My Complicated Life (A Satire)

I complicate my life too much. Honestly.

I don’t mean to make things complicated. Things just turn out that way.

If I wasn’t so reluctant to publicize my life to friends and family, I would have updated my relationship status to “It’s complicated.” My 2 year on-and-off relationship would have ended the day after my ex and I met for sex, but it didn’t. Instead I chose to seek him, love him, lose him, seek him again, fight for his love, lose interest in him, have him seek me, regain interest in him, love him again, lose him again, and complicate my life even further. I had it all wrong. I thought drama sought me, but I seem to seek drama.

All my life I wanted to be spontaneous and fun, or at least have an exciting life, but this fantasy just complicates my life. Fun and spontaneous means going to random clubs and drinking until I black out, but mix in my sexual provocative behavior (grabbing and kissing random strangers) and you will have a story to tell during our sober interactions. I will then assure you that I am not a wild party animal because…I really am not. I just don’t know other ways I can be fun and spontaneous. I complicate my life without knowing just how complicated I make it. You see, I have mistaken drama with fun and that always complicates things.

And if you want to start a relationship with me, I will convince you that I am not ready to start dating but get angry when you don’t want to date me. Heck, I will even tell you that I am not looking for sex, but I will have naked pictures ready and be fine if you ask to have sex with me. I’m not complicated. I just make things complicated.

Want to be my friend? I hope not. You will have to text me at least once a week or I will get angry at you for not replying. I may even forget about you. But I will tell you that you shouldn’t get mad at me when I don’t text you because “I was just too busy.” I will treat you as if you and I were in a relationship because being in a real relationship is just too hard for me right now. Instead, I will complicate our friendship.

My complicated behavior isn’t limited to friends and boyfriends. Nope. If you’re a family member, I will love you from a distance because that’s how we always did it. I will make an appearance during big holidays or special events in our lives, but I’ll be on my own most of the time. I will say I’m happy even though I know that you know I am not. I won’t be completely honest with my feelings or my relationship because you just aren’t ready to hear my truth.

My truth: My first relationship fucked me over. I have trust issues now. I seek attention from guys. I fear yet want a relationship. I sometimes distance myself from my friends because getting too close to someone can go wrong. My fear of disappointing my family over my sexuality keeps me from being completely honest with them. They won’t be able to understand me.

Dang, I honestly complicate my life too much.

My Dating Life

I am destined to be single. End of story…Well kinda.

I want to talk about my dating life.

I’ll start by telling you that I have a bad past. When I first started coming to terms with my sexuality, I was having a lot of meaningless sex with guys I met on gay dating sites or Craigslist (go ahead and judge). I met these guys discreetly. I was just a random hook up, a mediocre at best and a lousy one at worst. See, back then the idea of being in a relationship was hard for me to understand.

After a few years of discreet hook ups, I met my first boyfriend (at least, that’s how I would like to describe our relationship). We met, had sex, and continued talking on-and-off for two years. The reason being, he was in an on-and-off relationship with his boyfriend of five years (I found out nine months into our relationship). I have a bad habit of getting myself into bad situations. We stopped talking months ago and now I’m officially single.

To be honest, I’m scared of being alone, but aren’t we all? I just don’t want to go back to the meaningless sex. I never want to feel like an object to be used for sex ever again.

I have gone on a few dates. Each ending with the guy being recently single and not ready to start a relationship, only wanting sex, showing no interest, or living too far from me. I’ve been using Grindr, OkCupid, Adam4Adam, and Jack’d, but I can’t seem to find a “single” guy in Orange County who wants a relationship. I don’t know what to do anymore.

I have condensed my search to taller, older, nerdy, white guys. I can’t help it. I think they are just the cutest! I’m attracted to their sense of entitlement, pale skin, travel stories, and vastly different ways in which they grew up compared to me. It took many years to develop this preference. And many heartbreaks. But I’m a bit closer to knowing the type of guy with whom I want to start a relationship.

My best friend once said that I’m smart, funny, caring, and genuine. And I believed her. Until I realized that there isn’t a guy out “there” who wants to be with me. I guess it was just her job to lie in order for me to feel better.

