:22 AM.

 

Yes, this is the picture. If I know myself, I’ve just sucked in my stomach in attempt to hide behind the guilt of being a large boy just long enough to snap the shot. I want to feel like the cute gay boys I see in Tumblr.

I crave to be an over-edited Tumblr boy.

I do not send the picture. Not right away.

Staring seems to be a waste of time, doesn’t it? Whenever I stare at something, I get lost in thought and as soon as I’m taken out of that thought, I can’t remember what I was thinking about.

I look at the photo. Then, I stare at the photo. I loose my train of thoughts. I’m lost, and I forget about the photo.

My roommate walks in to use the restroom. (The shower and toilet are in a small, separate space.) His entrance reminds me that this isn’t just a world I live in…

I swipe right on the photo, instantly adding a slightly orange filter that I suppose thought complimented my caramel skin. I rate the picture worth 6 seconds on view time–not cute enough for 10, but different enough for more than 3. After all, I worked fairly hard at those curls. But, just before I send, I save it.

12:22 turns into 1:22 as Netflix plays in the background.

Then, 1:22 AM turns into blackness.

thirty-seven.

gay-chronicles


37.


I SAW A MAN’S PENIS in my high school theater dressing room. It seemed to be averagely sized and an interesting shade of pink. It was also attached to a classmate I had never thought I’d see waist down.

His head was down, his blonde bangs hanging in his face. He was putting his boxers on, the faded fabric similar to that of every man’s Sunday Shorts–the pair you wear on laundry day. It’s that or commando. (Which you never do at school in case things get awkward, like ripping your pants and hoping to die rather than admit it actually happened.

So, I wondered why his checkered boxers were off in the first place, and of course I didn’t ask questions, but I was stunned by his … little piglet? See, I entered right as his shorts met his waist, so I missed how his pale, sunshine-less ass peeked out of the elastic, but then the unexpected happened.

His dick managed to slither and push its way out of the pee-hole.

I like to think I played it off really cool, but something tells me that he knows I was staring. At him. At IT. I was definitely staring. He pushed himself back in containment and smirked at me, his face slightly red.

I’d like to say that at this moment of the story I convinced him to show me more!–but my high school experience is rather suckish compared to that of any other horny teenager’s stories I’ve heard.

I told my best friend immediately after the “incident.” She knew him from middle school, so the gossip was extra juicy to her.

“And you’re sure it was pink?!”

“Absolutely.”


To my knowledge, many things happened in this dressing room with or without my presence–some things much more dramatic and shocking than that of the penis/piglet-story.

Once, in the same room,  I walked in on two boys making out. That was a wake up call that I wasn’t getting any action, and honestly, porn made it seem so much better.

This was also the same dressing room I came out to one of my best friends. Ironically it happened right after the PG 13 scene above. My friend was supposedly spectating and watching them–I think as some proof that the really did like each other or something. As the dramatic ass gay men, they turned it into a show fit with audience of one: her, who of course etched them on. Who doesn’t like to see scandalous things!? I walked in shortly after to find this gay-fiasco knowing exactly what was going on.

See, I knew what was going on because I was OBSESSED with one of the boys. I spent 3 years freaking out over his Justin Bieber-cut, pretty blue eyes and a solid B-list dancing skills. I walked in that room because I was jealous of what I knew would be happening.

Oh, high school … I don’t miss it.

(Perhaps I have an issue walking into things. I should really learn to knock.)

Also, if rumor truly has it: someone had to meet with the principal for doing-the-nasty during rehearsal. In that same dressing room. (This damn room has seen more action than I at this point.)

They were only the background extras for the show. I guess they felt their special talent would best be used behind the scenes.


I would never say high school was the best time of my life, but if I were still there, I’d believe it. I’d believe that h.s. was exactly how things should be, that I was cool enough for people to respect, that I had paid my nerdy dues and had graduated from Freshman Status to anything but Freshman Status.

My point is, I know that I’m not the same man I used to be, because who I used to be was a sadly proud gay boi who saw a pink penis in the dressing room.

seven: (Hetero)norm Stoppable

seven: (Hetero)norm Stoppable

gay-chronicles


7.


Heteronormativity effects us all, even 8 year olds who have a passion for fashion.

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I AM 8 YEARS OLD.  It’s the last day of my weekly weekend visit with my grandparents. The only things on my mind are brown sugar oatmeal, how much butter I’ll add to it, and when I’ll be forced to return home to my parents, sister, and three brothers. It’s been a cold day; possibly the coldest day fall could offer as I’m wrapped in a blanket large enough for eight people while I lay flat watching Disney Channel cartoons. (I’ve never been one for Cartoon Network.) When I feel inspired, I get up and wrap the blanket around my breast and torso, the white fabric touching the ground around my feet becoming the train of my new wedding dress. My imagination leads me to believe it’s the longest wedding dress train a boy has ever worn.

