An ongoing journey...

I began writing from some of my earliest memories of thoughts and emotions, so each new entry builds upon the one before it. And each new entry represents an evolution at that
particular point in time.
Thank you for reading and hopefully sharing.

The dance.

Every night I prayed that I'd wake up in the morning and just be normal.

I'd think and feel the same way other guys did,
and think about girls the way they did.

I would finally be able talk to them about things and not have to lie, or feel like I had to hold things back.
Putting on an act was exhausting.

I wished one day and all the sexual feelings I had about guys would be gone. I thought if that happened I could finally "really" begin to live.

But each morning I woke up, I was the same as the day before.
I thought the same way, and I had the same feelings.
I looked at the world just as I always had.

No matter how hard I prayed, and imagined, and wished, no matter how much with all my heart I truly wanted to be different, I always woke up the same as I had been the day before.

I was always just me.

It was my second year in high school and everyone was changing so fast... girls into women, boys into men. Some were becoming men and women with their physical features proceeding their minds, and some the other way around. I would recall how I knew my friends as children, and how different they seemed now, as high school students. Sometimes they seemed most different by their appearance, but what was most obvious to me was the changes in the way they were thinking. Their ideas were different; their interests; their beliefs. Sometimes it was refreshing because they had grown emotionally and spiritually into more interesting and complex individuals. Other times it was disappointing, because you could see them struggling to define themselves into a specific mold, so they would gain the approval of a certain group. The strugglers were not allowing themselves to be who they were, but were instead trying to become what they thought others wanted them to be, and I resented that. I could immediately sense when someone was being artificial and would distrusted them. But of course, I disliked those traits because I was guilty of having them as well, but I wasn’t completely aware that I carried them at the time.

Because I was so sensitive to facades and disliked them so much, I became adept at detecting them in others. But, that didn’t mean I wouldn’t befriend someone because of it. Sometimes it meant that it became my crusade to cut through the shield to find out what was underneath. Maybe I was hoping by finding out what they were hiding, I would somehow feel better about my own pretenses. As time went on, I became less interested in those who were being obviously artificial, and more fascinated with the ones whose deceptions were very subtle. And when I was able to break through, the moment was almost magical. In that moment, the flash of realization that you shared a deep symbiosis was incredibly intense, and almost sexually erotic in a way. Those sublimely intimate moments were treasured, and like finding an Easter egg, were surprising and delightful. As exciting as the encounters were, I was uncomfortable they seemed to happen most often with other young men my age.

As a teenager of my time, the pressure to remain straight was extreme. And, of course my parents just assumed I was straight anyway. After all, as I had been taught, homosexuals were very rare and bizarre. Adding to all the pressure, was the amount of positive reinforcement to guide me in that direction. And even if my parents knew deep down in their hearts that I was gay, they didn’t ever mention it. I remember when my cousin had come out at the time, and how my aunt and uncle had rejected her with such anger and bitterness. I also remember how my parents would mention that she was gay in a whisper. It was the same way they would mention the word "cancer" at the time. As if the disease was shameful somehow, or possibly they thought if you said the word too loudly, you might conjure it up and call it forward to afflict your loved ones. But the message was clear: If you were gay, or if you had a family member who was gay, it was a very bad thing.

In high school, having your first romantic relationship was an event to be celebrated (as long as it was chaste and pure). Parents would invite the prospective suitors to dinner and family gatherings. Usually the couple was fawned over by the patriarchs and matriarchs, and given advice for the success of a long happy relationship. The longer the couple dated, the more serious the relationship appeared to be, and the stronger the positive reinforcement became. If the relationships extended into the senior years of high school, parents would often begin to talk about wedding arrangements, and what their children might be like. “Have you given any ideas about what you might name the children?” The parents would say with a sly smile. “Could you imagine what beautiful children that handsome couple would have?” Then the couple would be given advice as to how to start a home, and stories from the established couples would be shared regarding enduring the trials and tribulations of the early years, and how to make them successful.

If you were gay…
you were on your own.
All alone.

So I dated girls, to the delight of my family, and was treated to all of the positive strokes, and happy stories, and kind invitations by family members. And I can’t say it was a bad experience because I learned many great lessons about relationships. I had girlfriends who continued to show interest in me even after they discovered I didn’t respond to sexual overtures the same way other guys did. And I made excuses to myself as to why I didn’t have strong sexual desires to be with girls who would have been aggressively perused by other guys. I told myself I was different; that I wanted more from a woman than just sexual pleasure. I wanted to know them, become part of them, to look beyond the surface, and consummate our relationship, with or without physical contact, with true intimacy. I believed (and still do) there was a more complete union I had to offer, more truthful and meaningful level of intimacy; one borne from authenticity and sincerity.

But of course, I could never genuinely provide them with this idealized relationship.
Because I was always holding back one important truth, from myself, as well as others.

So I continued the dance in solitude.

One night on a beach, I stood face-to-face with a girl who was evolving into a young woman. Her hair black and straight, her eyes dark and deep, her heart and mature mind open and honest.

The beach was flat and vast, the waves crested low,
while the light from the stars and the moon illuminated the white sand and the ocean foam ghostly blue. The cool breeze swept in gently over the water, carrying the strong scent of an ocean teeming with life.

We were alone on the beach, in the night, on the sand.
The two of us standing close with our arms wrapped low around each others waists, while pressing our warm torsos together, and gently breathing. The soothing white sound of the waves and the dim blue light carried me gently and slowly to that other dimension.
I felt so free and alive, and my mind drifted slowly.
And my mind wound round and round my deepest desires and my innermost yearnings.
What I wanted seemed so very close, but yet strangely out of reach. This was the right place and right time for something so deeply moving to happen, and I could have been falling towards a moment to treasure. And even though we both stood there together on the beach, I was alone in my thoughts for a moment.

I could feel her arms move upward and she pulled me close so her chin rested on my shoulder. I could feel her soft, round breasts against my chest, and she gently breathed in my ear.

“You’re not here, are you?” she whispered.

I pulled back, and when I opened my eyes a different face assembled in front of me than the one I had been thinking of only seconds ago.
I could feel my lips part while I thought of an answer to give.

“Who were you thinking of?” she asked, without any sign of distress.

I looked into her deep, dark eyes,
but before I could answer, she pulled me down on the sand.

I sat facing her and then I lay slowly backward and sunk slightly into the cool, damp sand.
Then she moved, sitting on top of me, she looked into my face.
And I could see a thought slowly cross over her.
And I thought I knew what it was, though I couldn’t be sure.
It was slightly sad, slightly eager, but very knowing.

She pulled her top off over her head, her glossy black hair fell smoothly over her shoulders glowing blue in the light. Her beautiful breasts, with her nipples erect from the chill of the night, her skin seemed to shimmer and glow blue in the night. She unbuttoned my shirt slowly, and pulled it off so my back was damp from the cold, gritty sand. She kissed my chest, and she laid down on top of me, with her soft breasts against me, her skin feeling icy against my hot skin.
She shivered slightly as she cuddled against me,
deeper and deeper, until we seemed to finally meld into one.

Waves of heat flowed over me, as she moved,
and our moans and whimpers of ecstasy,
or anguish, spilled through the cool night.

And my dance of deception had only begun.


  1. Wow, your writing gets progressively more open as though flowing 'straight' from your heart. Well done.

  2. I love your writings. Very interesting. I am a 30 year-old closet gay who obviously can relate to your stories. Great site.