I’m not sad or depressed. I’m actually in a very exciting point in my life. I would just like to share these moments with someone. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Are guys really only interested in looks? I guess I’ve never been “sexy,” “hot,” or physically attractive enough for this gay world (or the world in general). I forgot that’s all gay guys want in the end. I don’t mean to sound so negative. I’m normally not. Honest. But lately, I’ve just given up. And I’m tired of trying.

I mean…I have dreams. I have goals. I have a job and on my way to having a great career working with adolescents and children. I have ambition. I want kids in the future. I want to get married eventually. I’ve never cheated. I find the idea of an open-relationship morally wrong. I don’t care much about looks (heck, I have a hard time knowing what pieces of clothing match). Are my values just different from many guys? Why can’t I find a guy who wants what I want? I guess I’ve just been trying too hard to find Mr. Right.

I just want a guy who will like me as much as I like him. One we is curious to know more about me and will ask me as many questions as I ask him. One who will randomly call me because he wants to talk and will stay awake late at night to text me even though he has to wake up early for work in the morning. One who enjoys going to the beach or staying home to watch a Batman movie. One who likes to cuddle and kiss. One who isn’t afraid to share his feelings and doesn’t hesitate to hold my hand. One who laughs at my corny jokes and tries to make me laugh. One who will let me into his life. But who am I kidding? I’m just being unrealistic.

Random Fact: I like sitting on benches.

Random Fact: I like sitting on benches.

That's me. Hopelessly looking for love.

That’s me. Hopelessly looking for love.

My boring life

I always wanted my life to be fun. The type of fun others defined for me. The party life, the fun life. I used to daydream about having a life where I would party with friends all night and drink more than my body could handle. I would dance promiscuous in clubs, make out with many guys, and have plenty of crazy stories to tell the next morning. What a fun life. A life I lived.

To be honest, I have my share of crazy party stories. I’ve drank and thrown up in front of my friends several times. I’ve blacked out and woken up in random places. I’ve gotten in fights while drunk and woken up with bruises. I’ve grinded on many gay guys. I’ve done more sexual things in clubs than legally allowed. I’ve danced shirtless and on poles. I’ve flirted with straight guys. I’ve made out with straight girls. I’ve gotten home way past 5am on several occasions. I’ve been an angry drunk and a fun drunk. I’ve accidentally snorted coke and forgot the nights events. I was roofied once. I’ve been date raped, and refused to accept it. I’ve cried many times in the bathroom while my friends were outside drinking. I’ve fucked up plenty and there’s no denying I’ll fuck up again.

I’m not not regretting what I’ve done or say I will never party again. I just want you to know that I’ve cried a lot during those two years of partying, drinking, and having random sex. That type of life can really mess you up.

I tried to convince myself that drinking was fun. I tried to pretend the people I met in these clubs and bars were my friends. I tried to convince myself that I was in a “real” relationship. Most of all, I tried to convince myself that I was a fun person, but I’m not. I’m done with the party scene and I’m done lying to myself.

Truth is, I’m boring, but I like being boring.

I like watching a random movie at home with my family. I like going to the beach and listening to the sound of waves by myself. I like running alone at night and taking long walks during the day. I like admiring the view while my friends drive long-distances. I like watching people as I take the bus or train to my destination. I like listening to House music or love songs when I need to escape my reality. I like having small dinners and spending hours talking with my friends.

I like my life. No matter how boring it may be.

The Roommate Who Saved My Life

When I was 21 years old, I moved to San Francisco by myself. At that time, I didn’t realize just how lonesome the real world could be.

This is the story of how my roommate saved my life and how I wasn’t there to save his.

His name was Justin, a sailor who had recently moved from Maine to San Francisco in order to attend the local community college. He was white, short, and skinny. He often wore tight t-shirts, tight cut-off shorts, and too much makeup that made him look feminine. He fit my stereotypical image of a gay man, so I knew he was gay when I first saw him. He was flamboyant when he wanted to be and usually spoke whatever was on his mind, no matter how inappropriate his comments were at times.

