Date: Tue, 05 Nov 2002 18:14:00 -0500
From: Tom Cup <tom_cup@hotmail.com>
Subject: Of Our Teenaged Years - Chapter 2 -  Gay Y/F (correction)

Copyright 2000, 2001, 2002 by the Paratwa Partnership: A Colorado
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This is a fictional story involving alternative sexual relationships. If
this type of material offends you, please do not read any further. This
material is intended for mature adult audiences. Names, characters,
locations and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination
or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or
persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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

Of Our Teenage Years
By Tom Cup
Chapter 2
Remembrance

"So, how long have you known?"

"I've always known," Sam said.

"Always?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

Sam and I began spending most of our spare time cooped up in the treehouse,
snuggling and talking. I was amazed to learn that Sam had always thought of
himself as gay, and me as his de facto boyfriend when we were younger. The
thought made me uncomfortable. I was just beginning to understand my
feelings. Each day with Sam I opened a new door to my inner-self, and
discovered a part of me that had been hidden in one of those closed off
rooms. Sam reminded me that I would grumble when he climbed in bed with me,
but soon would wrap my body around his. We tangled our bodies together.

As Sam talked, I remembered. The years apart fell away. I was ten again and
Sam was my best friend. I loved the way that he absently placed his arm on
my shoulder, as we walked, and he whispered some secret in my ear. It wasn't
the secret that made me giggly. It was Sam's warm, milky, breath touching my
skin. I loved when he would suddenly tackle me, and we would wrestle
together, his body and mine rolling together on the grass in his backyard,
until he would wind up on top of me tickling me into submission.

"God I was perving bad on you," Sam laughed.

I punched him lovingly and shook my head. I did love those moments, but I
hadn't thought of them as sexual; although, I do remember they aroused me.
But I didn't really know what being aroused meant.

"So how did you know?" I asked.

"I don't know. I just did."

"OK. So how come you didn't tell me?"

"Well, at first I just assumed you knew I liked you. I mean, I know you knew
I liked you, but I thought you really knew I liked you. You never pushed me
away, or told me to stop. And then that one time..."

Sam's voice trailed off. His eyes became distant. He released me, got up
from the floor where we were lying together, and sat on the couch. I sat up
and looked at him; he stared down at me. His expression was one of regret
and sadness. I tried to remember what I might have done. Fear strangled my
heart at the thought that I may have somehow hurt Sam. I couldn't remember
the event he was referencing.

"What? What l'd do?"

"It wasn't you. It was me," Sam sighed, closing his eyes, "We were
wrestling. I was on top of you. I started tickling you. You were laughing so
hard you were crying, and screaming, begging me to stop. You remember?"

"Yeah," I said, "Kind of."  The truth was most of our wrestling matches
ended in that way.

"Yeah," Sam continued, "This time I made you say `I give.' Then I pinned
your arms over your head. I kissed you."

I gasped. The event came rushing back into my mind. Sam was on top of me,
smiling down at me; my arms weren't really pinned; I wasn't trying to get
away. I was content to have him on top of me. I smiled up at him, looking
into his eyes. Our bodies were hot from our wrestling. I was aroused, and
unashamed, as the heat of his posterior rocked on me. When his lips touched
mine, I puckered my lips. He hadn't kissed me. We had kissed each other.  I
shrilled with delight at the memory. Scampering up to the couch, I threw
myself into Sam's arms, and kissed him.

Our tongues danced, and our hands roamed one another's bodies. I finally
received the kiss that I had, unknowingly for years, been awaiting. Sam
pulled away.

"That was great," he said, "but I have to finish. Dad saw me. Saw us.
Remember? He called me into the house. You were still sitting on the lawn,
where I left you, when I came back. I told you my Dad wanted to talk to me,
and that you had to go home. You said you'd see me the next day, but you
didn't. You called, but I always made some excuse. That's when I got put in
baseball."

