Date: Tue, 7 Nov 2006 12:46:58 -0500
From: writeratwork849@msn.com
Subject: The Forever Moment

Foreword: This story is a real account of one of the most important times
of my life. Ever since it ended, I've felt incomplete. I have felt as if I
will never love another boy this much again. It was brief, but I would give
the world to see that face or kiss those lips one more time.

I am writing this to get it off of my chest and out of head. I want to
share with others the reality of closeness, the value of those memories
we've left behind. I want you, the reader, to think about this as if it
were your life, your memories. I want you to see what I've seen, to feel
what I've felt. This story will by no means be more painful than many real
accounts that I'm sure you have read, or perhaps experiences you yourself
have endured. However, the point of my story is to illustrate that, even in
the most fleeting times of your life, that special person can reach out to
you and give you a reason to search for more.

Every name with the exception of mine has been changed for the sake of
those who may not wish to have their identities revealed, including the
subject himself. The true value of what I have to share, I hope, goes
beyond names in meaning.

And I want everyone who reads this, regardless of age... gender... whatever
other variables there are, to think and reflect on their own lives. I want
you all to find that someone in your heart that has touched you in ways
nobody else ever has. I want you to write a letter to that person, and
whether or not you actually send it, I want you to thank them, praise them,
insult them, cry to them, whatever you feel you must do.

Why? Because our hearts live on only when we let them. When we cherish the
most wonderful, or unforgettable, or even painful events in our past, when
we allow ourselves to really appreciate how somebody has reached out to us,
we are sure never to have missed the beautiful things our lives have to
offer.

So, please keep your own lives in mind as you read. You won't find a
tragedy here, nor a comedy. You won't find an untimely death, nor will you
find a splendidly happy conclusion. You will find only my past, and the
tears I have shed long since.

I thank you for taking the time to read my story.

************************************************************************

My name is Kyle.

My story begins at Improv Camp 2004. I live in Ontario, not far from
Toronto. The campground is in the Capel Valley, near Regina,
Saskatchewan. For those of you who are more familiar with American
geography, I'll provide the equivalent; where I live in Ontario is
approximately as far east as Niagara Falls, and the campground is in the
prairies, north of Montana.

The camp itself is funded by the Canadian Improv Games, which also runs a
tournament across Canada, where secondary school teams compete with each
other performing improvised scenes. The camp was designed to hone the
improvisation skill, involving workshops related to the events used in the
tournament.

In August of 2004, I was sixteen years old, a number that strikes the
middle of adolescence, wherein hormones naturally run high. Those of you
who are still proceeding through the teen years I've so recently reached
the end of will understand exactly what I mean when I say I was interested
in only one thing: sex.

It seemed to be an all-encompassing subject in my mind... it still is, to
some extent. So aboard the plane, while a large portion of my excitement
was devoted to the prospect of camp, the other portion was focused either
on the genitalia of passing males, or on my own.

I arrived at camp in the afternoon on Sunday. The camp was to last until
the following Monday morning at approximately 10:30, when the buses would
arrive to take us back to the airport and, consequently, back to our homes
across the country.

The scenery, I feel compelled to point out, was as gorgeous and
breathtaking as it could possibly have been. The campground was situated on
a large lake, which was surrounded on all sides by rolling green hills,
quaint little homes and seemingly endless, cloudless blue skies.

It was a pity that for the first day or so, I didn't enjoy myself very much

Nearly alone in friends but for two companions I didn't see very often, and
plagued as I was by my sexual frustrations, it took me some time to get
adjusted to life at Improv Camp. The temperature was chilly, dropping to
below freezing at night, a factor I hadn't been prepared for; I was most
uncomfortable, fully dressed, in a sleeping bag that provided about as much
warmth as a paper bag and a pillow that felt as if it had been stuffed with
bricks. Both had been chosen because of their convenient travel size,
without attention paid to comfort or protection.