We were the complete opposites, but we got along quite well. We shared details about our lives during the first days he moved into the house, and we quickly developed a friendship. I wanted to be completely honest with him, so I decided to tell him I was gay. At first, he looked at me in shock and then, very excitedly, told me he would take me to gay clubs, bars, and show me around the city. I smiled. He was my first true friend in San Francisco.

On our first night out, Justin gave me vodka to calm my nerves, but I felt more nervous and drunk by the time we arrived at the club. Once inside, I couldn’t believe I was seeing men kiss, touch, and dance with each other. Suddenly, I became part of the gay world and I felt strange and partly scared. I wanted to go back, but Justin didn’t allow me. My world had just been changed and Justin was to thank.

While inside the club, Justin warned me that the gay world was all about sex and that I should be careful because men in these clubs prey on younger guys. I looked around and saw a room full of friendly men; his comment confused me. He advised that long-distance relationships do not work because most gay guys cheat; I assured him that my boyfriend and I were happy even if we were living far away from each other. Finally, he told me that most gay guys in the community have fucked around with each other, so a true gay platonic friendship was rare. I didn’t know what to say; I had no intentions of messing around with him.

That night an older man tried to take me to his place because he knew I was drunk. Luckily, Justin found me before my panic attack worsened and we took a taxi back home. After that incident, he told me that he would be there to protect me. And he kept his word.

I can go on and tell you about the many times Justin took care of me when we went out clubbing or how he called me a prude for being so afraid to show my sexuality. Or that one night he said I dressed too “straight” and decided to dress me in a tight flannel shirt that showed some skin. Or how we spent hours in his room talking about music, our families, our relationships, and the little friends we had. But that’s not the story I want to tell.

Justin passed away in April of 2012. He was only 22.

I had only known him for 2 months before he moved back home, but that was enough for us to consider each other friends. But soon I became busy with school and we hardly talked. I last messaged Justin a few weeks before his death to tell him that my boyfriend had cheated on me throughout our relationship. Justin was right, gay guys often cheat.

I learned of Justin’s death later that month. It was ruled as an accidental fall.

Truth of the matter, Justin had been going through some hard times. He didn’t have many true gay friends he could talk with about his problems, so he often took trips by himself when he wanted to clear his head. I often wonder what would have happened if I was there to talk with him during the night he fell off the tower. Truth is, I often think about him.

You see, Justin tried to teach me about the gay community, but he taught me about life. Older, more experienced, individuals can take advantage of younger, less experienced, people. Sometimes relationships just end or people cheat while being in one. More importantly, he taught me that true friends are rare.

I needed Justin during that time in my life. The gay world for a newly “out” individual can be dangerously lonely.

On the night he moved out, we were avoiding that awkward goodbye hug. Finally, after constantly checking his room for any missing belongings, he approached me. He gave me a hug and said that I was one of the good guys. He said that I shouldn’t be afraid of being myself, my gay self, and to take care of myself. I told him I would try to be more gay and for him to take care of himself too.

If I knew that would be the last time we would see each other, I would have hugged him longer and tighter. I would have thanked him for being there to teach me about the world and for protecting me from the bad guys. I would have told him that I loved him for being himself. I would have told him that he could always talk to me whenever he wanted to cry. But I didn’t say any of that.

As he drove off, I waved goodbye. I then went to his empty room and cried.

Reclaiming Love: The first monologue about my life

I don’t know why I said yes to presenting my story to a random audience, but I’m glad I did.

I’m a shy person with a really soft-spoken voice. You will have to ask me to repeat myself a few times before you’re able to understand what I had just said. It’s that bad. So instead I stay quiet hoping nobody will talk to me. I think that makes me socially awkward.

My public speaking skills are terrible too. I sometimes leave my hands in my pockets throughout the presentation and don’t remember to take them out until the very end. I think that gives away my inexperience with public speaking. Or possibly when I start talking fast, start stuttering, or begin rambling; one of the three.

One day I was asked by a coordinator of a Men Can Stop Violence program at school if I wanted to present “my story” for an event called Cocktales. The name sounded funny and I told him that I didn’t have a story, but that I was interested. He said there was something about me that made him think there was a story. I think being one of two men in a classroom of 28 women made me an easy person for him to recruit for his event. Who knows?

