Boys of Summer
Disclaimer: I do not own anything, and I never wish to, for I'd simply ruin the best yaoi in the world.
Summary: My heart pounded against my chest when I had sex; it pounded in the same way love supposed to me feel. So why should anyone fall in love if it was only the preparation of a painful departure? yaoi: Duo/Heero for now
Chapter I : That was meLove, something I always dreamt but never withheld.
This could be as much a lie as a truth, for it's imprecise to say I had never fallen in love, because I had; yet, I had never grasped it in my hands, it was never mine to keep.
My first love, despite the hundreds of porno graphs of young lesbians and hot chicks I collected on my laptop, my first love was a he. So I determined, at age fifteen, that I was gay, that I fancied big cocks rather than cottony breasts; that I would rather be held than holding. I was homosexual, and sadly, an uke.
As naïve as I was, I confessed to him; and as obvious as it should be, he was not of my kind. And with an "are you kidding me?" look, my first love hopelessly shattered like a fragile china vase thrown off the balcony, into countless sharp pieces I dared not to retrieve. And it was with that heavy yet ruptured heart, a result from the failure of my first homosexual attempt, that I quit school and fled from the little town I lived in for fifteen years and ten months. I supposed my grandma was too numb and paralysed by her medicines to notice my disappearance; and as for my parents, I guess they would just had to cry in heaven.
I went to the city. For the following weeks, I was like ghost wondering the subway twenty meters underground, crossing the length of the city aimlessly back and forth and emptying my flat wallet. Eventually I found that fabulous part of the city where the idea of homosexuality was so welcomed that flyers of naked men in various seductive sex position were posted all over the phone boxes, faces blurred though uncensored. The part of the city where queens and homeless punks littered the streets; where love became less a necessity compared to pleasure; where dance and sex mates shared a tighter bond than those between lovers, though they probably danced beside each other for years and never talked.
In a city like this, where faggots are waiting around the corner to hijack your money, or fuck you if you're pretty then hijack your money afterward, I soon was broke, not that it made any difference to my few coins anyways. But one needed money to live, and eat.
Sarcastically, a prisoner of love as I was, my first time was with a man something like twenty years older than me. It happened about a month after I left home, in a high-rise apartment. His name was Armand, though I doubted it was his real name; and s for his last name, I never had the chance to ask.
It was not love, it was not even pleasure; the first time was, as I recalled, unbearable. It felt as if my back was going to break from the firm hand he pressed on my neck that kept my face and chest against the bed sheet while his hard sex entered me from behind. He ejaculated inside me, and as the pain numbed my lower body completely, the quivering pleasure came along with the trembling sensation that shot up my spine as he tried to push deeper and deeper in to my body.
I stayed over night, partially because I had nowhere to go. Afterward several hours of sex, he finally decided to give the mercy a child deserved. He collected my limb body into his arms and murmured softly in my ear how beautiful I was, how wonderful the sex had been and how he loved me. Love - such dreary happiness.
And as many woke up in this way, aroused by the teasing sunlight that simply forced you to open your eyes then evilly filled your eyes with such brightness that forced you to close them again. And as absurd as the hideous sunlight, Armand couldn't even remember my name, and for the sake of love he pushed a hundred bucks into my hand and politely showed me the way out.
I never saw him again. The only things left to remind me of my first night was the soreness that lasted more than two weeks, and the hundred-dollar bill that barely supported me for one week.
As many tend to say, you lose yourself in places where time was not concerned. Many things happened in such a short period of time that when I look back now, I could no longer remember which happened first; did I make love in the men's rooms in subways first? Or had I tried my first drug before that? But over all, I started going to bed with strangers for money. And soon I realized I was worse than those men with their photos on flyers, for I did not even own that small piece of property.
I became a moneyboy, or rentboy and sometimes a callboy, when I had a temporary place to stay at. I was one of those boys that waited to be picked up from the street and would do anything from modeling for nude pictures to hardcore S/M for just a few hundred bucks and a bed. I was one of those boys that came out from different apartments every morning, walking against the crowd at eight a.m., with eyes shadowed after a night with some random man, or men.
I made love in storage rooms in the afternoon, and in deserted warehouses where huge patches of sunlight fell through the shattered windows; I made love at night in various men's arms; I made love in the men's room of central subway station; I made love at mid night, at noon and at eight in the morning; but never belonged. I was always in his house, or that other he's apartment.
I made love with bartenders of my favourite clubs; I made love with bankers and millionaires, drug dealers and druggies; I made love with young men who happened to travel through this miserable city and retired queens who could no longer attract boys by simply standing in their doorways.
I think I did believe in love once before, maybe when I was still unaware of my sexuality, or when I was dreaming of my first love in high school. But either way it seemed so long ago that even if I did, I could no longer remember what it felt like, because my heart pounded against my chest when someone ejaculated in me the same way love supposed to me feel. So why should anyone fall in love if it was only the preparation of a painful departure?
I went from going to bed with handsome young men to sleeping with ordinary people and finally to anyone who provided me a bed, for now, all that I was certain of was the fact that after the most erotic, passionate, or abusive night of sex, my body only ached for more caress.
The guards at the clubs no longer blocked my way for underage, for fifteen or not, I did everything everyone else did: dance and make love. I used to dance beside a blond; maybe he wasn't the prettiest boy I had seen, but definitely the best dancer around. He used to strip his shirt off when his favourite song came on. His chest glistened with sweat like an idol, around which people knelt in a drugged confusion, unconsciously adoring his beauty. I was one of them, but soon I realized I no longer idolized him, because just as much people danced around me as around him.
One night, after four straight hours of dancing, my mates told me, while we were exchanging a few jeering fondness out of boredom in the chill room, that I had grown gaunt, more seductive, and my eyes were shadowed with lust; that I had became one of the best dancers in the club, and popular rentboy. I nuzzled in their arms and smiled. But then they said that I was imprisoning myself in love, and to which I simply smirked, if with any bitterness, it wasn't noted, and said replied that I enjoyed being in a cage, that infact, I just liked making love.
I almost had my own flyers. But when the computer geek, who claimed to be a designer, told me that I had to pay taxes, I told him to fuck himself and forget about it.
That was me at fifteen years of age. While others my age were in school learning how the Americans liberated themselves from the hands of Britain, I was high on my first Angel Dust while giving oral to a black guy whose face I never set eyes on. That was me, the youngest dancer in the club, careless and rebellious. That was me, Heero Yuy.
Hope you liked it,
-Love