A Five Minute Story
Born In The Year Of The Cock
My gay education, if that's what you want to call it, started pretty early. At fourteen I was playing around (sexually) with my best friend (and later with my cousin, but that's another story and won't be told here) and by age sixteen I was going to gay bars and picking up men.
Real men. Grown men.
That I was able to get into bars (and be served) says alot about the gay community at the time of my "coming out".
At sixteen I looked to be about fourteen. Anybody paid any kind of attention at all could easily tell I wasn't old enough to be in there, let alone drinking a cocktail. Yet management, bartenders and doormen turned a blind eye to it.
I can only guess that they thought that if I was there in the first place I was mature enough to handle it. Or perhaps they didn't care one way or another.
All I know is that after school, instead of hitting the books and studying for that history test the next day, I was at Happy Hour!
And I was the belle of the ball (so to speak). I (almost) never had to buy a drink for myself. I could pick and choose (almost) whoever I wanted.
Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I was cute. Tall, lean, usually wearing tight faded jeans that showed off my butt and my tiny waist.
I knew at an early age how to accentuate the positive.
But most importantly though, I was young. "Chicken" is the gay slang term for it.
Youth is valued highly in the gay community. Everyone wants someone untouched (or at least not touched that much), a blank canvas to draw upon.
I was that canvas. And they drew on me.
More than that, I wanted them to draw on me. I wanted the whiteness of purity replaced by whatever would be drawn there. I hungered for experiences, longed for excitement and, perhaps, the thrill that comes from not knowing what happens next mixed with a dash of potential danger.
(Going to some guys apartment that you just met an hour previously is potentially dangerous, wouldn't you say?)
A good friend of mine didn't come out until he was twenty-five.
By twenty-five I was so over casual sex and the bar scene I actually became somewhat of a hermit for a little while.
So over it.
Been there, done that, bought the t-shirt (and then had the t-shirt, along with my other clothes, ripped off my body ).
Do I regret such experiences so early? Do I feel like I was exploited, or taken advantage of? Do I feel like I was in any way "used" or "corrupted"?
No way, man! I had a really good time.