Disclaimer: This blog deals with sexual
desire, sexual fantasy, and uncomfortable situations. If you would feel
uncomfortable knowing too many intimate details about me, you might want to
skip this one. If it doesn’t bother you, read on.
My first sexual relationship outside of the
one I maintain with myself was with an openly bisexual woman five years my
senior. I’d like to tell you she was 18 at the time, but, sadly, I was.
Complete truth be told, I was a few short weeks from turning 19. She smelled of
clove cigarettes and strong opinions. She was everything and I wanted to
keep her forever. She just wanted to show a naïve, hot, young kid a good time.
And I was hot, back then. I didn’t think so
at the time, but now I can see that I was. But hell, I deserved to be. Two
years before that I had looked like a fat lesbian. Which is fine, if you ’re an
overweight woman attracted to other women. But I was not.
I was a late bloomer. I was sixteen, going on
seventeen, and not a pubic hair to be found. My body was smooth as a baby’s. I
was five feet three inches tall, two-hundred thirty pounds, and, for some
reason, I felt like a mullet was a solid fashion choice. This is how I looked
when my senior pictures were taken. I had also developed a weird nervous rash
on the skin around my left eye. My senior pictures are a pretty funny punchline
to the joke that was my high school life.
A few short months after the pictures were
taken, my growth spurt hit. I shot up to 5’11, my weight balanced out. I still
couldn’t get anything more than peach fuzz on my face, but at least I had
managed to develop hairy man parts where it counted before I turned eighteen. It had
been a concern of mine: “What if puberty never comes? What if I’m some
freak of nature and I have to live my life as some hairless, undeveloped
child-creature for the rest of my life?”
Hitting puberty late for a guy like me was a
cruel joke. I knew what it was and had been eagerly awaiting it since I was
twelve. By that time I was already masturbating daily, but at that age, orgasms
were dry and not very intense. They were pretty damned good at the time because
I didn’t know there was anything better. I was very eager to start growing hair
in funny places and observe the weird bodily changes that seemed to freak out
so many ill-informed adolescents. But, as they say, a watched pot never boils.
And so I watched. I watched all the boys in my class become men before me. And
I began to grow concerned.
In the locker room I was terrified of two
things: that I would become aroused looking at the naked, hairy,
fully-developed genitalia of my classmates, and that someone would notice I was
the only boy in a room full of men. Nobody ever said anything, surprisingly. As
mercilessly as I was picked on for what seems like everything else, I
never got teased for developing late. Either I was truly a deft master of the
bath towel, as I liked to imagine, or even those cruel bastards were decent
enough not to tease a kid about that.
My desire to see my male classmates naked
disturbed me. Why did I want to see their dicks? Why did I like looking? I told
myself it was because, tired of being a sapling surrounded by trees, I was
anxious to grow one of my own. That was true, but I couldn’t admit to myself,
or I couldn’t accept, that I also wanted to play with theirs. But at night,
when the door was closed and the lights were out, and I was touching myself
under the covers, the theater of my imagination was showing porn scenes set in
that locker room.
FADE IN
INT. LOCKER ROOM – DAY
Shy boy, KEVIN, 16, clutches his towel, which is
wrapped around his waist, clamped shut by his fist, clutching for dear
life. He walks guardedly from the
showers to his locker. Suddenly, the towel is yanked away, and laughter erupts
as he stands, the only pre-pubescent boy surrounded by ten hairy teenagers.
BULLY
(holding
towel, laughing)
Holy
shit! DICKS doesn’t have a dick!
BULLY 2
Hey, you’re right. And he’s smooth as a
girl.
And then I get forcibly penetrated in every
way possible in the theater of my mind. In real life I would be lying in my bed
with my eyes clinched tight, doing the two-finger salute until my tiny little
pecker coughed out it’s dry little orgasm and I was instantly overcome with
that wave of shame that came crashing down, enveloping me, and making me
embarrassed to be in the same room with myself.
Why would I be thinking about a thing like
that when I was masturbating? I should be thinking about girls, surely! I was
certainly attracted to girls. Why was I thinking about other guys? And being
treated like that! It didn’t make sense. I certainly didn’t want that to happen
to me. I didn’t want to be raped, certainly. And — of course I didn’t. But it
made the fantasy believable. Because, of course, I would never choose to
suck a dick. Right? Of course not. Absurd.
I managed to start puberty before I graduated
high school; I also managed to graduate high school a virgin. I graduated a few
weeks before I turned eighteen. So it was almost another year before I would
lose my virginity to an openly bisexual woman five years my senior. That was a
short relationship, but I learned a lot. I acted like a huge idiot in the
break-up, and I’ll save myself the embarrassment of recounting it here. Let’s
just say it was not my proudest moment. I mean, looking back, we weren’t even
exclusive.
But I’m not too embarrassed. It was the first
time I had to go through something like that. I didn’t get to learn the skill
of dissolving a romantic relationship before I was twelve years old, like some
other people. I didn’t get to learn it at sixteen years old. I got my first
taste when I was barely nineteen, so it should be expected I was, perhaps, a
tad, emotionally immature.
It would be almost two years before I had sex
again. I spent a long time chasing a girl I never got. Actually, several, if
I’m being honest. I was a serial unrequited lover. Which, looking back, was
really just obsession born out of the desire to ask out a girl coupled with the
crippling fear of doing so. When you calculate in the whole latent
homosexuality angle, it’s the perfect recipe for remaining single and sex-free.
