This is me

I FINALLY HAVE INTERNET AT MY HOUSE AGAIN!!!

Gawd! It’s colder than a nuns vagina!

Just posted this on my facebook for all too see… i recently came out to my family and it feel its appropriate to get it all out in the open at once, like a band aid

    I suppose I’ll start out by introducing myself. My name is Matt. This is the story of my life. Before I begin I feel like I should probably let you know that, as I am writing this, I am still only a twenty-two year old kid, living on the coast of Southern California. I am currently unemployed and living off my friends who are putting me up till I get on my feet. I say that to say this; This is not one of those “Rags to Riches” or “if I did it, so can you!” bullshit inspirational stories. This is merely me. Chronicling the ups and downs of my youth, attempting to maintain some semblance of sanity.
    Lets begin with my first sexual encounter, because, lets face it everything in our society revolves around sex in one way or another; and being a twenty-two year old guy, it’s usually just the one. I was eighteen years old at the time, relatively late in life, by todays standards, to be losing my V-Card. His name was Brent and we had met online about a month before meeting in person. Meeting someone online was pretty much my only option, at the time I wasn’t open about my sexuality to anyone really. Brent was nineteen. About my same build, he was five foot, nine inches. A bit more muscular than myself, with a sort of “boy next door” quality. In retrospect I probably wouldn’t go for Brent, being who I am now and knowing what I like. That’s not at all to say that he wasn’t attractive, he was just a bit more effeminate than what I look for in a partner now.
    I remember the drive to his apartment from my parents house. I had told my mom that I was going to workout, so I wore a t-shirt, basketball shorts, and running shoes when I left the house. I had put a change of clothes in the back seat a few hours prior. I drove a block away from the house and changed in the car. I figured gym clothes weren’t the best first impression. His place wasn’t too far from where I lived. About three and a half miles down Harvard, to Riverside, and I was there. I called him to ask which apartment number was his. He walked outside on the second floor balcony to show me. He was wearing basically what I had changed out of.
    He greeted me at the door with an awkward hug and a kiss on the cheek. As I walked in I glanced about his apartment. With a few clothes piled on the floor and a half empty pizza box on the coffee table, it wasn’t exactly the neatest living space. It definitely wasn’t the messiest, however, compared to how I kept my room. He didn’t have a TV so instead we laid on our stomaches and watched videos on Youtube form his laptop. About ten or fifteen minutes in, I could feel his leg on top of mine. It was weird to me, yet comfortable somehow. Another five minutes passed. By this time his arm was around my shoulder and I felt completely intertwined with him. I don’t understand how I felt so relaxed in such an unknown territory. I tilted my head slightly toward his. I could feel his breath on my ear. I turned my face toward his and, like a flash, his lips met mine. My first kiss.
    The kisses continued. At that point all I can really remember thinking is, “Ugh! I really hope I’m not bad at this!” I must have voiced my thoughts at some point because he paused to reassure me.
 ”Hey,” he said. “Just relax, it’s different for everyone. You and me kissing will feel different than you and someone else, and them and someone else. You just gotta keep doing what you’re doing.”
    So, I kept doing it. About an hour had passed and I was starting to get concerned that my “went to workout” excuse would become less and less viable the longer I stayed. I pulled away from the heat of the moment and told him I had to go. I got straightened up, changed back into my gym shorts and parted with a soft, simple kiss on the lips. Driving home I remember telling myself, “Just head for the shower. Go to your room, lock the door, put your clothes in the closet and wash his smell off you!” I did just that. One of the benefits of growing up in a wealthy family with a big house is you can go days without heavy interaction with anyone you don’t want to. I breezed through the kitchen, down the hall, passed my sisters room and into mine, all without being seen by anyone.
    I spent the rest of the day in my room thinking about things. Processing my life. It’s funny how the first time I had actually acted on my sexual desires, the first time I had been with a guy, made me feel more closeted than I had ever felt in my entire life. I didn’t want to leave my room. I was afraid that somehow, what I did all day would come up, and I would be outed to my family. My family was very conservative. Growing up in Tulsa, Oklahoma, the buckle of the Bible Belt, there’s was an ingrained belief that there is good and bad, right and wrong, black and white and no room for grey. I had grown to believe that if they knew what I was, that I was gay, or bi, or queer or whatever I was, I would be cast out and left without any support system. So, I became very good at lying.

