My "Gay" Experience, short of something else

I’ve always been envious of the sharp dressed stud at the lunch table that was able to keep the conversation going by telling life story after life story.

I’ve only ever had one real good one: my “gay experience” as a child.

My family and I moved to the United States in March of 2001 and landed in a quiet neighborhood along Coral Way, renting a 1980s one-bedroom apartment in a complex whose spiral staircase had seen better days. Most of the inhabitants were nearly retired Hispanics but a couple of them had a kid that attended my same elementary and was a grade ahead of me. My given newcomer status caused me to gravitate towards this 3rd grade youth named Kevin, a chubby, sedentary, finger-licking type not nearly as concerned with the enterprise of learning as I was.
All I cared for that was that he was the only kid my age in the building and that he owned a PlayStation 2 while I owned the original.
Most of the time we spent hanging out, we would do regular boyish things like play video games and munch on chips and talk about cars and chase each other around.

More often than not though, neither his nor my parents were around; they were off working.

Such a backdrop wouldn’t have posed a problem if Kevin was a normal boy. Problem is, he wasn’t.

I vaguely recall one of the first times it happened. Kevin and I were sitting on the living room couch playing video games as his parents came close to let him know they were going to work.

I thought nothing of it until after the door was closed and a half hour had passed. I was on Kevin’s bed, laying down, face up, fully clothed; watching this grotesquely unkempt boy stand over me and say, “Let’s make love” before throwing himself on me and performing the obvious.

To avoid being more graphic, there was no penetration.

The main factor that compelled me to keep this secret for as long as I did was an irrational preoccupation with what normal was. I asked myself, what would be the normal thing for me to do here? Should I even tell my parents? Am I supposed to fend for myself?

Even Kevin could tell was something wasn’t right; every time we were “done”, he would urge me not to tell my parents nor his. Every time I would ask him why he was doing it, he’d get kind of nervous and provide a unfulfilling answer.

It was a power game, I suppose, in which I had the power of uncovering Kevin’s heretofore secret folly. Mine and Kevin’s parents were the outsiders, and given the nature of what was going on and their perceived responsibility to raise us right, it was in their best interest to become insiders. It was a rape situation without the rape.

I’m glad I told my parents eventually, and I’m also glad that no physical damage occurred, but I wish I could know how Kevin is now. That’s the only part left unresolved. Is he OK?


3 thoughts on “My "Gay" Experience, short of something else”

  1. I admire your defiance against norms and willingness to “come out.”
    I'm not quite sure how you've handled the situation. It seems clear that you're able to be open about it, but how is Kevin deeply embedded in your love life?


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