the doors that follow

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Gay and Lesbian  |  House: Booksie Classic

Essentially, this whole story is a fun little project I did in a few hours, give or take (story outlining and such). I'll post the chapters every day or few days, I dunno, cuz some editing needs to be done.
Feedback is welcomed warmly

Chapter 1 (v.1) - Paul is Lame

Submitted: January 13, 2010

Reads: 294

Comments: 2

A A A | A A A

Submitted: January 13, 2010

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A A A

“I just . . . I want to be able to hold your hand whenever I want to,” said Michael. That was how he proposed a relationship to me two weeks ago. I thought it was the most romantic thing that’d ever happened to me, and I think I cried. Just a little bit, though.

Of course, I said I’d be his boyfriend. How could you not after something so sweet? Then I frolicked around in the streets for a few minutes afterward, before I remembered there was a birthday party going on across the street and went through that whole awkward, “I’m not crazy” slow walk back inside. There were people standing outside in birthday hats staring, even little kids stopped to watch me dance around. Someone booed, and that’s when I knew it was time to retire into the hills outside of Phoenix.

Not really, but I didn’t dare show my face in front of them for a few days afterward, which is simple because all you have to do is check out the window every time you go out. If your being sighted is unavoidable, there’s another simple solution: dress up as your mom.

I know what you’re thinking, “Why wouldn’t you dress up as your dad?” and the answer is simple. I don’t know who my dad is, and everyone on our block is aware of this as well. They also probably know that was me dressed up as my mom those couple days, which, at the time, I didn’t think about, but now in retrospect, that could probably only hurt my reputation as normal and sane. I digress.

By now, I probably should have introduced myself, so I’ll just do that now before I go any further and you’re like, “Who is this weird-ass?”

Well, my name is Paul. Paul Moore. I’m seventeen years old, and I’m from the lovely sizzling city of Phoenix, Arizona. I’ve lived here my whole life, mostly with my mom, and I love it. The weather’s beautiful, the people are nice and everyone I know lives here. Most everyone I know, that is.

I’m a bit shorter than average, standing about five-six, and I only weigh a sickening hundred pounds or so. I’ve tried several times to bulk up, but I can’t get rid of my famine-victim physique. I’m kidding, it’s not that bad, but I do wish I could have just a little muscle tone to kind of balance the size of my head. I digress.

Like I said, I live with my mom, Francesca. I have since forever. She’s great. She used to worry about me all the time, because I’d get sent home for trying to kiss the boys in kindergarten or wear dresses when she wasn’t home (don't get me wrong, I've got no desire to be a girl, it was just something to try but she freaked out, of course). This resulted in two brief stints in Nevada and California when I was eleven and fourteen, respectively. Both times were meant to “sort me out” but I guess St. Catherine’s All Boys School and my Uncle Brian couldn’t sort me out any better than my mom, because both times I lasted a grand total of two weeks. I’d love to tell you about what happened those times, but we’ll save those for another time.

Finally, when I was fifteen, or just before, I came right out, Christmas, at my grandparents house. We were all gathered around the table, and everyone was right in the middle of their dinner, talking and laughing, my cousin Jake trying to ask me what the ‘chicks’ were like at Metro Tech, when I made my move. I stood up, and flicked my glass, clearing my throat, I started, “I’d just like to say, this Christmas was really great, and thank you all for the gifts and such. They were all really great, and I also wanted to mention really quickly that I’ll be openly pursuing relationships from here on out within the same gender as myself. Thank you, merry Christmas.” Everyone said it was a lovely toast, and resumed their dinner for about a minute or so til they worked it out. Then everyone, collectively, no joke, turned their heads as one to look at me.

Stiff silence followed for about three minutes, until my Uncle Brian said, “I knew it,” and everyone agreed. Then they went back to their dinner, again no-joke. Two things changed that day: one, my mom stopped sending me away and accepted my flamboyant outbursts a lot more; two, my cousin Jake never asked me my opinion on ‘chicks’ anymore after that. It was a shame, because that was the only interaction we ever really had.

Of course, that was when I came out to my family, but I’d been out of the closet to my friends for the two years, prior to my homo-toast.