The kiss had left me in a daze. I sat on the lawn in a glow. I wanted to do
it again. Even as Sam told me I had to go home, I really didn't hear what he
was saying. I skipped home, leaping at the leaves on branches of trees
overhead, happier than I had ever been. That evening as I watched
television, I rocked back and forth in my chair, reliving that kiss.

But the next day, Sam said that I couldn't come over. He was doing stuff
with his Dad. The day after he had to go somewhere. And then his Dad put him
in baseball. It was a confusing time for me. One day, I was beginning the
most intimate relationship of my life, and the next day, I was alone. I
cried for a week after Sam told me he was in baseball, and that he wouldn't
have time to see me. I hated baseball. I told myself that I hated Sam. I
thought that he preferred baseball to me.

"That's why you got put in baseball. `Cause of me."

"No," Sam said, gasping, "It wasn't your fault. Dad just thought it was a
phase, and that I needed to learn how men played with each other. That's
all."

"That's not true. He saw us. And then he took you away."

Why people think that sports, or a change in environment, will stop a kid
from being gay is beyond me. They seem to think that being gay is something
that can be rubbed on or off -- the old birds of a feather adage. Baseball
hadn't changed Sam. The years of separation from me hadn't changed Sam's
feelings for me, or mine for him. Once we became free to share our feelings,
like the two honest children we had once been, our love for one another
resurfaced.

Sam and I handled the baseball summer, and the subsequent years,
differently. We were both lonely for each other. Sam knew why we were kept
apart. He found comfort in another boy, experiencing with him, the intimacy
that was meant to be shared with me. I felt a bit jealous about that turn of
events, though I knew it wasn't Sam's fault. I withdrew. I began pretending
that Sam's kiss meant nothing; it was just a childhood game. I never allowed
myself to become close to another boy. I was fearful that if I became too
close to anyone else the same thing would happen. Become too good of friends
and they leave you. Better to be friendly than to be friends. It hurts less
in the end. That was my motto.

When Sam returned to school, having been caught with the other boy, it
wasn't just his despondency that kept us apart. I was still hurt. I still
felt that he had abandoned me. I continued to hang around friends that meant
less to me because it was safer than exposing my emotions to rejection. I
didn't want Sam to know how much I cared for him, and longed for him.
Gradually, I placed my feelings in a room, cut off the light, locked the
door, and forgot about them.

But I didn't truly forget. Those feelings escaped through the windows of my
eyes. They peeked at the lips, eyes, and bodies of other boys. They welled
up, only to be forced back into restriction when I saw Sam. I forbade myself
to love Sam, and in doing so cut off our friendship.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

"Sorry. Sorry for what? I told you, it wasn't your fault."

"I love you Sam. I'm such a jerk."

Sam laughed and squeezed me. We kissed again, and then rested in each
other's arms.

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

My sister, Sharon, is two and a half years older than me. As brother and
sister go, we are pretty tight. When I turned thirteen, Sharon asked if I
had a girlfriend.

"No."

She was nearing sixteen: the age that my parents said that she would be
allowed to start dating. I knew that she had been dating, off and on, since
she was thirteen but had never said anything. She lectured me about not
taking advantage of a girl, and stuff of that nature. She told me it was
better to jack off than to get a girl pregnant. I turned beet red.

"You know, I am really proud of you," Mom told me at dinner, "I mean it must
be terrible for Sam, his father leaving that way, with hardly a word."

I nodded.

"How is he holding up?" Dad asked, passing me the mashed potatoes.

"He's OK," I said, blushing.

"Well," Mom added, "You tell his mother if there is anything we can do...."

"What you two need to do," Sharon offered, "is find yourselves some
girlfriends."

I had never shared the conversation I had with Mom with Sharon. Mom's
reassurance at the time had been enough to quell my fears. Now that I was
discovering that my lack of interest in the opposite sex was more than a
passing phase, I knew I needed someone in the family to understand my
feelings. I found it hard to believe that my family would react like Sam's
Dad, and yet I'm sure Sam didn't think that his Dad would up and leave
because Sam was gay. I looked at my Dad and wondered what he would say if I
simply admitted that I was gay. I wondered, since the topic of girlfriends
was being discussed, if I shouldn't just tell them that Sam and I were
boyfriends.