That first day, however, was the day I met Sarah, a friend I still hold
dear to this day, despite our three-year age difference. That day, she was
sitting on the stairs to the cafeteria, alone, and I earned myself a very
close friend by feeling particularly friendly and introducing myself.

She was a wonderful friend to me that week. She lived in Manitoba, which is
north of Minnesota, but would be moving to my province of Ontario a few
days after the end of camp. This, it seems, is proof that fate exists.

And so it was with her help that I began to enjoy myself. I made friends
readily and helped Sarah, who was a very introverted girl by nature, to
reach out and make friends of her own. Monday was a day of much laughter,
chatter, and frolic.

The week of camp to follow was just as enjoyable. I managed to sooth my
libido on the Tuesday through a fling with another boy from my cabin. The
fling didn't repeat itself, but I was free from the sexual tension for the
days to come, and I couldn't have been more satisfied.

Consequently, I was in a state of complete unawareness as what would be the
more important half of the week approached.

It was on Wednesday that I met the subject of this account: Donny. A boy my
height, my age, with thick, dark, curly hair as I'd never seen before, and
a smile that could leave a lesser man weak in the knees. Not classically
attractive by conventional means, however; I had scarcely taken notice of
him until that day, although I had seen him before.

He and two other campers, on this particular day, were playing cards on the
picnic table between the only two unused cabins on the campground. I
decided to join in. The game went as well as could have been expected,
although I lost, as I always seem to do playing that sort of game.

The game itself, however, wasn't as interesting as the conversation that
took place over its course.

Up to this point, I had told very few people in my life that I was
bisexual. I am gay now, and as out of the closet as is possible to be, but
I was a much more reserved boy back then. It was thus a very bold move to
make when, as the subject of sexuality came up, I told these three my
secret.

The reactions were mixed.

Joseph, to my right, who was also my bunkmate that week, was somewhat
astonished. It took him several attempts to sort out the myth from the
fact, amid remarks akin to: "You mean, you're a he-she or something?"

Matt, across the table, rolled his eyes at Joseph's reaction and shrugged
in answer to what I had said. "Doesn't really matter to me," he said.

Donny was the only one who didn't comment, and I didn't think much of it at
the time. I naturally assumed that it didn't matter and focused once more
on the game we were playing. I eventually lost again, and promptly the
lunch bell rang. Our game, which had been cut short, was decidedly won by
Matt, and we headed off.

On our way, though, I caught Donny's eye for a few seconds. It was a very
brief few seconds, but he was thinking about something, I could tell that
much. It was at that point that I started to think a little differently
about him.

Thursday passed as a Thursday normally would. The afternoon found us
playing cards again, this time inside one of the empty cabins. Matt was
winning, yet again, when the bell rang. Not for lunch this time, but for
workshops, for which Joseph and Matt left. Neither Donny nor I had any
workshops to be concerned with, so we were left in the cabin to talk.

We didn't mention anything of real importance for a long time. We talked
about the camp, our favourite counsellors. We talked about our friends. We
told each other about our homes; he lived on the west coast, in British
Columbia. He told me that he was artistic, and that he wanted to travel
outside of B.C. to other places in Canada, and other places in the
world. He was a boy after my own mind.

I, in turn, told him about my writing goals, about my own music, about the
new club I was starting at my school. I had been inspired that year to
begin an improv club at my high school, and it was in its fledgling stages
when the school year ended. I had decided to come to Improv Camp to further
my own skills so that I could be a more effective leader.

We began to talk about our personal lives, which led to talking about our
relationships. For his part, he had no girlfriend to speak of back in
British Columbia. I, likewise, had nobody back home. I didn't mention the
fling I'd had earlier that week, for obvious reasons, but whether I had or
not, I doubt I would have expected what was coming.

He was quiet for a few seconds before he asked me what it was like to be
bisexual.