There are two people who I probably couldn’t get through a day without. My best friends, Nikolai Pavlov and Heather Wagner. Nikolai is the same age as me. We’ve been friends ever since seventh grade, when I decided I wanted to be on him, and that the fastest way to get there was to be near him. I introduced myself, and was quickly surprised to find that, although he’s a manly man, or whatever, he’s a lot of fun to hang around with. I might not be into sports, too much, but there’s something there between us. He just gets me, and I get him.

What drew me to him in the first place, like I mentioned, were his looks. Totally hot. Taller than me, pale skin-tone with black hair and steely grey eyes. He’s also got washboard abs that I could rest on forever and not get bored. He was also my first kiss. Again, though, that’s another story, another time. I’ll just tell you there was alcohol and internet porn involved.

Heather, on the other hand, is quite a handful. I met her when I was in sixth grade and she moved from Massachusetts or something. I was assigned to show her around, and she seemed okay until we got older and I realized her disregard for fashion and makeup in exchange for books and homework wasn’t a phase. Nowadays, I have to pin her down every morning just to get some eyeliner and lip gloss on her. Sometimes it’s a team effort when Angeline, Nikolai’s sister, helps me but she’s got cheerleading now and they practice as many times as possible throughout the day. When she doesn’t resist, the effect is quite stunning, to be honest.

She’s got this great thick, curly brown hair and creamy hazel eyes, and she’s taller than me by a few inches so she’s got these supermodel legs she’s always hiding under baggy jeans. The whole thing is repulsive, if you ask me.

“I want to be defined by what goes on in here,” she’d said one time pointing to her head, “Not what’s going on here,” she gestured to her body.

“Doesn’t mean you have to look like Gene Wilder, though.” I muttered back. She shrugged and kept reading some book for our English class. I was appalled.

“If she wants to look like an ancient dude, that’s her choice, man,” said Nikolai, defending her.

“What are you saying? We have to be seen with her!” I protested. Then he shrugged, and kept reading the book. Or pretended to. Nikolai’s not much of a reader.

Anyway, there’s some stuff about me, so now onto what this whole thing is really about. Me and Michael.

I met Michael at a GLBT youth group in central Phoenix two months ago, and we really hit it off. I didn’t think he was the best looking guy there, but I thought he was really funny and sweet, and I’m never opposed to new friends and stuff so we started hanging out.

Michael is a year younger than me, and acts accordingly so. He’s got A.D.D. which makes for frustrating conversations when he keeps drifting off topics and getting sidetracked, but like I said, he’s got a great sense of humor and his A.D.D. makes him really lively and fun to be around.

In looks, he’s like a half-foot shorter than me, and has curly brown hair and hazel eyes. Not the best looking guy, sort of like that guy Matthew Underwood. Except he’s pretty skinny like me.

When we started hanging out, he was like a hopped up little sidekick of mine and followed me everywhere, all the time. At first, it was annoying until I started finding little love notes all over that he’d left for me, and then it got cute. Well, a little creepy at first, but when I deduced he was harmless, I thought it was cute.

I confronted him about all those notes and asked him what he meant by them. He was taken aback, I guess because he thought I was angry or something, and he almost cried. I told him I just wanted to know what he wanted by writing all those little things, and that’s when he hit the home run, with what he said next.

“I just . . . I like you. I want¾ ,” he sighed, “I want to kiss you. I want you to kiss back. I want . . . I want to be your boyfriend.”

It was, simultaneously, the sweetest thing, and most pathetic thing I’d ever seen. Then, he grabbed my hand, and said, “I just . . . I want to be able to hold you hand whenever I want to.” so I let him.

Now, theweek before winter break, I was being faced with two big decisions. One, did I want to take Michael along with me to my grandparents house in Aspen for the break, or Nikolai like I’d done the four years prior. And two, how were me and the Gay-Straight Alliance at my school going to get this same-sex couple ban lifted from our school’s social events guidelines.

I know, right? Medieval stuff we’re dealing with, but the principal is this super conservative Republican dude who would also love to see the G-S Alliance disbanded as well. The worst part is, some of the faculty are on Hitler’s side.

Hopefully, all goes well.


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