Friday, February 4, 2011

Such determined little boys!

Wow, 13. Looking back, I thought I was young cruising Dominion Square for sex when I was 15. 

Like the sex rag Puelo found with the photo of the "homo-sexuals" who patronized a certain bar, my cue came from a conversation between my big sister and her CBC costume designer friend  as I worked on my car scrapbook on the den floor. Little pictures have big ear, adults used to say, and these little ears managed to pick up the words "Dominion Square" and complete the quadratic equation that only little gay boys are able to solve. The first chance I got after school one June day I grabbed the 165 bus downtown and made a beeline to the square. The encounter I had -- the first with an adult -- wasn't exactly what I was looking for, but I was glad I did it. I wrote it up in an as-yet unpublished story called Vespasiennes

I didn't started going to gay bars until I was 17. There weren't any anyways, at least none that dared to speak their name. But I'd found my first hunting ground. Can you imagine picking up a 15-year-old kid who -- with blond hair and not even shaving yet -- who actually looks 15? I hadn't quite understood that I was the bait -- let alone jail bait. Usually I'd cruise around the Square or along St. Catherine St, looking hungrily for a glance back, pretending to look into store windows on cold winter evenings waiting for some man to make up his mind. Come on, I'd be thinking. Pick me! Give me your masculine love! I want your grown-up, hairy body! I want to feel that freshly shaven beard, rub my face in your chest hair, press my steel-hard young dick against your slightly softer, more inviting man  cock. 

I found one guy with whom I had a few repeats. I might have liked the first night, I don't remember. But I found him a bit weird, and there was something cold about him. He always went on about his fantasy of blowing me while I was driving my mother's car, and he liked to drop his saliva in my mouth, which I found gross but put up with it because I wondered if this was one of the things homosexuals were supposed to do. At least he was a lot younger than my first encounter, and he had a decent place to go to.

I might have cruised about twice a year only. It was all pretty other-worldly, for a boy from TMR. Another reality. But I had to do it. Had to. One man I remember fondly was a French guy who I noticed circling the block. Knowing I only had to reel him in, I stuck out my thumb on Cathcart St as he approached a third time. (Hitchhiking on Cathcart St!) He swung open the wide passenger  door of his big 70s GM job, like an Olds, with loads of velour and sumptuous music oozing out his stereo. He took me to the South Shore. He wasn't particularly handsome, but he was friendly and attentive in a way that made me feel comfortable. I think his name was Robert.

Once at his place, he mixed me my first screwdriver. Maybe even my first taste of hard liquor. He taught me something I've always loved ever since: the 69. I wish I'd met him before the other  two. He was the first man I made love with. 

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