A few days later I received an email with details of the event. The event was about “Creating a space [for men] to talk about masculinity. Men can begin to hear other men’s real stories about their journey from recognizing privilege to emotional pain and ultimately finding peace within themselves”. The theme for that year was Reclaiming Love. The email listed topics about love such as: unconditional love, self love, forgotten love, love to a parent, loving the feminine, indigenous love, loving yourself, and a bunch more. I didn’t know what topic to choose, so I picked a few and met with the coordinator.

Over the next couple months we went over “my story” and began narrowing the topics down. I was excited to be writing about my experience with love even if it was limited. I was pouring my heart out into this monologue to the point where I had to stop writing because I would begin crying in the library. I had never presented a story of myself to an audience, so I didn’t know how much I wanted to tell. I was naive and told a lot more than I should have.

On the day of the event I was nervous to say the least. We had rehearsals a few days earlier, but I needed more than one day to prepare. To tell you the truth, I’m the type of person who has to remember his presentation word-for-word even if it takes me days to remember. I was so frightened to present that I kept pacing back and forth backstage trying to rehearse my lines. I kept on going to the bathroom more times than I needed and the guys kept on looking at me strangely. They told me to relax and that I would be fine. I was sweating so much, but managed to calm down before they called my name.

Here is my monologue:

By the end of the night, many people came and told me what a heart-felt performance I gave. And to be honest, it really was from the heart. I told them a story of myself that I didn’t know people could relate to or cared to hear. I surprised myself and even my friends who showed up to support me. For that night, I wasn’t that socially awkward person or that person who was scared of speaking in public. Somehow I felt confident for having the strength for telling the audience a person story of myself. I felt proud and smiled the rest of the night.

My family doesn’t know that I gave this monologue and perhaps now is the time to tell them.

My life….censored

I’m in a better place in life right now, a much more peaceful place.

The months after graduating from San Francisco State have been chaotic to say the least. I have behaved in certain ways that shocked me. I have said certain things that I shouldn’t have said. I thought things that many people would consider morally wrong. To tell you the truth, I just lost control of myself, but I’m taking it back now.

I remember having a conversation with my best friend about me one night (something I rarely do). She told me she was concerned about certain things I have done in my life to the point where she considered ending our friendship. She hoped that I would change once I realized that the things I do affect the people in my life. I didn’t know what to say. I felt hurt. So I began telling her the story of my childhood. I told her about my parents, my brothers, the teasing, the fighting, the crying, the neglect, the hiding, the frustration, the anger, and the pain. I cried. I’m glad she didn’t end our friendship that night.

I have been thinking about what I’ve gone through the past few years and how much of these stories I have shared with people. To be honest, I probably shouldn’t be sharing everything that I have gone through. You will criticize me (I know you will).

I can tell you the confusion about my sexuality and being neglected as a child played a major role in how I behaved. I have woken up naked in a house with three random strangers (I’ll let your imagination fill in the blanks); I have walked drunk for hours in the rain at two in the morning because I wanted to sleep next to my ex; I have had sex in the house and cars of random men in order to fill a certain void in my life; I have been drunk way too much and have had many panic attacks; I have been a stalker and stepped over many boundaries; I have deliberately made others feel bad about dating me; I have demanded instant replies to my texts and calls;  I have been way too clingy and needy; I have made fake dating profiles to get information from people; I was playing a role in my head and I lost touch with reality.

My best friend once said that I was fully aware of my actions (I really wasn’t), that I understood the consequences (I really didn’t), and that I was able to reflect and explain the reasoning for my behavior really well (I just rambled). She didn’t understand how someone with a psychology degree could behave so destructively. She was concerned about the risks I put myself through and didn’t want me to throw my life away. She was right.

I realized that I had put my life at risk far too many times and I need to change. I also realized that I have to maintain a certain image in the field that I am wanting to go in, so I should learn to censor myself. I’m 23 and I have made plenty of mistakes in my life. I have way too much to learn about myself and about people.

Perhaps the time isn’t right for me to tell the most darker parts of my life. Perhaps I shouldn’t tell you about the events that almost lost me a friend. Perhaps a glimpse of my life is enough for you right now.

