Hi, my name is Frank and I’m gay. I know it sounds terribly weird introducing myself this way but I have come to the realization that the more I say it, the better my chances of accepting it.
I have always been gay. In fact, I recently found out that I might have been born gay.
Thanks to the boundless information that floats freely around the internet, I found out that there are several researches that indicate that some people have no choice but to be gay because they can’t help it. It’s in their genes, in their skin, it’s a part of them and there’s not a damn thing they can do about it.
The first time I realized that I wasn’t your average boy was when I was fifteen years old and my aunt stripped naked right in front of me.
It wasn’t that she had an ugly body, far from it; for a forty year old she had the body of a goddess. Her skin was a beautiful golden brown hue and was dewy with sweat as she stood in the sliver of sunlight that sliced through the partition of the closed bedroom curtains.
Her breasts were the first I had ever seen since my mothers’ and they stared at me, two unripe paw paws, areoles like a solar system surrounded by a colorful explosion of planets. They were thrusting forward like angry warriors spoiling for a fight and her legs…her legs were long, and lithe. She had splayed them apart and with her hands on her hips, had stood there like a super model waiting for a thunderous applause.
She had been coming on to me for weeks and didn’t even know it. A brush across my cheek, a gentle pat on my buttocks, hugs that lingered on more than they should have and accidental flashes of bared skin when we were talking about mundane things.
All I had felt was an initial sense of bewilderment and then acute embarrassment when the flashes of skin had become intentional displays of naked flesh.
And now she had moved in for the kill and I felt nothing but a desire to shriek like a banshee and hide in the furthest corners of the earth; nothing but a desire to take off my shirt and cover the artistic tapestry of a body that was begging to be taken.
She had mistaken my horror for shyness and had come forward to the spot where I stood frozen, then grabbed my hands and placed them on her breasts, her hands over mine, making me knead them as though I were a blind man being directed to the promised land.
And still I felt nothing. But my hands moved in rhythm with hers and soon she was moaning as I kneaded away, a student with nothing but a technique.
Her moans died in her throat when she grabbed my crotch and felt the lifelessness that dwelt there. I hung as placidly as dead chicken on display in the meat market.
What happened next should have been the fantasy of every teenage boy but was a nightmare for me. She licked and tickled and feathered and slithered and bumped but I gave nothing….rose to none of the strenuous occasions she created. And finally, she left me alone, gathering up her clothes in silence and refusing to look me in the eye. She walked out and like telepathic twins we never mentioned a word of what happened to each other or anyone else for that matter.
I didn’t think I was gay even after that. After intense retrospection I concluded that I couldn’t get it up because she was my aunt, the sister of my mother and therefore I was emotionally castrated by blood.
But when my Dupe my first girlfriend at the age of twenty offered me her virginity I felt the same thing I felt with my aunt and more…a desire to die.
I kept to myself pretty much after that, nursing my fears like a paranoid mother, avoiding everything female and keeping everything male at arm’s length until I met Tunde.