As ridiculous as this may sound, I feel like an outsider looking in at my boys Collin and Marco sitting across from me, engaged in a conversation that I was not invited into. Much of what I was feeling could be attributed to the cocaine withdrawal I was obviously going through — especially since it had been more than a minute since my last indulgence. Part of me envied their closeness, while another part of me unselfishly understood their bond. Collin was the first to unwrap Marco’s virginity, and I cannot help wondering why he was chosen over me, but one cannot dwell in the past nor in lost causes.
I know, without a doubt, that Marco didn’t just allow things to happen without the delectable toppings of romance and tenderness, because he is the consummate hopeless romantic. Whatever Collin stirred in him during that moment had to have moved him over from reluctance to indulgence within the pulsating beats coming from his heart. I wish I was a fly on the wall to watch the entire event unfold, because I know that it contained all the heat of a perfectly written lovemaking scene.
Out the corner of my eye I caught him glancing over at me a couple of times and I didn’t have the courage to lock gazes with him. Perhaps it was the guilt I felt about male-on-male interaction. Oh, sure, I could have lured him into my seduction with false promises, but I couldn’t allow myself to stoop that low to satisfy my insanely high sexual urges. I had to maintain a certain level of integrity dealing with someone I considered to be one of my best friends.
If I could erase the moment when I asked him about Denise from the mental record book, I would. I mean, how insensitive could I have been, asking him what he thought about her when he was down on his knees paying homage to my stiff and ready? The pained look in his eyes when he stopped abruptly, looked up at me intensely, and then suggested that I ask her if she thought I was cute, kept playing over and over in my head relentlessly. It’s as if time stopped and presents itself at random as a reminder of how much of an insensitive asshole I could be.
I remember the first time that Marco and I ever fooled around sexually — it was pretty much an exploration session. I told him I would show him mine if he showed me his, and as the days swiftly passed we started moving beyond the comparison interludes. If I recall, we both experienced our first climaxes together during one of our bump and grind sessions, but didn’t really understand what had occurred until a little later. The only thing we both knew is that it was one of the best feelings that either of us had ever experienced, and because of that our private escapades escalated.
Needless to say, Marco’s affections toward me grew to epic proportions, and what should have been a mutual feeling between the both of us never manifested. As we grew older, my attraction towards females intensified and I pretty much tossed him to the side and focused on getting the “kitty” from girls. If we did fool around it was only when I couldn’t get it from the fairer sex, and even though I knew how he felt about me it didn’t stop me from treating him like a means for a quick nut.
Eventually he caught on to his role in our sexual interludes and it did throw a wrench into our relationship as friends. Fortunately for me, he was infatuated with my physical appearance and my good looks. There were instances where I just knew he wouldn’t climb aboard the “D” train, but all I had to do was sweet talk him a little, bat my hazel eyes at him, and stroke his emotions with my charisma and, BAM!, it was on and popping.
During sleep overs we’d toss it up like two wild animals, but he was the one that did that more intimate acts when we got busy, because I refused to touch his wand and made it clear to him that I wasn’t into that. Whenever he tried to make me touch him down there I’d always snatch my hand away, and I’m not sure where that mental block surfaced. In a lot of ways I felt like I was 100% heterosexual because I didn’t touch him or go down on him the way he’d touch and go down on me.
The entire matter was an off limit discussion for me, so whenever he brought it up I would put my clothes on, apologize, and cut out, but I would always come back sniffing around because I thoroughly enjoyed how he made me feel when he sexed me up. I know that my disdain for performing certain acts with dudes didn’t just stop with me. I knew a whole lot of dudes who also only saw the physical side between two men, so I was not alone in my rational.
Now, my rational is a little bit more complicated than, perhaps, even I can explain, but I’ll take a stab at to appease your curiosity. First things first; for as long as I can remember my father and his buddies always flaunted their masculinity by referring to and acknowledging their favorite parts on a woman’s anatomy, so their actions pretty much defined, in my mind, what my role was as a man. It also outlined a woman’s role in a man’s life.
Men didn’t cry, and if they had to they would do it in the privacy of their own space.
Men possessed an acceptable amount of athletic abilities, and when they engaged in sports they had to be the epitome of confidence.
Men never complimented another man about their appearance unless it was to admire a slick suit, or a sharp as pair of “gators”, but any lingering comment about their physical appearance was absolutely off limits. To linger would raise a few questionable brows.
Men must never give one another lengthy, two-armed hugs, unless it was during a time of mourning which was considered understandable and acceptable.
Men should never express to one another how deeply they felt about each other, because that was considered to be too female-like, so rather than engaging in that feminine type of rhetoric, less was more manly than too much.
And, the biggest of all rules is that a man never touches another man’s penis under any circumstances.
Yup, those are a few of the standard rules that applied to being a man, and I never ever considered breaking any of them. I can still recall several instances when my father questioned me about Marco’s sexuality based solely on his own personal observation. His first inquires were pretty much subtle statements about Marco’s lack of female companionship.
“Son, Marco must have the young ladies lined up around the block,” he’d say, obviously trying to get me to open up to him on the sly.
“I’m not sure about around the block, but he does have about three fine ass girls at school that are constantly on his jock,” was my response.
“I know that’s right! You, Collin, and Marco are killing them sweet thangs, I bet,” he chuckled, moving on without any further questions.
So, you can understand why I make it my business to stay under the radar when it comes to the subject of sexuality. The last thing I needed was to have my life scrutinized and put under a microscope by my dad, and now that I think about it, I’m sure that most fathers would not be able to handle the stares they’d get from other men, having a homosexual as a son. His absolute disgust was displayed when he first laid eyes on Marco’s cousin, Antwan.
“That young man’s father must really be disappointed in him. Look at him switching his ass like a woman, and carrying that purse around like he’s got a fucking pussy!” he snapped, scoffing after making the comment.
“Marco never talks about that, dad,” was my reply, keeping my nervous response to just those few words.
If my father even caught me checking out that fat booty on Antwan, he’d probably string a rope to a tree and wrap it around my neck until he felt I had come to my senses. The last thing I ever wanted to do was disappoint him, which is why I always kept my ass on some type of athletic team. Whenever I’d catch the proud expression on his face when I looked up into the bleachers during a football or basketball game, I felt that I was living up to his expectations as a man.
In all honesty, I hate I ever opened up Pandora’s Box back in the day, because as hard as I have tried over the years, I couldn’t seem to get it back closed. Marco always tells me that I am just a sexual being, but that simple summary would never go over in my father’s home, nor beneath it’s roof, so my sexual encounters with men would forever be parked away in the secrets I choose to hide from the roving eyes of society.
As far as my father was concerned, I was a pussy loving, titty sucking, heterosexual, and that’s the title I planned on keeping for the rest of my life; however, if I were to ever step out on faith and live openly as a homosexual, then Marco would definitely be the one.
In my eyes, he’d be worth it.
“Is there a Marco Thompson here?” the heavy set, African American nurse asked.
“Yes, how is my mother doing,” Marco asked, jumping up from his seat.
Damn, look at that phat booty…
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Author G. D. Grace reserves all rights and reproduction without written permission is not permitted. If found, legal action will be taken against the person(s) or company(s) that have cut or pasted (Plagiarized) any portion of this written document. Author, G. D. Grace; Published © 2011 March