"Sharon please," Mom said, "I hardly think now is the time for Sam to be
worrying about a new relationship."

"Oh, Mother," Sharon said, rolling her eyes, "They're fifteen-year-old boys.
What else are they going to be worrying about?" Dad laughed. I blushed. I
decided it would be better to run the idea by Sharon. If I couldn't talk to
her about it then there was no use trying to talk to Mom and Dad. "Come on
Gerald, you're not hiding something from your dear old sis are you?"

"No," I whined, looking up into her eyes and pleading for her to cease this
line of questioning. She squinted, as if to get a better look at me, "I just
have other things on my mind."

"Sharon, leave the boy alone," Dad said, "You keep your head in your books,
Gerald. You're playing it smart."

Sharon cocked her head at me. It was one of those silent signals that we
gave each other. She knew something was up, even if I was denying it. I put
my elbow on the table and held my cheek in my hand, staring at her. She
sighed and shrugged, letting me off the hook. It always amazed me how Sharon
and I could carry on secret conversations, while our parents were in the
room. There were many times in the past when this talent came in handy. I'm
not sure if most brothers and sisters are like Sharon and me, but we have a
kind of unwritten code between us. We never get each other in trouble.

"I'm sorry little bro," Sharon smiled, "I didn't mean to embarrass you.
Dad's right. You take your time."

After Sharon's lecture about it being better to jack off than to get a girl
pregnant, our relationship became freer. She had asked me if I was
masturbating already. I had been for about a year but didn't want to tell
her.

"Look you can tell me," she said, "I'm not going to tell Mom and Dad. You
don't have a big brother, and God knows Mom and Dad aren't going to talk to
you about this, so who else is going to talk to you about sex?"

"I don't know. It's embarrassing."

"Jesus, Gerald, every boy on the planet jacks off. It's nothing to be
ashamed of."

"Really?"

"If you're not doing it now, you will be. I just want you to know it's OK.
OK?"

"OK," I answered, relieved that I didn't have to confess that I was
masturbating.

"And remember, it's better than getting some girl pregnant. If you get too
worked up, don't force yourself on a girl."

"God, I wouldn't do that. I'm not a rapist."

"I don't mean it that way. I just mean, it's better to masturbate than do
something you may regret later. Understand?"

"Yeah, I get it. Do you do it?"

"What?"

"You know."

"I guess it's a fair question. Yes. Anything else you want to know?"

"No. I don't think so."

"OK. You remember that you can talk to me. You're my little brother and I
love you."

"I love you too, Sharon."

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

I was lying on my bed, trying to figure out whether I should tell Sharon how
I was feeling, and if so, how to tell her, when she knocked on the door to
my room. Seeing her leaning against the doorframe two thoughts occurred to
me. I realized that my sister really was a beautiful girl. I hadn't before
thought of her as a girl; She was Sharon, my sister. I knew that the guys at
school desired her. Even some of my friends commented that she was a `hot
babe'. But I never paid much attention to that kind of talk. I would dismiss
the talk as sick, like perving on your Mom or something. But the truth was,
she was beautiful. The second thing that came to mind was that she would
soon be gone. She was an honor student -- I held a high B average, but Sharon
had maintained straight A's since seventh grade -- in half a year, she would
be heading off to college.

"So you going to tell me what's bothering you, or are you too big for our
little talks anymore?"

"I don't know," I answered, trying to find where to begin the conversation.

"You want me to come in?"

I realized that she hadn't moved from the doorframe. Her head was tilted,
her eyes danced, and she maintain a compassionate smile for me. I nodded.
Sharon looked down the hall, making sure that we had privacy, before
entering my room, and closing the door behind her. She sat at the foot of my
bed and I at the head. I huddled my knees to my chest. I could feel my heart
pounding in my ears.

"So what's up?" Sharon asked.

"I don't know where to start."

