I had felt ashamed after my first encounter. I promised myself that I would never be with another man again. It was wrong. Morally… spiritually… and no one expected me to be gay. Least of all myself.
I am the oldest. I am the one that is expected to do things in life. To settle down and to raise a family. I need to get a job and be a role model for everyone. A gay man cannot do that.
I drove to campus and for the next two years I slept with as many women that I could. I shunned any serious relationships with women. Sex, sex, and more sex. It did not matter how old or what they looked like. My appetites went from sorority president to a married mother of two teen age children. The conquest of sex was what was important. The conquest of a female, to prove my masculinity… to prove that I did not and was not turned on by the older married man that made me cum so violently in the video booth… only to turn around and walk out on me. Yes. Sex, sex, and more sex.
There were sometimes that I would think about my sole gay experience, when I would catch myself looking at the other guys on campus and in the bars. How many looks and peaks I took during the showers and stalls were too numerous to count. But I counseled myself to drive it out of my head. To remove myself from that person and to go on…
I came home during the break. By this time in my life I had gained some weight. I had stopped playing college baseball and began to discover pizza and beer. I was not as attractive as I once was, and the nights of the pretty sorority girls were becoming more and more the older, uglier, bigger girls.
After I arrived home, my mother told me about our house guest. Steve, the gay older family friend that lived out of town. He was visiting for the holidays, and my mother offered him a place to stay.
He was considerably older than me, perhaps 15 years. I was never too sure. Throughout my life it was whispered that he was gay, but in my conservative household, the subject was never broached in a formal matter.
He was incredibly cute. Anyone, male(unless the strictest of homophobes) or female would fawn over his looks and his squared masculine jaw and his perfect body. He had eyes to die for and the nicest smile. I think the thing that made him so absolutely beautiful was his demeanor. Always giving, polite, sincere, and blatantly honest.
The first couple of nights we hung out as a group. We went to the local bars and stayed out all night. He had no problem of his being out, and routinely commented on the men throughout the bar. Announcing every now and then how much he missed his lover, and that no one should be away from their lover for more than one day let alone two weeks. Every now and then he would give me a look and a smile, and then look away.
One particular evening we came home from the bars and sat around the kitchen table. As we were all drunk we began to talk about sex and endowments. I laughed and said I had not been graced by any means by heredity…. I blushed. He announced that the only good thing his father gave to him was his size. I looked down, and then I met his glance from across the table and he smiled. I swallowed hard and began to talk about my sexual exploits.
As the evening faded away, gradually everyone left or went to bed and we were alone at the kitchen table. A friend of mine landed on the couch that was Steve’s bed. With an air of disappointment, he remarked that the floor would be good for his back. I then offered that he could sleep in my bed, since it was a queen. Without a trace of an argument he thought that was a great idea.
