I don’t think I can explain how despondent I was after being terrorized in the theater (Smoke). Before that incident I had looked up “homosexual” in the public library. There were 3 references, in two it was just in a list of disorders. The last devoted an entire sentence “homosexuality is an incurable disorder”. To me, that sentence meant I had a mental problem as bleak as my poor schizophrenic uncle. I didn’t understand the distinction between disease and disorder. John’s sadistic molestation confirmed that we were creeps.
When I discovered the cruising areas I thought there was hope, at least I wasn’t alone. I lucked out with the 2 men I attempted sex with. They were kind and gentle. I was dissociated from my body. I had never touched myself for pleasure. I couldn’t fathom what they wanted to get or give, the mechanics meant nothing to me.
One day I was hanging out with some men in the park. They were talking about this weird sex thing going around in New York called fucking. It was so gross it couldn’t be real. But they knew of a celebrity who liked it so much he was hospitalized. I couldn’t imagine such a thing. I thought they were teasing me because I was squeamish.
No to me, at 15 the sex I understood was making out with a shirtless guy. It was all I dreamt of. That’s what I went to Jeff’s apartment for.