I have been busy volunteering and attending workshops. I took my behind-the-wheel driving test and passed. My best friend and I are becoming closer than ever. Reality hit me and now I’m at a peaceful place in my life.

My life and the bloggers in it

To tell you the truth, I never really expected anyone to care about what I wrote on my blog or to get many positive comments. I really didn’t. I wrote because I knew I would have the option to click on my posts, read them, and go back to a period of time in my life. Times where I was happy and times were I was sad. I’ve been doing that lately. I know later in my life I will see certain events differently or completely forget certain memories because memories really do fade away. So I’m glad that you’re here with me because you’re giving me a new reason to share. I write because I want you to know my story and I appreciate you reading my blog. No joke.

A few bloggers have told me that they like my style of writing (that’s the first time I’ve been told I have style). I have also been thanked for sharing stories that are so personal. Honestly, I didn’t know how personal my stories were until I was told they were very personal and I don’t think I will ever change that about my blog. All my posts (except for this one) have taken me days to write because I really do want you to understand how I felt during that moment in my life. A few bloggers have shared similar experiences that remind me that sometimes we go through the same things.

I get happy when I see a notification and see that it’s a comment from a blogger that has something nice to say about my post. Those are the best. So what I want to do is ask you all a question (well a few questions actually).

Which is your favorite post of mine and why? What is it about my blog that you like the most? What would you like to know more about?

As for me, my favorite posts would have to be:

“The first relationship of my life” because I’m still recovering from the emotional effects and it takes me back to a time were I was so naive and in love at 21 years old.

“My life in blog” because it’s my first post and I have a thing about “firsts.” Also, the positive feedback I received from that post gave me the motivation to continue writing more.

And

“The brother who left my life” because I never expected to publish that story on this blog. I was literally scared of exposing that side of myself. You were the first people to hear about that event in my life. Two days later, I told my best friend and I remember crying in the car. It was something special really.

Those are three of my favorite. I hope I hear more from all of you. I’m really curious to know what makes people click on the like button. I really have no clue. I think my posts are too simple to be considered well-written or engaging. They are just simple posts from a simple guy.

 

The brother who left my life

This is the one of the most honest and sensitive topics I will write about. I hope you read through to the end before you judge. It will mean a lot to me. Thank you.

I want to talk about one of my older brothers. He is the second child in the family and three years older than I am. Growing up, I always looked up to him because he took care of me. Plain and simple. He used to come up with crazy funny jokes that made everyone in the room crack up and he had a laugh that would make you laugh as well. He was the “funny one” in the family and everyone loved being around him, including myself. He was great back then. He introduced me to new music, hairstyles, fashion trends, graffiti, cigarettes, youth gangs, and how drugs worked.

I guess you can say his story was of a person with great potential who let drugs take over his life. I hate to think of him that way, but it’s true. He started using drugs while in junior high and soon upgraded to heroin and cocaine while in high school. During his senior year, he became paranoid and stayed up at nights checking the windows to prevent people from coming inside the house. He was protecting us just like he always had (I’m sure that’s how he viewed things).

But one night I was fed up with the way he was behaving, so I started yelling at him to stop pretending to be mentally ill (I will never assume someone is faking ever again). I don’t know how it happened, but I remember that suddenly my brother was on top of me and choking me. That was the first time he ever laid his hands on me. His hands felt cold and I couldn’t move. All I could do was stare at his face. He looked so afraid and that terrified me, more than being choked. My oldest brother came rushing downstairs, pulled my brother off, threw him to the ground, started hitting him, and told him to never hit me again. He never did.

After that incident, I told myself that I would never talk to my brother ever again. I gave him the silent treatment and did a lot more damage than I had ever anticipated. I ignored his jokes and pretended he wasn’t my brother. I would leave the room when he wanted to talk. He would beg for me to listen, but I looked the other way. Ignoring him was the easy part, but noticing the real problem was the hardest.

He soon starting behaving more psychotic. He stayed in the room for hours and laughed hysterically when he was by himself. He refused to eat and lost a lot of weight in short period of time. He refused to take showers or clean himself after going to the bathroom. He would make stories up and believed there were people who wanted to harm the family. He was suffering, but I didn’t care. I always thought he was pretending. My cousins suggested that I talk to him because that is what he really wanted. I’m not sure if talking to him would have prevented or prolonged his condition. I really don’t know.

