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So there I was, seventeen years old, with a fondness for the Cure and show tunes, not to mention the fact that I was regularly masturbating while prodding my rectum with a vast assemblage of household objects. On top of this, I had recently been exposed to The Rocky Horror Picture Show and had borrowed some of my mother's lipstick on a number of occasions to find "just the right color" for me. Of course, I told no one about these things. They were the dark secrets that I kept in my closet, and it was from this closet that I cleverly interpreted the obvious signs: I was what the other guys at school referred to as a "fucking faggot." I was not entirely happy with this terminology, and opted instead to quietly admit to myself that I was simply gay.
Granted, I was not terribly popular with the ladies at that age, which may have contributed to my assumption. When all of my friends were regaling me with tales of their experiments with girlfriends (wonderful stories
that usually involved some type of fruit or public place), I simply nodded and tried to forget that most of my evenings were spent explaining my "lengthy shower time" to my parents. As if this weren't enough, I noticed a distinct lack of cock in late-night cable erotica. Too many times I caught myself thinking, This is all well and good, but I want to see a cock penetrating that woman and then coming on her. What truly heterosexual man longs to see a veritable chorus line of cocks ejaculating on a woman? (Actually, quite a few, but I didn't know that then.)
Then again, I never fantasized about having sex with a man, and I never watched gay porn (although I didn't have access to it even if I had wanted it — thanks to the Internet, the struggling gay adolescent has things much easier these days). But I did, quite by accident, end up masturbating in the dark with my friend Joel while we listened to Pink Floyd's "Several Small Species of Furry Creatures Gathered in a Cave Together and Grooving with a Pict," from the album Ummagumma.
We had been watching some ridiculous soft core porn that we rented from the local video store: The Red Shoe Diaries, or some Shannon Tweed film . . . I can't recall, because we weren't interested in the plot and thus kept fast-forwarding
 from one lame sex scene to the next. When it was over, and our eager hormones sufficiently teased, I said something like, "Damn. I need to jack off."
How things proceeded from there is unclear, but I remember there was a small debate about whether or not I would really do it, then Joel said he would do it, then the lights were off, the music was on, and we moved to opposite sides of the room to begin our business.
To his credit, Joel was done almost immediately. And then he started again. This kind of pressure made it all the more difficult for me. Plus, because there was only one bottle of lotion between us, there was the constant interruption of passing it back and forth. And then there was the sound: in the dark with Pink Floyd droning in the background, the sound of a greased fist vigorously working a cock could not be more absurd. When I finally got past that, Joel completely psyched me out by saying:
"Why do you hold your breath when you jerk off? You'll have a heart attack someday."
I had not been aware of my tendency to hold my breath while masturbating; still, there could have been few occasions more ill-suited for pointing this out. I was already feeling inadequate when faced with Joel's rapid fire ejaculation and recovery, and now I was being marked as a cardiac risk. It made me nervous that someone was paying such close attention to me as I masturbated. I told Joel to be quiet, and I turned up the music to drown out the sound of his activities and my respirations.
Forty-five minutes later, I finally finished. Joel was capping off his third of the evening. The next day, I told my mom that I wanted to get a perm.
The perm had an interior logic of its own. I had a terrible crush on the gay-and-permed fellow who choreographed the color guard for  the marching band. Which, come to think of it, was another thing: I was in the color guard. I rarely admit to this detail of my life — to look someone in the eye and shamefully tell them that, instead of playing sports in high school, I chose to twirl a flag, is still a struggle.
Why I was attracted to this guy I can only venture to guess. He was charming and funny, as so many gay men seem to be. I was also charming and funny, and together we were a riot. Thus, our mutual charm and humor seemed yet another indicator of the fact that I was destined to suck cock.
Nothing ever came of my attraction to the color-guard choreographer, but secretly I started to reveal my sexual awakening to a few people, always women, because I felt they would be the least judgmental. I was on the lookout for my requisite "fag hag." How could I be a bona fide homosexual without one?
My confession would often happen late at night, toward the end of a party when I was alone with someone on a porch, smoking a Virginia Slim and drinking the last of my wine cooler. I would sigh and say:
"You know, I think I'm gay."
Whatever girl I was with would go:
"Yeah, I knew that."
And that, more or less, was the end of it.
In the months following the initial self-abuse session between Joel and I, there were a few other instances that more or less imitated the first one and Joel was  always the champion during these marathon sessions. I surmised that this was why he did so well with the girls at school: he was never at a lack for a date, and his tales of sexual prowess were no secret. I personally bore witness to him having sex with a girl on the fire escape of a hotel fifteen minutes after meeting her, and then was dumbfounded with amazement as he nailed the prom queen less than an hour later.
As for me, my progress toward becoming a homosexual had reached a plateau. Although I was certainly the picture of a dainty as I fluffed out my perm at school every morning, I had yet to really be "intimate" with another man. Of course, I didn't give the matter much thought. I spent my hours in the shower thinking about women, but I knew this was just out of habit and that I would get over it soon.
By some good fortune I landed a copy of some really raunchy porn: lots of cocks, lots of cocks coming on women. I was delighted. Naturally, I extended an invitation to Joel to stop by that night. We took a ride out by the mall and picked up the new Bette Midler as a starter, after which we retired to the basement for a private screening.
Up until this point, Joel and I had always been shrouded in darkness when whacking ourselves. For the first time, in the light of the television, I saw his cock: it was a little misshapen, with an acute bend to the left at the tip. Joel had really launched into it once the porn got going, but I was having trouble keeping it up. We were sitting next to each other on the couch, and Joel reached over and took my cock in his hand and started stroking me. I was shocked; I had never felt another hand on my cock, and what was even more surprising was when I wrapped my hand around Joel's throbbing member; it was absolutely the strangest sensation, feeling this thing that was so familiar and yet completely alien. If this had been a woman, I would have been at a loss for what to do precisely, but I was certainly well-acquainted with the equipment, and so I began to move my hand up and down. Joel came in a matter of seconds. My own dong mustered a half-salute, then hunkered down and looked sullen. I remember feeling somewhat put off by the sensation of Joel's spunk on my hand.
I tried getting off on my own for about half an hour, during which time Joel jerked himself again. Finally I gave up, citing fatigue. That was the last time anything ever happened between Joel and I — or any other man. When my hair finally straightened out, I left it that way. I quit the color guard at some point, too. (It was a decision which prompted my father to give me $100 and remark, "Well, you've finally got your head on straight." There was not a hint of irony in his voice.) And in some fluke of fate I'll never understand, I ended up taking the homecoming queen to prom and fucking her in the front seat of a friend's Dodge Daytona at a party later that night. I became incredibly drunk afterwards and announced to those gathered around the keg, "Man, do I ever love that sweet, sweet pussy!" The homecoming queen never went out with me again.
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| ABOUT THE AUTHOR: |
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Kevin Keck has worked as a minor league baseball
announcer, pastry chef and forest ranger. In 1997 he
boxed semi-professionally, losing all but one of his
nineteen bouts within two rounds via knockout; the
exception lasted three rounds. His writing appears
frequently on Nerve.com.
click here for more Kevin Keck articles |
©2002 Kevin Keck and Nerve.com
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