Not more than three years ago, I opened up my heart, my home-and my PHAT pants to let a little boy in who was looking for love and support. He got support, but he certainly never got love.
It was August 1996, and I met the most moderately attractive, interesting, yet stupid guy, that I think I've ever met. Honestly innocent, emotionally exploring, and rebelling for so many things, a liking for him began to grow inside me, even though I basically thought he was an idiot.
Point blank, it is easiest to explain by the coin term phrase of 'desperation.'. Figuratively, I was in my gay youth prime-16 years old, and screaming for the Lord to do upon me the wrath of gay relations. I was looking for someone, something-anything to call a first experience. I was crazed.
The scene opened up in a downtown park, lined with trees, cars, and snickering hobos. We were walking while getting to know each other, and taking our time to settle into this new realm of relation, that as far as I knew, neither of us has previously experienced. Of course, I had had my instances with people over the internet, and a certain (HAD a Northern LAD) young man whom I still think about fondly-but nothing ever so slap-me-in-the-face horribly gay-related. It was an interesting time, where love, intimacy, and romanticism was not at all in my mind, or my intentions. I was out to get laid, and feel like I was part of something that I had wanted to be part of for so long of a time-gay culture.
For years, I had been trooping around my city, meeting new people, and making new friends, confessing the fact that I was bisexual, or gay-at times, and looking for something-though I was uncertain what. It was a time where I was so incessantly trying to cope with my own emotions, that I found myself persuading straight friends to join me in the revolt of a lifetime-coming out, being proud, and getting a boy.
Unfortunately, it didn't work out that way, and I never really found what I was looking for. What I did find was a crazed teenager in my bed, swimming thoughts and emotions in my head, and a confusion that could not be better labeled, than overall loneliness.
It came from not having anyone to openly relate to, in real life, who were having the same feelings, confusions, and morphing emotions that I was experiencing. Those first few times you openly stare at some poster-boys panted ass in the shopping mall, or that first rainbow emblem that you stuck onto your car, or wore frankly on your T-shirt. I was on a determined search to find someone like me, looking for the same things, having the same feelings, and dreaming the same fantasies-but I never realized that finding one so similar was completely impossible.
Because, in fact, I was simply searching for myself.
I looked through coffee houses, and dance clubs, and inquired about new queer-meat through friends and playmates, but I never found a nibble, or a bite, or even a glance that told me something that I wanted to know. I was looking for myself in dark corners of alleys, and through personal ads in newspapers, and I used to call up 900-numbers that advertised people in my area who might not really be over 18.
Needles in haystacks wouldn't be correct analogy for the situation. What I was seeking was more figuratively put into terms by one memo, bled to hell on facsimile paper, in some float's drawer in the Chrysler Building. And obviously, I didn't have a plane ticket to New York, and I had no experience commuting.
Though, out of all this turmoil, and all these various instances of thinking I had found what I was looking for, and then being completely disappointed that it/he/or whatever didn't fit into my standards, I found the degree of Prozac and obsessions swelling inside me start to do a wonderful thing. Lowering my standards.
So here, I was, standing in a park, in the middle of the Midwest, happy as I could be talking to a complete idiot who, not understanding any of my vocabulary, was necessitating my explanations every couple of sentences. And, boy was I ever-so-fucking-happy.
So the months went on, and we hung out almost daily, went places, ate, watched movies, and took part in various other excursions that every teenager experiences while looking for a replacement to loneliness.
Three months later, I found out that, contrary to my belief-I wasn't his first, I wasn't one of the few gay interactions with others he had experienced, I was, at the least, yet another one of his boyfriends that he used to push himself into denial. Soon after, I found, that unfortunately, for him, he wasn't getting paid by me, as he had by all the others. Then I went and got tested.
So, in the flow of things, everything has fallen into place, exactly as I expected. Nowadays, when I am walking around town, or shopping in the mall, or doing various other things that I now do, while looking for ways to distract myself of loneliness, I have to be careful of running into him. Because, you see, I tried to turn him gay, and he's out to beat my ass.
BUT-I didn't cry when we dissolved whatever we had, and I wasn't even upset. I just was disappointed because I knew I had to begin again what I had done up until then, and still now.
I had to continue searching.
Aztec Yhessin [firstname.lastname@example.org], living in South Bend, Indiana, is just some 19-year-old bisexual dude looking for answers to questions he's never asked. If you can help, e-mail. www.geocities.com/WestHollywood/Village/6929