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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic

A short story about a boy and his sexuality.

Submitted: March 27, 2018

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Submitted: March 27, 2018



When I was 8 I kissed Tyler Brown at a birthday party. We were playing hide and seek and he just happened to choose the same closet as I did. I kissed many boys ever since, but never again Tyler Brown. Once I’ve heard, but don’t quote me on that, that the average gay man has about 400 different sexual partners throughout his life. It may or may not be true, in any case I aspire to be that kind of average gay man. But my environment wasn’t really favorable for such aspirations. I grew up being told that if I couldn’t quote at least 50 bible verses, I’d get punished by God himself. I did not once believe in that God but I knew that punishment would come along either way. After all, my father’s fists were pretty dreadful.

Before I turned 18, I was sent to church camp for every spring and summerbreak. And several long weekends, year after year. The only exception was the summer just before 9th grade. My sister Elizabeth had unexpectedly received a scholarship which would pay her entire college tuiton fee, so my parents decided to spent the savings on a trip to the Dominican Republic. Instead of reading the bible at church camp, I could now read the bible on the beaches of the Caribean Sea. I was thrilled. But the fun didn’t last very long. My youngest sister, Joy, soon turned into the reddest crab on the beach and let me tell you, a 3rd degree sunburn makes for a hell of an ugly crab. Ginger kids are just not made for the sun and we all realized a bit too late. While my parents were busy praying for her recovery, I roamed the streets of Puerto Plata, looking at young, shirtless men and I had a good time. There was something about the beads of sweat on their hairless chest that made me lose my mind.

I was never afraid of anyone finding out about my sexuality. But I was smart and I knew that it was much more profitable for me to wait a little while, get a college degree and get out of town, before I drop the bomb. I had anticipated the day my parents would find out but when they finally did, it was way too soon. I admit, my parents bedroom might have not been the ideal choice for blowing the cute boy from next door. But he was moving soon and it seemed worth the risk. Yes, I would have used my own bedroom if my sisters hadn’t been playing in there. And no, in the heat of the moment I did not remember to lock the door. I still think it was worth it, even though my dislocated elbow never fully healed. Covered in bruises, I told everyone I got into a fight with a 12th grader. Every bit of my body was hurting but the satisfaction made up for it. My mother consulted the priest and he suggested conversion therapy. I remember my father saying that if electroshocking was still a thing, it’s what I would get. And if that would not cast out the devil, he would electrocute me himself. Well, that surely would have stopped me from bumming boys once and for all. Conversion therapy didn’t and I don’t believe it ever really does, but it comforted my parents and therefore got me out of trouble for a little while. One and a half years later I was freed from Dr. Miller’s spell. She promised my parents that she had erased every last bit of homoerotic thought from my flithy mind. On paper, I was cured. Little did they know that I was still hooking up with my class mate Thomas on Mondays and with my math tutor Dominic on Thursdays.

Life was wasn’t too bad and I even got to enjoy church camp a little more when I cought my room mate Matthiew staring at me in the communal shower. He wasn’t comfortable with his sexuality at all but we found our way around his first doubts and even came upon an old shed, which just happened to be the perfect place for some sinful ado. When I came home 2 weeks later, I waited three days before I went downstairs, looked at my family at the breakfast table, and said: “I had gay sex at church camp. 3 times.” And without batting an eye I picked up the croissant from my father’s plate, took a big bite from it, and left through the front door.

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