I explained the experience to him as best I could, but it was a difficult
question to answer. After a few minutes of waffling around for an accurate
way to describe it, I told him, "it's fun, but it's frustrating."

"Why?" he said. "You could have anyone you wanted."

"Not really," I told him honestly. "Girls are as easy to come by as ever, I
guess, if you're like that. Guys are harder. All the best ones tend to
be..."

I stopped there for a moment. That was the first moment I really thought
about what I was saying to him. Or, more to the point, it was the first
moment I really thought about him.

He filled in the last blank for me. "Straight?"

I nodded. We talked some more about camp. He asked me if he thought anyone
else was gay, and I said I didn't know. I asked him about the girls he
liked, and he mentioned a few that I didn't know of. Throughout all this
talk, though, he looked increasingly odd. It felt like something I'd said
was bothering him, but I couldn't have guessed what it was.

It was a while before the subject came back up, and his question was, "how
do you know you're bisexual?"

I told him it was something that I just... knew. It was another hard
question. I told him it was a matter of attraction, the ones to whom you
felt romantically attracted to, for lack of a less scientific way of
putting it. And then I inquired as to what made him ask.

He waffled around for a while before he was able to answer that
question. It was in a very quiet voice that he responded. "I've been
thinking about it... myself, I mean, and guys. I think I might like them."

I have no need to say that this comment surprised me greatly. All I could
do was tentatively put my arm around his shoulders. I received no
complaint. We spent the rest of our talk that afternoon like that, sitting
on the lower bunk in the cabin with my arm around him. He was beginning to
see more of himself, to understand himself and what he was starting to
think.

When I tell people what happened, I often am asked if I converted him. I
tell them no, I did not. All I did was to help Donny understand a part of
himself that he hadn't realized was there. That realization began on that
day, as he sat there with my arm around his shoulder.

I told him, before we left that day, to think carefully about what he was
going through, to reflect. I was nervous for him. I was nearly afraid for
him. I didn't want this boy to stumble into something he didn't want. We
separated that day and I felt somewhat confused myself. I'd gotten my
sexual frustration out of my system, so what was this that I was feeling?

For me, that was the beginning of the week.

Friday found the two of us back in the cabin once more. Neither Matt nor
Joseph wanted to play cards on that particular day, so Donny and I went
alone to the cabin to play. The game didn't last long. We were soon bored
of cards and longing for each other... or at least I was. I wasn't sure
what he was thinking.

Sure enough, though, he moved closer to me, and I put my hand on his
shoulder. "Have you done any thinking?" I asked him.

He nodded. "It's strange," he told me. "I really don't know what to
think. I never really thought I might be, you know, different... until
yesterday, anyway. I guess I'm just confused."

Of course he was confused. I would have expected nothing else from someone
with a newly discovered perception of their own sexuality. However, I
didn't say anything. I just put my arm around him again, and we were quiet
for a long time.

It was after several minutes that he looked up at me, and then leaned in
toward me to kiss me. I drew back, ever so slightly. "Are you sure?" was
all I said. I was afraid. I was afraid for him and I was afraid for me. I
did not want him to make a mistake he'd regret later, and I most certainly
did not want to be the cause of that mistake.

So I asked him if he was sure. And he looked into my eyes. "No," he said,
"but I'm as sure as I'll ever be, and I know what I want."

To this day I have never heard a more logical answer to that question.

Finally, achingly slowly, his lips touched mine. So gently, we pressed our
lips together, He smelled nice, I remember that. He smelled like some of
the flowers on the hills. He smelled like the trees around our cabins. He
smelled like a camper with whom I had just fallen in love.

We eventually broke apart and held each other tightly. We would spend
countless minutes that would seem like hours just like that, holding our
bodies close, each just appreciating the other's presence, his warmth. I
stroked his hair with one hand as he breathed heavily, shuddering, into my
shoulder. I wished I could have known what he was going through. I wished I
could have been sure that I was doing the right thing.

