Gay people are an abomination and are going to Hell if they don’t get right with God.” These statements led to countless hours of reflection, and a terrifying fear that God might strike me down at any moment.
But you also have to spread the word of God and tell them the truth. In church, the pastor would say, “I know you love your sons. It wasn’t just the school locker room where I heard homophobic remarks. At my school, the very place that I first observed queer curiosity, I was scared to come out, fearing my own physical and emotional safety. I wondered if I could share my desires with some of them, but the fear of being called a “faggot” stopped me. I would see guys touch each other’s private parts and call them “faggots.” I was alone and horribly confused. In actuality, the same boy that touched the boy in the locker room, later called him a “faggot” in the hallway. In the corner of the locker room, and still in the closet, I felt a moment of joy: What if I wasn’t alone? What if there were other boys that felt the same way I did? Off to the side or in the background, I often overheard boys say things like “nice dick” and “you got a hairy ass.” At one point, I saw a boy playfully touch a classmate. And I can tell you I was not the only one looking. Curious, I couldn’t help but glance at some of them while they changed.
#Nifty gay incest butt slut club full
My high school locker room completely bewildered me-a small space full of sweaty boys, constantly fighting, and pulling each other’s pants down. I was quiet and observant, and I didn’t yet know if I should, or could, act on those emotions. These readers know what I’m talking about.I was 14, just starting high school at an all-boys public school in the Bronx, when I began to feel a strong physical attraction to other boys. And it’s a valuable rite of passage, even when you’re screaming obscenities into a payphone like a complete moron. It is 3-10 weeks of pure peer pressure, made from concentrate. You get to shed your overbearing parents and liberate the dipshit teen within. My oldest kid hasn’t gone to sleepaway camp yet for various reasons, and I have implored my wife to send her for at least one summer because (A) I want these kids out of the house, and (B) as one of my friends said about his kid at camp, “I know they’ll come back a different person than when they left.” Summer camp is an indelible experience for so many kids because it represents the first time they’re really, truly out on their own. Then again, I’m not sure why we did anything.
I’m not quite sure why we ran from, you know, a phone call. And whenever a real person answered the phone, we would scream I’M A MOTHERFUCKER WITH A BUFFALO BUTT, hang up the phone, and then run away. So, at night, we snuck down to the phone and started dialing random 1-800 numbers, hoping to either get a live operator or a live girl at the other end of the line. I don’t remember playing any soccer whatsoever at that camp, but I very much DO remember the camp was at a boarding school, and that we got to stay in the dorms all week, and that the dorm had a pay phone that was the only phone in the whole joint.
My most vivid memories of summer camp all feature me being a teenage shithead.