satanspetcat

It occured to me today that I have a lot of thoughts. This should not have been such a striking revelation in consideration of my weekly schedule including mostly therapy appointments, dropping out of school, and my recent visit to the hospital.

One of the thoughts that I have not focused on very much lately is that of sexuality; specifically the more interesting componant therein: Sex. For the sake of the reader and the writer I will now proceed to explore just why I was a "late bloomer".

*Once again I found myself trapped in the kitchen; not having gone so far as to lock the doors but simply the gaze which she struck upon me froze my feet to the floor. The same question had arisen in previous conversation, and, in fact, the same answer had arisen more than once. However, a displeasure in the available selection of partners was not a good enough reason, and her doubtful suspicion would later be confirmed as incredible, if not partially inaccurate, clairvoyance. Expression far from soft, she ventured a guess, "Are you gay?" Upon which I stormed from the room, an action still within the bounds of justification; such an insult against simple reason! I had not ventured into the world of dating therefore I must be a homosexual?

Of course, haunting dreams of sexual encounters with other boys had nothing to do with this accusation, they were merely abberations in the mind of an ever developing teenager; with time they would dissappear... right? And no, I did not have a girlfriend. I had never had a girlfriend. Nevermind the fact that I was gaining on my golden years, sixteen revolutions and counting - I had never so much as kissed a girl. Far from being one to blame society, I blamed my inability to visualize myself performing the activities so often prescribed as the necesary foundation of such a structured relation: kissing, touching, being naked, sex. Such an animalistic ritual of forceful pleasure, inducted from pure lust and passion. I could never provide these things.

A turning point came almost two years later, some months after intertwining fingers with my second girlfriend. Experimentation had come slow - a month of holding hands, a tentative kiss, and a month of gentle kissing before my hands ventured to the buttons of her white blouse, a color representative of our childish innocense, even when crumpled on the darkened floor of a parked car in the woods. And some point, after our hands and mouths had explored the entirety of our bodies, a vision struck me (nevermind the fact that we were curled up naked under a blanket, the folded down seats of a compact making our mattress): romantic sex. Sex not grounded in the ritualistic pounding and moaning and screaming; not based on the conquest of some unsuspecting body; but sex with lips locked, soft breathing, and eyes staring deep within each other - and suddenly the world expanded, I was ready.

Again though, a doubt, a suspicion. A desire's resurgence who's exodus was caused largely by the same reason I could never have a girlfriend for so long: I could never be gay if I couldn't imagine myself having sex with a boy. Just like before, the pornographic images pervaded my impressions of love between boys: Bent over the back of a chair, eyes toward the floor as his paid partner flexed his abs for the camera. Cut-in: watch the veins of his penis as they throb, hear the man with the unseen face groan as he comes inside our bent over hero, pulling out to demand more satisfaction. Pervasive still is a sense of inadequecy regarding my own ability to satisfy another man from behind him, but more recently an old epiphany has once again occured.

Today, I finally saw myself, in my mind's eye, engaged in romantic sex with a boy. Gone were the demands of performance, the expectations of physical perfection, and the sort of unavoidably ironic machismo from the image. Left together, two boys behind a locked door, lips together as they squirm from their clothing, hands grasping for hip bones and pressing skin against skin. Love. Romance. Sex as expression of true desire, not as a method of satisfaction for unfulfilled lust. Sex as a moment shared between two people who wish nothing more than time together, who will put away the image and fall asleep in each others arms not as a stereotype or a label, but as lovers; happy with who they really are.*

I do love writing. I feel as though I am reaching through the depths of my conscious to pull forth such vocabulary as to bring you into my existance, if only for four paragraphs.

Have a lovely day, I know I've learned a little about myself.