I was rereading old posts today, and I just realised how weird I was, writing about David. To be honest, we have gone to the gym twice and he is definitely the straight type. It was funny seeing all these gay guys giving him the eye (because he has a gorgeous bod) and then seeing the look of anger/jealousy/lust when they see that he was talking to me more and looking at them less.
I know it is shallow, but I just find it funny. Heck, to be really honest, I find it such an ego boost. However, I know that it is based on pretense and I really have no intentions of getting it on with this guy. Why not? Because he's straight.
Let's face it. We've all done it - fallen for a straight man. However, as most stories go, straight men usually don't go for gay men, and these things usually end in tears for one of the affected parties. Believe it or not, the tears often go to the gay guys.
What a waste of mascara, don't you think???
Anyway, the last gay guy I fell for was one of my close friends, Lorenzo. Loz was funny - he had long hair that he played around with constantly, he had a Barbra Steisand nose that made him so adorable, he was a gymnast so he would do all these cartwheels and pretzelesque poses that made him a notch above the normal class clown.
But what made me so gaga over him, I think, was the fact that deep down inside, he was a dark, lonely soul and he needed someone just as dark and lonely to anchor him. That was me. He would stay over my house 4 days a week. On days he's not at my home, I would be at his place. We would talk until the wee hours of the morning and when it's time to go to sleep, he would cuddle up next to me, like a child clutching a security blanket.
There were even times when he would maneuver his hand on top of my crotch, but not really doing anything else. I sat there, helpless in the dark, as my dick grew bigger and bigger in size. It was quite embarrassing at that time, but I definitely didn't do anything to rectify the situation, or release my own tension.
Why? Because I was in heaven. Because there was a certain innocent playfulness in his actions that I could not betray by going any further.
At one point, I gathered the courage to do the same to him and as daybreak crept up on us, I would find myself still awake, my hand on top of his hard dick, not doing anything other than resting my hand on top of his member.
After a few months of that, we began playfully wrestling with each other, and there were times he would just lie on top of me, breathless after the wrestling match, our penises (or penii as one of my friends insists) throbbing against the thin fabric of our boxer shorts. Sometimes, when we sleep, we would cuddle and our lips would be a mere centimeter apart - but we never kissed. We never had sex. We never touched each other except through our clothes.
The only thing we managed to do successfully was drift apart. I got myself a girlfriend, and he eventually got himself one as well. We tried to get back together at one point, but it was VERY clear he had already changed. In some ways, so had I.
Aside from Ricky, a university professor I was close to, I think no one suspected a thing. Perhaps it is a good thing. Ties were easily severed clean and our lives were just less complicated that way. However, deep down inside, I am fearful that I will forget these memories, and I don't want to lose that part of my life. Those were good days, and part of me will die if I forget what it was like to almost touch, almost kiss, almost fuck someone I will die twice over for.
Don't get me wrong - I no longer pine for him. I know he is happy where he is, and I am definitely happy where I am. However, I do miss the old days. I miss the innocence of our actions and the rawness of what I felt was love.