But I wasn't. At that moment, I was filled with as much uncertainty as he
was. It was a different kind of uncertainty, though. It was the kind of
uncertainty one tends to feel when someone in his life goes through a major
change. It was the kind of uncertainty that asked repeatedly if this was
right, if it wasn't an unforgettable mistake in the making.

And then he drew away, and kissed me again. And this time, all the
uncertainty drifted away. All that was left was two pounding hearts and two
sets of lips, both pressed against each other and never wanting to be
apart. I held him as tightly as he held me, neither of us saying a word.

We spent another hour in that cabin that day, enjoying the state of being
together. We talked, we kissed... several minutes later, Donny would be the
one to slip the first hint of tongue. I always said that he was a wonderful
kisser, but he was far too modest. He always used to say that we just had
compatible mouths. But I know from experience that no such thing exists.

We opened our hearts to each other that day. I told him some of my secrets,
he told me some of his. I told him about the fling I'd had earlier in the
week, and all he did was giggle and kiss me again.

He asked me if he was mine. I said no, because truth be told, I was
irreversibly his.

Saturday passed much like Friday had, wherein we found another time to
steal away to that old cabin and be together. That was all it was for
us... just being together, appreciating each other, and loving each
other. I felt something with him that I'd never felt before. I had been
with boys before, but only on a level that involved sex, a very
disappointing place to be in a rut. Donny and I were on a level much higher
than that, a level upon which we didn't even need to talk about sex, much
less participate in the act. All we wanted was each other, and I have never
in my life felt more complete, or in love. If I ever reach that level with
anyone else, I will consider myself to be the luckiest man on the planet.

I know there are most likely those of you reading this now who are
sceptical. You will be thinking by now either that this story is not true,
or that feelings of such depth are not possible after such a short period
of time. I fear that all I can do is assure you that this story is nothing
but truth and feeling, and that the love I felt for Donny during those days
was greater than anything else I have ever experienced.

It was on that Saturday that we learned of the events to come on Sunday
night. There was to be a camp sleepover in the large building we used as a
theatre. Every camper would bring his or her mattress to the field outside,
whereupon there would be a dance, and then the sleepover would begin.

Sunday night arrived, and as planned, we all brought our mattresses to the
field outside. I spent a few minutes in the dance, but I wasn't much of a
dancer back then, and since both Donny and I were closeted, we couldn't
dance together without giving ourselves away. I left the dance, and Sarah
and I spent our time outside, in our sleeping bags on the mattresses that
were soaking wet with the dew of the night. A mutual friend of ours,
Cameron, was with us briefly, but he opted to go and dance. I remember
asking him to send Donny out; he and Sarah were the only two that knew
about our relationship at this point.

Donny never did come outside; I later learned that Cameron hadn't even told
him we were there.

However, the dance eventually settled down, and the mattresses were moved
in. Sarah, Cameron, Donny and I chose a spot against a wall, where the
stage had been set up for the performances of the week. The spotlights were
directly above us, the filters rendering their normally harsh light gentle
and dim.

Donny and I set up our beds side by side, sharing two sleeping bags, one to
use as a bottom sheet and the other as a blanket. Sarah was on my other
side and Cameron on hers. We all knew that we wouldn't be sleeping that
night if we could help it.

The building was full, naturally, but we still had space; the nearest group
of people was several feet away. We were thus free to talk about whatever
we wanted. We talked for a while about camp, about the counsellors. None of
us were ready for camp to end the following morning, least of all Donny and
I. Every time the topic came up, he held my hand tightly under the sleeping
bag, and I held his back.

It wasn't long before he and I got a little more daring. We held hands
outside the protective cover of the sleeping bag after a while, and nobody
seemed to care. This was something of a revelation to me. I had been
closeted for as long as I had been bisexual, and for the first time I'd
begun to realize how little I had to be ashamed of.

