J Burns

November 1997

Virgin Heart

I imagine it would not be an entirely original sentiment to ask myself the question, why, at the age of ninteen, I am unloved, despite my good-looks, intelligence, and sense of humor. There is a veritable gold mine of boys possessing these same qualities. Yet, I find myself not a virgin in body, but still unloved, my heart distant from exposure.

And, like many others, I want to love not only to be loved, but because I feel I have something to give. I am not just a nineteen year old boy-toy, sex-machine mindless cock. I want want to give love, yes, but also backrubs and hot chocolate and reading books together and tenderness and caring and listening. I want a boyfriend. Is that too much to ask?

This summer a friend of mine told me to give up my search for a boyfriend, suggesting it was hopeless at this point in time. Sort of a "just have fun" attitude. Without sounding egotistical, I have to say it would not be a problem for me to find sex. And plenty of it. I want something more, though, and am criticized for wanting it. I want "love", that famed pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, that envied prize which, in fact, should be something everyone has, not a rare commonity.

My first memory is that of an attraction to a blonde boy in preschool. It is all very vague, but I remember quite vividly the pure fascination I had with him. I was so young, I didn't know enough to fear his possible rejection and hatred and society's backlash. I want to go back to that state of naivete.

I see boys and I am fascinated with tiny details and hints of their true nature. A nicely shaved neck longing for fingers. Perfect lips moist with anticipation. Soft hair I want to run my hands through. Muscles that would fit around my body. I want to get inside. Button noses and naive eyes. Skilled fingers and a confident walk. Awkward smiles and comfortable laughter.

How if I touched them they might hit me. This fear of touching so deep in me. Of rejection and "no"s and harboring my love. Locking up my heart, deep in basements, away from light, like a plant withering. I speak harshly to it and it responds in kind.

I imagine my little blond boy would never concieve such harm. Surely the little dark-haired boy I was could not. I was living without fear then. Only a very innocent longing. And inquisitiveness, which was unbound by fear and hate and loathing and self-loathing and identity crisis and how-will-my-family-react? and coming-out-of-the-closet and meeting-people and going-to-the-bar and "I-know-someone-you-might-like" and placing-a-personal-ad and asking-a-boy-out-who-says"I-don't-know-man-I-don't-know" and thinking-what-the-hell-does-"I-don't-know-man-I-don't-know"-mean-and-if-you-don't-know-how-the-hell-could-I?

I have a track record for crushes on straight boys and guys with boyfriends. I thought this might be avoided if I placed a personal ad. Only losers responded. Mainly "straight-acting" fags who fool themselves into thinking they're better off, not wanting to upset their family, but only just prolong their agony. There's also a lot of 40 year olds, a few in their "early 50s" (which of course means 55) and a lot of guys with wives. "Discretion required." I've gotten a lot of beeper numbers. "Because of my situation..." "My roomates...." Yah, whatever. Why not just say the truth? "I'm a weak, weak man. I am hiding from my fears. I am hiding from myself. I am lying to my family, I am lying to my heart. I would appreciate a handjob. I will give no love."

I asked myself, "What the fuck am I doing?" I am looking for something in places I won't find it. I am loning for innocence and purity. I want, organic, natural love, not mail-order romance, canned kisses or convenient combinations. Convenient concubines. Blowjobs on lunchbreaks.

I want the innocence I felt for that boy so long ago. I want someone to pierce this virgin heart. I want to wake up with someone in my arms. Like millions of others, I want love. I won't just sleep around until I find it; I will wait.


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