Imperfect

We are not perfect beings. No one, not even the most rational, compassionate, and intelligent of us, is capable of deciding to murder another human being. We have all lived and, in doing so, have encountered situations that will colour our judgment. We make mistakes, yet we routinely give imperfect people the right to decide upon the premeditated and cold-blooded killing of another human being. To place the ultimate burden of life or death upon an individual or a group of individuals is to grant them a power that no one should be allowed to wield.

We commit murder in the name of society and send the message that homicide is an acceptable solution. This is immoral. This bloodshed is destructive of the common decency of our society. No decent and humane society kills their members. It does not benefit them in any way to do so. It neither deters crime nor is it cost-effective. When we make the irrevocable decision to eliminate a fellow member of our society, we take away the possibility of restitution if we are proven wrong.

Today, I am deeply ashamed to admit that I am an American. I am disgusted that atrocities are being carried out in my name.

Trusting

I have always trusted people. I have trusted my mother, my boyfriend, and my priest. My mother spent years trying to convince me that gay is bad. My boyfriend lied and cheated. My priest molested me.

My mother used subtle suggestions to convey her belief that it was wrong to be homosexual. She knew even before I did that I was gay and she thought she could turn me around by encouraging me to find a girlfriend, get married, have children. I tried my best to please her. I had a girlfriend throughout high school. Even my girlfriend knew I was gay before I did.

My boyfriend told me that he loved me and that we would be together forever. Perhaps, at some point during the relationship, he believed it. But when he was fucking me, knowing that he had been seeing his ex while we were apart, and knowing that he intended to end the relationship, he was being dishonest. It hurt me more that he came back for one more lousy fuck before dumping me than actually getting dumped.

My priest found ways to get close to me. He stroked my hair. He phoned me up for no reason at all. He hugged me a little too often. He brushed against me whenever he walked past me. He also engaged me in conversations about sex, presumably to "guide me." He asked me if I was gay and, if I was, he would "help me." He asked me to trust him and he would "teach me." I was one of the lucky ones. By the time he finally tried to take me in his arms and kiss me and fondle me, I was old enough to resist.

I have learned lessons. I have learned that I must be true to myself. I have learned that adults and other people who control and influence my life are not always correct. I have learned to trust my instincts.

But I will go on trusting. That is my fate. I will try to find a special guy to spend forever with. I will try to make that special guy happy. I will probably be hurt, but I will try my hardest not let my past interfere with my future. I will strive to be open to love.

All I ask is that he understands. Maybe that is asking too much. But that is what I need.

Healing

We stand in the bedroom, facing each other. You take my hands in yours and gaze into my eyes. I melt. The intensity is overwhelming and I look down, blushing. "What's the matter, sweetie?"

"Nervous, I guess." I grin sheepishly, embarrassed at my unease. "Not sure what to do."

"You're not a virgin. Why are you scared?"

"It was different before... with him." I try not to cry. Please don't let me ruin this moment, I silently pray.

"What do you mean, my love?"

I look at you, no longer able to hold back the tears. "He didn't like what we did together. He thought it was dirty and wrong." I look back down at the floor. You take me in your arms and I put my head on your shoulder.

"Aww, sweetie. I'm sorry he did that to you. I'm sorry you were hurt."

"He usually just pushed me onto my stomach and buried my head in the pillow." I laugh through the tears. "I just wanted him to kiss me and let me know that everything was alright." I sigh and try to stop crying. I don't want it to happen like this. I want this moment to be perfect. But instead, I am spoiling everything. "I wanted him to hold me afterward and tell me that he loved me. But he couldn't. He didn't love me when we were doing that. He thought he was disgracing me."

"He was a sick piece of shit. He should be shot for treating you like that." You take my chin in your hands and lift my face so that we are looking at each other again.

Again, I melt. "Sweetie, there is nothing wrong or dirty with what we're going to do. I want to show you how wonderful it can be when two men make love."

"But what should I do?"

"What would you like to do?" you say with a lecherous chuckle.

I smile through the tears and unbutton your shirt. You shrug it off and take me back into your arms. The feel of your warm, muscular chest against mine is exhilarating. "I love you, sweetheart."

You whisper in my ear, "This time it's all about you, sweetie. I want to show you how much I love you. I want to heal the wounds."

