The first boy I fell in love with was much older, I was on the tail end of eleven and he was Eric my neighbor, sixteen. The first time I saw him I was enamored with his lips were full and pouty, his hair was silky blonde and smelt like baked apples, I remember thinking he looked just like a younger cuter version of James Dean in “Rebel Without a Cause” that movie with Natalie Wood. He was dreamy and I remember thinking about him continuously.
At eleven I was in sixth grade and I had no idea what being gay meant and I would sit in my bed with the sheets over my head jerking off to the perfect boy next door. Images of his chest developing manly definition beneath the tight green T-shirt wet from walking in the early summer rain echo memories of this child's first adventure jumping through the front sprinkler.
These hopeful erotic fantasies glistened through my mind, weekly as we walked together to the local swimming pool. He would always undress backwards, slipping into a red Speedo, they weren’t conformist suicide back then, tight against his waxy ass. I would pull myself into a stall to embarrassed by my bright orange version of short-short swim-wear (all the rage among those in their seventies) but i knew he didn't care about anything other than the time we spent swimming and checking out the recent additions to local attractions, mainly that summer Cheryl Jacob's new breasts. Oh god I had it bad for him. He bought me anything I wanted when we went downtown on my new teen trips and years would pass before I realized the hard-ons where not normal for a boy to have over a beautiful young man’s bodies.
I would never say he was actually my boyfriend but he counts in this category, he taught me so much about lust and envy (two staples of love in my life). He had enough girls chasing after him to subdue the urges to take him home to mom and dad, and he fucked as many as could throw themselves at his knees. He told me stories of “wet” girls and how you had to hold back or they’d get it in the face if they weren’t careful. He thought of me as a little brother and at ten, eleven, twelve years old I got facial advice from the boy who would be my life long measuring stick to those men who would come, and I ate it up.
He would talk about his dick and how it got hard before he could “screw” these “chicks” and how sometimes they would bleed on his sheets and he’d have to tell his mom he had a bloody nose - Who believes this shit kids make up?- I knew what he meant because I was getting these feelings too but they weren’t for the smutty girls Eric was sleeping with they were the blonde boys from the swimming class and schoolyard bullies. I was to spend every waking moment with Eric from fifth through eighth grade and slept in his basement all the way through that summer.
- which is where this story is going-
I was Eleven in 1977 the same summer Elvis Presley died. Eric and I went to the store August 20th three days after the death was announced to buy black hair dye. In 1977 it may not have been unconformity to wear red Speedo swimwear but it was unreal for a perfectly beautiful blonde haired boy to want to dye his hair black. It didn't last long but my fantasy was real Eric was my first real adventure and I was in heaven. I slept in Eric's basement three feet from his perfect body, one night he asked me if I was "Gay", he told me what it meant and said I could touch him down there if I wanted to. The following week without notice with his new black hair he went away to attend military camp. I waited for three weeks and he didn't write, his parent stopped talking to mine and he fell away.
I wouldn't say I ever really got over him but maybe he never got over me either.
You never know he didn't write.