He got arrested for being in a gang neighborhood that his probation terms prohibited him from entering. That was his third strike, so he got deported back to Mexico. He remained there while I graduated high school, received my AA degree, and moved to San Francisco. He called home on his birthdays, December 31st, and my family would take turns talking to him on the phone. They would wish him a happy birthday and say that they loved and missed him. I would get skipped whenever it would be my turn; my family knew that I didn’t want to talk to him. I now wished that I had.

You see, my brother was staying in a place where there are many kidnappings and murders, and my family lost contact with him almost a year ago. I visited my mom a few months ago, walked in the room, and saw something that made me sad. I saw a small shrine of my older brother in her room with a photo of him that was taken before he lost weight. My brother is still missing and my mom prays for him. She has hope. I can’t imagine the pain of not knowing if your son is dead or alive. I hope I never do.

The reason I almost cried is because I keep thinking of how he didn’t see me graduate, wish me good luck in San Francisco, and missed out on my life. But then again I wasn’t there when he needed help or when he got deported. I wasn’t there to wish him a happy birthday or tell him how much I missed and loved him. I wasn’t there to tell him that everything would be okay and that we will soon be together. I wasn’t there to hug him one last time.

Then I think think of all the things he won’t get to see. He won’t get to see me when I get married. He won’t be there to wish me good luck when I get my first professional job. He won’t be here when I adopt a child. He won’t be here to protect me anymore or to tell me that everything will be okay and that we will be together soon; that makes me cry.

I often wonder if he ever thought of me during those nights in Mexico. I was a bad person to him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he stopped caring. Truth is, I really miss my older brother. He was a good person that needed help. I can’t take back what I did (or didn’t do). It’s too late for that. All I can do is hope that he’s in a good place right now, and to tell you that I love him.

The first sexual encounter of my life

This post may contain some explicit content.

It’s the story of my first sexual encounter and I want to be as honest as possible. Before I can begin, I must take you back almost a year before the actual act. I was 17 years old, in high school, and still coming to terms with my sexuality. I developed strange feelings for guys at a young age and  spent a lot of time thinking about kissing and doing more with them, but there was a problem. I never had “the talk” with my parents, so I didn’t know a thing about sex. I didn’t know what “more” meant, but the thought of two guys having sex always fascinated me, better yet, I became obsessed with it. I was really more curious about the idea of sex, rather than the act itself.

I remember sneaking to the backyard one night, logging into the internet from my PSP, searching gay websites for the first time, and finally being exposed to the online gay world. What I found shocked, but excited me at the same time. I was entering a different world, a gay one at that, which was much more sexual and raw. That night I saw another mans nude body for the first time and instantly got aroused. Seeing another person naked suddenly brought new sexual thoughts to mind. Thoughts of touching another man’s body, his thighs, his penis, his chest, his arms, and his face; I mean really touching these parts. I soon spent hours looking at pictures of naked gay men and inventing different scenes in my head, but after months, pictures were not enough.

I signed up for a gay dating site using a fake name because I was scared my friends would see me there. Interacting with gay guys proved more difficult than I had anticipated. I didn’t understand the language, and would get confused when I received messages asking if I was a “Top or Bottom?” I assumed that if I was on my back and a guy was on top of me being penetrated then surely I must be a bottom. I got many messages whenever I responded like that. Being young, inexperienced, and ethnic must have been appealing because I would go online and talk to many guys at once. I was soon addicted to the attention. The fantasies I once had were being replaced by ones that these men were providing for me. Perhaps months of chatting with nice gay guys and learning about sex from them was enough reassurance to try sex; or perhaps I was just horny.