As the night wore on, at around two in the morning, we were no longer
sitting in a group but lying down and talking. Cameron was the first to
fall asleep, but Sarah, Donny and I were still wide awake. Soon, Donny
decided to be brave and put his arm around me, using my chest as his
pillow. I likewise put mine around him, and we stayed that way for a while,
still talking and laughing.

The topic of our imminent departure from camp came up again after half an
hour, and finally, Donny decided to throw caution to the wind. He glanced
up at me, with a look in his eye I had become all too familiar with over
the previous few days. I didn't even have to respond before he inched up
and pressed his lips against mine once more, much to Sarah's amazement. We
drew apart and I glanced around, aware that we had just kissed in front of
a large number of campers. But as I glanced around to gauge the reaction,
there were none that seemed to care.

The night was open to us.

I cannot describe to you the wondrousness of that night. There we were, on
the brink of our departure, free to be the loving couple we had grown
into. That night was... I can think of no other word besides "heaven" to
describe it. It was as if we were back in the cabin, but this time we had
all the time in the world, with no need to be careful or to worry every
time we heard footsteps. For as long as we were awake that night, we were
in each other's arms, kissing, holding each other, while still talking to
Sarah, who didn't mind in the least. I was free to exhibit my abject
adoration of the boy in my arms, who did the very same.

I remember, though, that at one point, Donny drew away with a tear on his
face. It wasn't until then that it really struck me that we would never see
each other again after we went our separate ways later that morning. I
wiped the tear off of his face, and I tried to reassure him that we would
see each other again, but it is very difficult to be reassuring if one is
uncertain himself.

I thus threw every ounce of passion and love I had into every kiss, every
hug, and every word we shared that night, as if each was our last. I wanted
him to know how strongly I felt. I wanted to be a part of him forever, just
as I knew he would be a part of me.

It was this time I shared with him that inspired me to name my story "The
Forever Moment." I know I am not the only one who has lived that moment
that seemed to last a lifetime, yet was over in the blink of an eye. We
take these moments for granted on their occurrence, and then discover how
terrible a mistake that is when we realize the moment has ended.

We eventually did fall asleep. I'm not sure when. I woke up that morning
around seven thirty, my arm around Donny, who slept on his side with his
back towards me. I awoke him with a kiss on the cheek, and when he drifted
into consciousness, I saw yet another tear in his eye. I knew there were
tears in mine.

We parted ways temporarily as we dragged our mattresses and sleeping bags
back to our respective cabins. I packed in nearly complete silence. I
shared the odd word with my cabin mates, but the majority of my time was
spent dreading the hour when the buses would arrive.

I finally finished filling my suitcase, including the rock-hard pillow and
the paper-thin sleeping bag. There was still another hour or so before the
buses would pull away from the camp; another half-hour before we needed to
be on the main field. I decided that I would spend that time in the cabin,
our cabin, where everything had begun.

I was somewhat surprised to find Donny there when I arrived. He sat on the
bottom bunk, looking at the floor. I sat next to him. We were very quiet
for a while, holding hands. He was trembling. So was I.

"There's always next year," he said quietly.

I nodded. "I'll be here. It was..." I laughed. "Camp was too much fun not
to go back."

He smiled. "Yeah. The pool party was awesome, wasn't it?"

I shrugged. "I didn't go into the pool, remember? I was too cold."

"Oh, yeah."

Neither of us wanted to talk about what was coming, and understandably
so. We had each other's e-mails. We were optimistic. But that didn't change
the inevitability of our separation.

Another tear ran down his cheek. "I don't want to leave," he said.

Neither did I, but I could barely talk. I wrapped my arms around him, and
he did the same. We kissed, for what seemed like the hundredth time, but it
was arguably the most passionate, desperate kiss we ever shared. I held on
to him more tightly than I ever had. We stood in the corner of the cabin in
a tight embrace for the longest time, making promises to each other about
the future.