"Look Gerald, if you've gotten some girl pregnant, I swear I'll beat the
shit out of you."

"It has nothing to do with some girl!" I blurted, "Look, just forget it."

We sat staring at each other. I expected Sharon to leave. She didn't.

"Are you gay, Gerald?"

I guess my sudden tears were enough of an answer. Sharon wrapped me up in
her arms. God, how I cried. I hadn't realized how afraid I was of losing my
family, until that moment. I told Sharon about everything that had happened
over the past few days. She listened without saying a word. When I finished,
she sat with a look of pouting contemplation on her face.

"Do you hate me?" I asked.

"Don't be stupid Gerald. I'm just trying to figure out how we're going to
tell Mom and Dad."

"Oh God no! Please Sharon!"

"Look Gerald, they're going to find out sooner or later. It's better for
them to find out while I'm still here, while I can run interference for
you."

"They'll freak," I said, fighting the tears.

"Maybe. But Dad's not going to up and abandon you, if that's what you're
worried about."

"He might. Sam's Dad did."

"Sam's father was a jerk," Sharon snapped, "Dad's not like that. And it's
not like we haven't suspected.

"What?"

"Jesus, Gerald. Don't you think Mom and I talk? I know about that
conversation you had with Mom. She was worried she said the wrong thing.
That you felt worse because she didn't sit down and talk with you. But I
told her that she said the right thing."

"How'd you know?"

"We didn't know Gerald," Sharon said,  "What Mom said was true. Some guys
develop slower than others. Hell, I know guys that didn't start dating until
this year and some that haven't even begun yet. It doesn't mean they're
gay." I nodded. "But," Sharon concluded, "We knew it was possible. I mean, I
knew it was possible, and I think Mom knew it was possible. I'm not sure
about Dad."

"See," I said, "So you don't know. He could freak. He could leave!"

"Jesus, Gerald! Nobody's going to freak! OK! Nobody's going to leave. I
promise."

I shook my head and began to cry again. I was fifteen, and I felt like a six
year old. I loved my Dad but I wasn't sure I could give up Sam if Dad gave
me an ultimatum. I mean, I could, and I would, but I would hate my Dad and
myself because of it. I wanted that option less than I wanted for Dad to be
so pissed, that I was gay, that he left or kicked me out. I couldn't image
our family as a family that didn't speak to each other. I couldn't bear the
thought that my sexuality might be the catalyst that destroyed the tender
love we shared.

Perhaps it was irrational to think of Dad reacting like Mr. Swanson had. Dad
was the kind of father that would rather talk you into submission than to
swat your bottom. As Sharon and I grew up, we feared Dad's lectures more
than any punishment imaginable. I remember Sharon commenting, as she pouted,
after being lectured about freedom and responsibility -- she had come home
twenty minutes late from a date -- that she would rather have been put on
restriction, or beaten. Being twenty minutes late had gotten her an hour and
a half lecture. Also, Dad wasn't the type to just lose his temper. He would
get that look of determined contemplation on his face, and look at the issue
from every side before saying anything.

I knew these things about my father, but still, in the face of my new
self-awareness, and the reaction of Sam's father, the fear remained. After
all, I had thought I knew Mr. Swanson fairly well; it turned out I was
wrong.

"OK. OK. Come on," Sharon soothed, "Calm down. We'll figure something out."

"I'm sorry. I'm fucking scared to death."

"Well, there's no need to be. I feel a special responsibility to take care
of you now."

"Yeah, right. Big sister taking care of her fag brother."

Sharon laughed. "Can you blame me? I've always wanted a little sister. Just
keep your hands off my mascara."

"Sharon, come on," I smiled, bashfully.

"I'm just teasing. Just wanted to make you smile. I'm glad you're my little
brother." She kissed me on the cheek, got up, and went to the door. She
turned back before she left. "But," she grinned, "I'm not kidding about my
mascara. Hands off."

She laughed, and ducked out the door, before the pillow I threw at her
crossed half the distant of the room.

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