Saturday, February 28, 2015

My Regular Child is Sluttier Than Your Honor Student

When I came out, my spirit animal changed. Yes, I believe in spirit animals. They're cool and very useful when it comes to assigning superficial characteristics to people you want to get to know. In my early years, my aunt described me as a Springer Spaniel--high octane, short attention span, and with a penchant for snuggling. After I came out, I was a Springer Spaniel with an erection. Other acceptable animal spirits included, rabbit, hamster, rat, squirrel and guinea pig. Essentially, all lifeforms with an inspired determination to copulate.

Time to go hump literally anything.

Allow me to explain. Before admitting to my family and friends and Twitter that I was l'homosexuel, I forbade myself to experiment with other boys. I had a secret to keep, and a facade of a straight person to maintain (which no one bought, with the exception of a few very sweet, very naive girlfriends). While I hid my inner gay, my body filled with suppressed hormones the way a Coke can fills with carbonation in the hands of a hyper maraca player. My parents knew I was hiding something from them--that was clear, but I was taken aback at how acutely aware they were of just how much was pent up inside me.

When I came out to my mother, she wasted no time declaring that sex was off-limits. I was 14 at the time, and wildly uncomfortable coming out in the first place, so when she became stern and said, "No sex until you're 18. Not in the mouth, not in the hiney," I was mortified.

And also disappointed.

The sole reason I came out was a boy named Jamie (whose name is definitely not Jamie, and whose identity I'm protecting exclusively to prevent him from contacting me) who, I swear to God, I saw in a dream before I met him. He was so good looking, my brain invented memories involving him that didn't actually happen. He was evenly tan, excellently dressed, and smarter than 90% of the entire school's population. He was also Brazilian, which was the most exotic piece of information I had learned about a person at that point in my life. I was aware that he had a boyfriend who was equally attractive and smart and universally loved, but the Coke can needed opening, so my mind zeroed in on the singular goal of getting it on. But first, I had to come out. I needed to be honest with whom I was in order to grant myself the permission of experimenting sexually without hiding behind a veil of lies. I'd like to point that, while this story will undoubtedly portray me as a base, man-whore, I was very loyal to my scruples in being honest. But I digress.

I came out to my parents and, sex laws notwithstanding, they were elated. My father even invited me to redecorate his living room, a decision he would later regret, (fast forward to a room of orange walls, green carpets and a poster of a palm tree--really, I should have been shot). They supported me fully, and opened the metaphorical gates to my new life as a certified gay. My extended family and many friends rallied in their grand nonchalance about my orientation, and I was able to put my unbelievable desire to make love on pause to be grateful for having such a kick-ass group of people on my side. Having jumped that massive hurdle of emotional climax and catharsis, I was ready to experience sexual climax and catharsis.

Spoiler alert--it never worked out with Jamie; who would have thought a sex-crazed 14 year old would fail in his attempt to break up an astonishingly attractive couple that involved a brilliant mixed raced Romeo and an overachieving brainiac that resembled The David? Mine was a doomed mission, but can you blame me for trying? In any case, the rejection led me to my first boyfriend, Liam (also a fake name and in no way an ode to that pre-teen in One Direction). Liam was a vivacious junior who was two years older than me. He had bright eyes, more energy than I knew what to do with, and a lot of Germanness, (tall, blonde, good at public speaking). He introduced me to many things, like theater, Bjork, and intercourse (hooray!)

I remember making first contact with his... down-there. The moment remains frozen in glorious gold carbonate in my mind. As Bjork sang about falling in love with a hedgehog made of salad forks, Liam and I made out. I lay beneath him as we kissed the frick out of each other, tugging and pulling on one glorious invisible rod of ecstasy between our two hungry mouths. Gradually (or what I thought was gradually), I slipped my hand between his jeans and his stomach, and felt what might be the largest penis I will ever encounter as long as I live. Even as a novice penis-toucher, I was astonished. My mouth froze on his and my eyes opened, staring into his closed eyelids.

