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.