Damien's Introduction (A Queer Crowd Story)
 

It's been awhile since I posted anything. As some of you may know, I tend to write stories about homosexuality, sadomasochism, and other forms of queer. If you aren't familiar with my work, here are a couple of my other stories:

Key to Control
Allan's Journal

Key to Control is complete. Allan's Journal... Well, I swear I'm planning to get back to writing it soon.

Damien (the character who's introduction this is) isn't technically a member of the queer crowd. That's what my characters were called during high school, and he doesn't meet them until a couple of years later. He's still part of that reality though, so he gets to keep the label.

I don't know if I'll write more beyond this. It depends on if I have inspiration. I'll give you a hint on the plot line, though. It all goes downhill from here.

I first realized I was gay when I was in junior high and my best friend convinced me to sneak into a girl’s locker room. Afterwards, he raved about how great this or that girl looked in only her underwear, but I felt nothing. I was far more excited by the close presence of half-naked boys after gym class than by the exposed skin of my female classmates. I’d always hoped that my reaction to boys was normal, but I realized very clearly in that moment that it was not.

I didn’t know the term “gay” then, but I knew the terms “sodomite” and “sinner.” I grew up in a small, very religious town, and we didn’t discuss “those people” beyond declaring that they would spend an eternity in hell.

I desperately did not want to be one of “those people.”

I dated nearly ever girl at my high school, discarding each based on some minor flaw that had nothing to do with their lack of a penis. I was attractive and popular, so I could get away with being picky. Almost every girl I dumped would have dated me again.

My junior year, I discovered homosexuality. There were books about it – stories, scientific reports, essays. There was a gay culture. It didn’t exist in my home town, no, but it existed. I gave up on dating women and absorbed everything I could about this phenomenon. But I still didn’t go after men, and I didn’t tell anyone that I was different. Rumor had it that I had discovered college women.

Finally, a week before I was supposed to leave for college, I told my parents. Not that I was gay, mind. They probably would have fainted at my use of the word. But I told them that I was attracted to guys, that I’d always been attracted to guys, and that I didn’t think it would change.

I didn’t expect them to accept this. I thought maybe they’d send me to our pastor or sign me up for how to be straight classes – to support me in the same way they would have supported me if I were a murderer.

Instead, they wrote me a check and told me not to come back.

I left for college right on time, my car filled with necessities. But I was distracted. I missed a turn, and then I just kept going. Two days later, I crossed into California – half a country away from where I was supposed to be.

I didn’t cry, but I grieved. With each mile marker, I realized anew that I had to turn around, but I also knew that I wasn’t going to. I kept driving until I reached San Francisco, the glory land for homosexuals according to all that I’d read. Maybe there, I’d find a home.