Undressing me is easy. I'm wearing nothing but a towel. I am fresh from the shower after my long flight. You give it a slight tug and it falls away. I bite my lip, nervous that you will not like my skinny twink body, but I can tell from the look on your face that you approve. My cock is so hard that it points to the ceiling. It is pressing against my tummy.

"Jump into bed," you say as you remove your jeans. You, too, are already hard. You slide on top of me and kiss me passionately. This is what I have always wanted. This is the way it is supposed to be.

Finding my voice

If I never spoke again, I would be perfectly happy. I hate the sound of my voice. Hate how it rings in my ears when I speak. Hate that my mother hated my "gay voice." That's why I write. Listen to me. Understand me. This is all I have to give.

Solace

I lie on the sofa, a little sad and lonely. I’m on my stomach with my back to the world. The door opens and it is you. Without saying a word, you come in and lie on top of me. You cover me like a blanket, your weight an anchour to reality. I drift off to sleep with you shielding me from the world.

Later, I wake up and I feel you reaching beneath me and I lift up just enough to allow you to undo my jeans. You lightly kiss the back of my neck, and then you rise up on your knees and lower your own jeans. You moisten your finger and massage me then you enter, slowly, softly, gently. You hold me tight. It is more an act of solace than one of sex. Soon, I feel you thrust more deeply and shudder as you finish, quietly, tenderly, with love.

Not a word has been spoken but volumes have been conveyed.

Devastating

I could so easily fall in love with you. I have already fallen in love with you. Deep and hard. I can’t sleep at night because I want you. I can’t sleep at night because I can never have you. Love is lovely. Unrequited love is devastatingly lovely.

Unrequited love is self-fulfilling – unnecessary to consummate because the impossibility of such a love has rendered the act superfluous to the pain and yearning, which is the very heart of such a love.

Love for the sake of love – agape. Thomas Jay Oord has defined agape as "an intentional response to promote well-being when responding to that which has generated ill-being.” Ill-being, being hurt by the one that you love. One that has ignored the love you have offered repeatedly, one who would use you and let you go.

One who is not worthy of the love you have to give, but one whom you can not stop loving. One who is inappropriate, who will never be the right one, but who might forever be the only one.

I can not protect my heart from such a love. I can only try to avoid the consequences.

It was wonderful, then it wasn't (8/31/09)

It was wonderful. I fell asleep alone, wishing he was with me. During the night, I was awakened by a warm body cuddled behind me and a familiar arm draped across my body. At first, I thought nothing of it and I grabbed his arm and hugged it closer to me. We had spent so much time together that it was more natural for him to be there than not. Slowly, it dawned on me that I should be alone. I shrieked with joy and wriggled around to face him.

He had flown all the way up here to be with me for just one day. How wonderful was that! I kissed every inch of his face and then let him know how much I appreciated his visit in the best way I knew how. I fell asleep in his arms, happy that he loved me enough to make the trip.

The next morning, we had breakfast on the deck. Marc gave mum a pasta maker and that was the last I saw of him all morning. I didn’t mind though. I was happy to see them having fun together.

In the afternoon, we went for a walk. Marc was quiet and I could tell there were things on his mind. He said it could wait until I was back in the city and he didn’t want to spoil the rest of my holiday. How could I let that go? I pressed until he finally opened up to me.

Marc is unsure of our relationship. He thinks it is unfair to me to be so serious at such a young age. He thinks I will resent being tied down to him. I tried to explain that, with his hours at the restaurant, I have plenty of time to be with friends and have my own full life. I have school and swimming, and I have my writing and my music.

I have no desire to be with anyone else. I don’t understand the need to be with multiple partners, especially since he fulfills me more than I had ever hoped for. It’s a dick and a hole. End-of-story. How is an infinite variety of cocks going to make me happier than I already am? I have no desire for meaningless sex with strangers. I want to be with someone I love and trust. I could never do the things we do together with someone to whom I was not emotionally connected.

And that’s the problem. Marc thinks I am too emotional. I am too deeply committed to a relationship he is sure will not last. He feels he is being sucked in and will only be hurt in the end.

He is afraid. This I know whether he admits it or not. He does not want the easy conversation with my mother. He does not want to fit in to my family. He does not want to find himself loving me and losing me.

What can I do? I have tried to convince him of my love and commitment, but he is so sure that this won’t work that he is going to sabotage it. I can see the axe falling and I have no choice but to wait and be massacred.