Reality has a funny way of seeming unimportant, doesn't it? It isn't until
the very hour of a tragedy that the reality really sinks in. We never
realize what's coming until we face it head-on. My only reality was the
moment I lived in his arms, more moments that seem endless but pass by in
less than an instant. All I wanted to feel was his body against mine, the
gentleness and tenderness that I had come to love.

The bell rang soon, shattering our hopes that we would be able to stay like
that forever. We grudgingly parted, but not before he planted one more kiss
- our very last kiss - onto my waiting lips.

The buses began to arrive, and the campers all began to say their
goodbyes. I said many of my own that day before Donny's bus was ready. I
think I was avoiding the time when I'd have to say goodbye for real. It
inevitably came, and he held each other tightly once more. One last time,
the last time I would ever feel his arms around me, or his pounding heart
against mine.

My last words to him were, "we will see each other again. I promise."

He boarded his bus, and as it pulled away, I was standing there
watching. It faded into the distance, leaving only memories in its wake. I
have arguably never felt more incomplete in my life. It felt as if I was
being ripped in two, and half of me had been stolen away with him.

My own bus was ready shortly, and Sarah and I said our goodbyes as well,
amid promises to keep in touch once she moved to Ontario. She was the last
one at camp that day; her mother came later on to pick her up and take her
to her grandmother's house. I watched her fade away as well. But it was
different. I knew I'd see her again. I wasn't so sure about Donny.

I became intimately acquainted that day with the word "melancholy." I've
always thought of it as a great word to describe a perfect sense of
absolute depression. I hadn't yet known what it felt like. Now I had. And I
found myself wishing I hadn't.

I never saw Donny again. We e-dated for a while. At that time he'd been an
aspiring rapper; he sent me a very cheesy but sweet song that he'd made for
me. In return I wrote him a story, the only thing I could do for him. It
had been a fictional one about his feelings and inner conflict during the
initial stages of our relationship. He told me I'd captured them exactly.

But eventually the vast distance became too much for either of us to
bear. I found myself becoming less and less attached to him, and our
conversations became less and less frequent. I found someone else. He
supposedly found Christianity, or so he said when we broke up; I later
learned that he was dating another boy in British Columbia. It seemed to
end peacefully enough.

But I've lost him now, and I realize what a true horror that is. I cannot
now imagine having lost my feelings of love for him. To this day, I think
about him all the time. And there came a time when I asked myself why I
still thought about him. And I realized that he was the only boy to ever
reach that level beyond the physical, and reach deep into the emotional, of
all the boys I'd ever been with. He helped me to realize what I really want
from my life. He showed me that such a connection is possible.

I did go back to camp the next year, but he didn't. It wasn't until this
year that I started talking to him again, and our conversations have been
friendly, but fragmented. To talk to someone whom you have loved, whom you
still love, and be unable to express how you feel is no less than torture.

But I do not regret a single thing that happened at Improv Camp that
summer. It was brief, and had we lived closer together, we may have lasted
longer... but I still firmly believe, with all my heart, that I have never
had a more successful relationship than the one I shared with Donny, or a
more meaningful one.

So if you are reading this, and you remember someone in your life who has
given you a special memory, someone with whom you shared a moment that
lasted forever, write to them now. Thank them. Tell them whatever you want
to tell them. And if they ask why, tell them about the moments, the
memories, that they have given you.

You know my story. My heart held on to it for these past years as tightly
as I used to hold on to him. Thank you for reading, for allowing me to set
my memories free, and I am open to your stories, or memories, as you have
been to mine.

And if he's reading this right now, he knows. The names have been changed,
but he will still know. And so I say to him:

You will never be forgotten. You and I may talk, or we may not, and we'll
live our lives anyway. You may see parts of this story that didn't actually
happen in the way I say they did. You may wonder how I can still feel as I
feel, or how I ever did. But that doesn't matter. You were that special
someone to me, the one who opened my heart to the greatest ideal, and I
will always love you. And so, this is my letter to you.

Thank you.