He was Latino, 21 years old, and chubby. He asked if I had done anything with a guy and I responded with a simple no. He immediately sent a lot of messages asking if he could be my first. I still don’t know why I said yes to meeting with him after knowing him for less than an hour. I guess my urges got the best of me. I called him using my aunt’s number and risked being caught. For some reason I hoped that he didn’t answer. He didn’t and I felt relieved. That is until he called back. The conversation was brief, but he sounded like a nice person. He and I decided to meet at a nearby store. I immediately regretted my decision. I stepped inside, began sweating, and my heart began beating fast. He pulled up to the store really fast and didn’t even park correctly. He seemed really eager. He went inside the store, saw me, and signaled me to go to his car. I walked there slowly.

I entered his car and began breathing heavily. He quickly looked at me, rubbed my thigh, and told me that everything would be alright; I smiled. Then I took a real look at him. He looked more stocky in person and his face was much more round than in his profile picture. I couldn’t look at him directly because I felt nervous, so I looked down instead. He began asking if I knew of any places where we could have sex, and I told him that I didn’t and that I was sorry. He told me not to worry. He drove around and found an empty church parking lot and parked (I know, I’m the worst). He was quiet for a few seconds, but then he proceeded to undress me. I felt cold. I didn’t know where to look, so I looked outside the window. I had forgotten that it was around 3pm in the afternoon and that the sun was out. It was a really nice view.

I then looked at him as he was performing oral, and I suddenly felt small. Not in that sense. I felt unsure if I wanted to be in the car with this person, this stranger who I just met. He knew what he was doing and here I was not knowing a thing. I was sitting there in silence. He began complimenting me and saying that I was cute and perfect. I smiled; I really didn’t want to have a conversation with him. He began playing with himself and asked if I wanted to perform oral as well. I said no thank you, so he continued to perform oral on me again. I enjoyed being pleasured this way; I’m not going to lie. He seemed to be enjoying himself more than I was, so I felt a bit guilty. I finished quickly and cleaned myself on his towel. He began playing with himself again, but I didn’t want to look. Once done, he told me that he loved every moment of it. I didn’t say a word. He drove back to the store and he thanked me for the “fun” time. He told me to message and call him again. I just said okay.

I waited until he was out of sight and then walked home alone. I kept on thinking about what happened and why I decided to do something sexual with a stranger. I guess I felt dirty even though I did clean myself. I didn’t want to talk about what happened to anyone. It was years before I did anything sexual with another gay guy again. I remember arriving home, logging online, and blocking him.

My life in private

I’m a private person. I don’t mean the type of private where you keep to yourself and never let anyone know what you’re doing. I’m talking about the private where you don’t share your feelings, secrets, concerns, or let people in your life (the real life you live).

I can tell you about the time I went clubbing for the first time, got really drunk, made-out with a stranger in the cab, almost got roofied, had a panic attack, and arrived home around 5 in the morning. But it’s hard to tell you that I felt sad for being away from my family that I decided to drink in order to cope, but ended up drinking a bit too much. I’ts hard to tell you that I was scared of not fitting into the gay scene that I didn’t object when a guy came to me and kissed me. It’s especially hard to tell you how disappointed I felt at myself for letting all the bad things happen that I had to step outside to be alone, but I felt so overwhelmed and had my first panic attack. That’s too personal to tell.

I don’t mean to tell people the half-truth. I really don’t. I just don’t want people to judge the real me. If I tell you all about what goes on in my head or how I view the world, you’ll probably laugh. At times, I even laugh at myself for thinking the way I do. I once thought people in this world would not purposely want to harm me (emotionally or physically), but I was wrong. People lie and people have hurt me. I freak out and break down whenever that happens. I cry sometimes. I remember crying at night when I was alone in my room in San Francisco. I was crying so hard and loud that I had a hard time breathing, and I remember feeling exhausted after and fell asleep like a baby. I nearly freaked myself out. You’re probably right in assuming that I’m rambling, but I’m letting you in my head; the random part and the private part.

I hardly tell my family as much as I’m telling you today. They’re really private people. I can’t blame them. If you knew how much drama the family has gone through, you would want to keep private too. I tell my family that I’m going out with friends. I don’t tell them that I’m going to a gay club to drink, that my friends are gay, or that I’ll possibly hook up and sleep over at my “friends’” house. I don’t tell them how miserable I feel sometimes. I don’t tell them how unsure I am of my future or the random thoughts I have while I’m home. I don’t know why. I guess i’m just a really private person.