Grana enters, my entire body flying back to the couch in attempt to not get caught in my wedding dress. Her auburn colored hair looks destroyed by the seven hours of sleep she’s had, her bedhead getting the best of her looks. I have learned not everyone can wake up looking as good as they did going to bed. I wonder if it’s a genetic thing for some people. She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and heads towards the coffee machine. Not a day goes by that she’s not at that coffee machine. (Literally, once she tried going a week without coffee and got very timid and closed in; she hated how she felt and fixed a cup-of-joe 48 hours later.)

As I’ve been instructed before, I follow her with my eyes: two and a half scoops of the smelly-good brown stuff, add ‘thiiiis much’ water, and then press the grey button. She’s a great teacher.

She grabs a notepad on the kitchen island and begins to scribble something down; perhaps a drawing, but she normally only doodles when she talks on the phone but isn’t emotionally invested in the conversation.

“Ryan, what are you going to do today?”

I’d like to tell her I’m going to be performing my own rendition of the entire Cheetah Girls soundtrack, but instead I say “I’m going to eat oatmeal and watch TV.”

“Do you want to go to the store with Grana?” Her tone of voice raises near the end of her sentence, like its incentive to say “Yes!” because she’ll let me pick out a toy. I’ve learned grandparents are very generous, and frankly, are born to spoil the youth.

I gobble down the perfect butter:milk:oatmeal ratio I ever prepared and Grana drowns in coffee, her finger on the channel surf button of the remote. She’s the only one I trust changing the channel, because she never picks something stupid. (My brother always picks something stupid, like sports, Punk’d, or Pimp My Ride.)

She picks a soap opera, the one thing I never mind watching but always get overwhelmed when I do because of the emotional fuckery happening on screen. A lady is heartbroken by a handsome man that no longer loves her. They have a kid together, but the kid was just kidnapped by a man named Paul? Now they are on a search for Paul and the kid, but baby-mama just broke her leg and baby-daddy is carrying her. Now, they are making googly eyes at each other. Are they going to…?! Lord, help me. Blah, drama happens, but nothing I should be concerned about at my age.

I’m bored because we’ve sat for what seems like hours and I assume she’s forgotten our trip to the store—here, the word ‘store’ is synonymous with Kroger, because we always go to Kroger.

The last scene ends and Grana’s jaw drops; she’ll definitely be drinking coffee and watching the fuckery play out tomorrow. She leaves the television to get ready; I do the same. We say goodbye to Granddaddy who is now lying propped up in bed reading a newspaper and drinking coffee himself. He’s probably reading the sports or business section. I’m not entirely sure which one.

In the car late at night Delilah Radio plays around seven, but since it’s only around three in the afternoon, we listen to the latest jams. I couldn’t care less what the latest jams are, I’m only 8.

We arrive at the store, but something is wrong. ‘Store’ apparently equals ‘Walmart’ today. We never go to Walmart.


The buggy is full of groceries and all things necessary for the upcoming week and we are nearly ready to check out. She looks down at me. I’m never more than three feet away. She says, “Do you want a toy?” Without a doubt, I let her know the answer. We walk to the toy section and it feels like heaven, if I have ever felt heaven, at least.

We pass all kinds of things: the bike section, which would be too much to bring home today, the sport balls section, which I don’t need a soccer ball but it crosses my mind, and the Barbie section! Wow, the freaking Barbie section is loaded. My sister and I—especially I—would have a blast picking something out from the barbie section!

I walk away.

After ten minutes of searching, my indecisiveness is getting the best of me and I can’t quite think of what I don’t have since this is a weekly thing—the whole Grana spoiling me part. I almost make up my mind that I won’t be getting anything until I spot her: Kimberly Ann Possible. (No, this is not my friend’s name from school nor is it a made up name, but this is literally my future daughter’s name, and the original bae-that-slayed, omg.)

“Kim Possible!”

Here in this moment, I am the happiest eight year old there could ever be. In my hands, I hold a beautifully packaged Kim Possible doll, a really cute small one that comes with a mini-pink brush to comb her hair. Her hair reminds me of Grana’s. You can change her clothes, too. Cheerleader one day, fighting crime the next. I could pretend to be Kim Possible if I wanted, like voodoo magic where I’m her and she’s just the poppet. This would be great. I feel relieved to place Kim in the buggy.

Grana looks at me. Grana always looks at me—to see my happy “I want this, please” face—but something suddenly feels off. With me. I’m abruptly hit with a sense of disapproval. But where is it coming from?

Next to her (Kim) on the display shelf sits a Ron Stoppable doll with magnetic hands, ones he would probably use to get to the top of the refrigerator to help Kim beat Dr. Drakken and Shego. I am planning a hell of a show in the kitchen with these dolls and don’t even own them yet. Even worse, I don’t know if I can own them yet. I feel obligated to place Ron in the buggy.

Grana says nothing about my choice. She buys both Kim and Ron. In the car, I open Kim first. The comb goes through her hair like magic and I’m content, but Ron never leaves my side. Just in case.

The point of this story is not to discuss toys, the great day spent with my Grandmother, nor about the hard decisions children have to make when being spoiled, but it’s about the first time I have ever felt forced to conform to a heterosexual lifestyle. (And definitely not the last time.)

I get both a girl and a boy doll and never think twice about it at 8 years old, because “that’s how it’s supposed to be.”

Not.


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