"What's wrong," he breathed, eyes still closed, penis still in hand.

"Mmuh.. buffin..." I wasn't saying words, just sounds. I didn't know how to tell him he appeared capable of pleasing an adult horse. Not without embarrassing him anyway. Liam opened his eyes, not breaking his bedroom gaze and giggled. I smiled back and continued to look at him as though he was responsible for the size of his member. Are you kidding me? I thought. Just where in the god-damn fuck do we think this will fit? Hm? It was going nowhere without damaging me permanently, that was for sure. I experienced a flash of panic as I envisioned myself in the emergency room, bare ass in the air with nurses and doctors wailing at my bedside, "Why didn't he wait? Why didn't he listen?? HE'S JUST A BOY!" 

In another unprecedented moment of confusion and terror, I began thinking about my mother. This is why she didn't want me to have sex, I thought. She wasn't worried about STDs or decency, she just didn't want me to have to wear an adult diaper in the ninth grade. But, just as quickly as those horrible thoughts entered my mind, they left. The memory of my mom's sex-talk did not stop me from making out with Liam as if his face were a watering hole in the desert. Even his alarming endowment faded from a potential murder weapon to shaft of erotic pleasure (yes, you can roll your eyes at that, grab a bucket if you need to, but I'm not apologizing). I don't know why I've never said it before, but making out for the first time was a Richter Scale 10. My body literally shook as a molten wave of calm covered me from follicle to foot. It was as if the little men in my brain were operating on too much and not enough caffeine. The first kisses were the greatest, most unoriginal thrills of my teenage life.

In spite of my maxed out levels of euphoria, we did not have sex that night. Which is a good thing, because I think I would have burst into flames and died right there. I would not rise from the flames like a sexual phoenix, but rather I would go down in history as a sex martyr--Sam Ferrigno, Patron Saint of Coitus. His was a life of few years, but those last 30 minutes were really something, am I right? *fist bump*.

My relationship with Liam lasted less than four months, and I attributed the end to my hyperactive sex-drive and inability to focus.  Several more relationships followed before I even made it to senior year. To say I was slutty would be less accurate than saying I was extremely slutty and could not be stopped. After each sex act, I was overcome with guilt and paranoia. I felt I had dishonored my family and had surely, definitely this time, contracted AIDS, herpes, gonorrhea, swimmer's ear and the black lung (seriously, has WebMD brought peace of mind to anyone?). Yet, every time the dust settled and I would see that my parents were not tarred and feathered for having a floozy for a son, and that--thanks to contraception and an open dialogue with sex partners about the ramifications of blowjobs--I was not positive for STDs. Sure enough, as soon as I felt relieved that I worried over nothing, I gained a false sense of invincibility and started all over again.

Over a hot mug of bourbon one night (don't ask), my dad once pontificated that, if you have a son, you worry about one penis. If you have a daughter, you worry about all of them. And now, I'd like to add that if you have a gay son, you might as well crush a Xanax into your morning coffee until he's 45, because that shit rinses and repeats like a shampoo model with short-term memory loss.

My poor parents. I think at some point, they had to toss their hands up and let Jesus take the wheel, because I could barely keep up with myself at times. Other students were excelling with scholarship-winning GPAs and record-breaking athletic feats, and I created a massive web of sexual confusion and potential penicillin injections. "Just don't get crabs, okay? Please?" my father asked one morning after I walked two boys to the front door. Truthfully, I think my parents did their job. They never shamed me for having sex (even when they told me not to, and I did anyway because hormones), and they spoke honestly about why reckless sex is bad for your health and for your soul. Still, I brought home many boys, some of which I fully intended to turn into semi-long-term boyfriends. When teens start having lovers, parents worry about the potential havoc their genitals will incur on any stability in their lives. My folks were great sports, but I know they worried like all parents do. If karma is at all mathematical in its score-keeping, I will no doubt become the octo-dad to a brood of polygamous, bisexual man-whores.

Note to self: WebMD the dangers of mixing benzodiazepines with caffeine.

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