Sometimes I feel like I am a blank slate. I can go from place to place, person to person, and need no adjustment. I also have an extremely high pain tolerance. Not enough to join some super spy network or anything but enough that I don't get hurt a lot. As a result, I sometimes have a problem identifying when a normal person would need some adjustment.
On one occasion Usually, I'd be sitting at home doing homework with AOL open. Sometimes I'd be in an m4m room. On one occasion I used to get lots of IMs from boys around my own age looking to hook up. I'm not hot or anything. I don't even consider myself attractive. But where I'm from, it's hard to find other gay boys in the general populace. There were some boys who wore gay pride like a pair of their favorite jeans, but the boys who were looking for me weren't looking for them. They wanted anonymity.
Brian wanted to bottom for someone. He had never been with another guy before, and claimed to be in the closet. He was also a drama student, chorus member, and AIDS activist. But he was in the closet.
He showed up at my house with a case of Zima around 3 in the afternoon. We put MTV in the background and talked a lot. Around three hours and eleven Zimas later he wanted to kiss me.
Brian was beautiful. Nineteen years old, short messy blond hair, blue eyes, perfect teeth. I was twenty-one and knew that if he was comfortable with his sexuality he would not be meeting guys like me over The Internet. I said as much to him. As much as I wanted him, and as much as I knew he would probably regret losing his gay virginity this way, I didn't want him to feel that I pressured him.
We talked some more, and we made out. Around 8 o'clock he started taking his clothes off. He had been working out. I suggested that we move upstairs as I had a sliding glass door with no blinds on it, and a community of nosy neighbors. We moved upstairs into my bedroom. He immediately went down on me, listening very carefully to my suggestions on technique. After about fifteen minutes he climbed up on the bed and said "Penetrate me."
Even the most clinical unromantic come on line in the history of bad sex talk failed to break the moment. I giggled. Quietly. I also started with the appropriate kissing and fingering of the butt. Then I entered. Not very clinically. Very passionately in fact. He responded with first an "Ohhhhhhhhhhhh" and then an "Ohhhhhhhhh god, I think I'm going to" and then he puked. Everywhere. Mirror over the dresser? Splattered with puke. Quilt that my grandmother made me? Covered in puke. I was, however, still clean.
That's not the part of the story that bothers me. That's the
bad_sex story. What bothers me is this: I never comforted him. Here was this physically beautiful, intellectually beautiful, sweet boy living through what was probably the most challenging day of his life to begin with. He was finally confronting his sexual identity, and one of the most embarrassing possible things that could happen to a guy, happened to him. Sure, I asked how he was, but I didn't touch him. I cleaned up the mess, but I didn't rub his back when he continued vomiting ins the bathroom. Sure I told him not to worry about it, but I don't think I sounded very sincere.
He asked me if he could still stay the night. I may be an emotionless robot sometimes, but I'm not an asshole. I asked if he wanted to share my bed or sleep in the guest bedroom which was closer to the bathroom. he chose the guest bedroom. All night long I heard him alternate between crying and vomiting. And I did nothing.
He got up the next morning before I did. I never heard from him again.
original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/1240.html
Brian wanted to bottom for someone. He had never been with another guy before, and claimed to be in the closet. He was also a drama student, chorus member, and AIDS activist. But he was in the closet.
He showed up at my house with a case of Zima around 3 in the afternoon. We put MTV in the background and talked a lot. Around three hours and eleven Zimas later he wanted to kiss me.
Brian was beautiful. Nineteen years old, short messy blond hair, blue eyes, perfect teeth. I was twenty-one and knew that if he was comfortable with his sexuality he would not be meeting guys like me over The Internet. I said as much to him. As much as I wanted him, and as much as I knew he would probably regret losing his gay virginity this way, I didn't want him to feel that I pressured him.
We talked some more, and we made out. Around 8 o'clock he started taking his clothes off. He had been working out. I suggested that we move upstairs as I had a sliding glass door with no blinds on it, and a community of nosy neighbors. We moved upstairs into my bedroom. He immediately went down on me, listening very carefully to my suggestions on technique. After about fifteen minutes he climbed up on the bed and said "Penetrate me."
Even the most clinical unromantic come on line in the history of bad sex talk failed to break the moment. I giggled. Quietly. I also started with the appropriate kissing and fingering of the butt. Then I entered. Not very clinically. Very passionately in fact. He responded with first an "Ohhhhhhhhhhhh" and then an "Ohhhhhhhhh god, I think I'm going to" and then he puked. Everywhere. Mirror over the dresser? Splattered with puke. Quilt that my grandmother made me? Covered in puke. I was, however, still clean.
That's not the part of the story that bothers me. That's the
bad_sex story. What bothers me is this: I never comforted him. Here was this physically beautiful, intellectually beautiful, sweet boy living through what was probably the most challenging day of his life to begin with. He was finally confronting his sexual identity, and one of the most embarrassing possible things that could happen to a guy, happened to him. Sure, I asked how he was, but I didn't touch him. I cleaned up the mess, but I didn't rub his back when he continued vomiting ins the bathroom. Sure I told him not to worry about it, but I don't think I sounded very sincere.He asked me if he could still stay the night. I may be an emotionless robot sometimes, but I'm not an asshole. I asked if he wanted to share my bed or sleep in the guest bedroom which was closer to the bathroom. he chose the guest bedroom. All night long I heard him alternate between crying and vomiting. And I did nothing.
He got up the next morning before I did. I never heard from him again.
original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/1240.html
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