                        ———————               

    Days passed as usual. I spent most of my time laying around the house or going to the pool at Southern Hills Country Club. Summer time in my town left me with little to do. After a few days I decided to call Brent again. I figured that the gym excuse was the best way to get out of the house without much accountability to where I had been. Things started out very much the same as before. The greeting at the door. The kiss on the cheek. The, albeit less awkward, hug. This time however we were watching the computer on his bed, a comfortable queen sized mattress set on the floor.
    My leg over his and my shoulder tucked under his arm, I was feeling miles away from the emotionally claustrophobic confines of my spacious home. Then we began kissing again. I was more confident in my skills by this point, after all, I had no reason not to be. He had assured me that I was doing everything right, and the way his body reacted assured me even more. I can’t help thinking about how, in the heat of the moment, I began grabbing at him, feeling him up, touching in ways I would normally be far to reserved to do.
    Then my shirt was off. Then his. Then my fingers were undoing the button on my American Eagle jeans and somehow untying his sweat shorts at the same time. The next thing I knew we were both naked. The comfort I had felt in the early stages had flown out the window and I was faced with a whole new set of unknowns. Will I be good? Does he like this? Do I like this? How long do we do this for? What do we do next? And the inevitable question for a first timer in the world of gay sex, “Who’s the top and who’s the one who’s going to be taking it up the ass?” These questions whirled about in my head. I found it hard to really focus on the task at hand, despite how amazing what he was doing with his tongue felt. I figured that I had watched enough porn to fake it like a seasoned pro, but unfortunately this is one test I didn’t know how to study for.
    It wasn’t long before I was on my stomach. I knew what was coming. It was if part of me had intentionally brought it to this point. Maybe I just wanted to know how it felt. Maybe I wanted to understand the feeling of having another person inside of me. Still, it felt like I was dreaming it, like it wasn’t really about to come to this. Even when he first pressed himself in I was doubting the reality of my circumstances. I had little time to analyze my thoughts before they were dashed aside by the confounding combination of immense pain and odd pleasure that rushed over me like a torrent of sensation. I can only remember flashes from then on. An occasional pant. A stifled moan. It was all over so quickly. He came on my back. He wiped me down and flipped me over. He said it was my turn to cum. I laid back for about five minutes while he gave it his best effort, but it was useless. I had far too much on my mind to let go and give in to the moment. I lied and said that I had jerked off before I came over so I didn’t think I could cum again. I’m pretty sure that I left in the same manner I had before, though I can’t say for sure. My head was fuzzy and my mouth was dry. I felt like I had a fever or I was melting.
    I went home with the same mindset as the first time. Go. Change. Wash. Hide. But this time my mom was unloading groceries as I pulled into the driveway. She asked me to help her, so instead of running to my safe zone, I carried all of the groceries in in a single trip, nearly cutting off the circulation to my hands. I spoke as little as I could and made no eye contact. I told her I was going to shower and walked quickly to my room, stripped my clothes off, started the shower and looked at myself in the mirror for a good while before hopping in.
    I started school the next week. My senior year. Brent texted me several times and I responded. Eventually, though, I stopped contact all together. Then I avoided him online. And eventually I blocked his profile. I don’t know if it was just too much too soon or what. I think that not being out to anyone, not even my friends, made the idea of carrying on any kind of  relationship merely a fantasy. If I were to see Brent today, I would apologize for the way I left things. Not for the fact that I left, but the way in which I did it.
    I suppose that if there is any moral to be found when looking at my life, it is that, it isn’t so much important as what to what you do, but to how you do it.

                        ——-xoxo——-

    My senior year of high school was pretty dark, to say the least. Despite being raised in church, going through the whole Boy Scouts of America, and all that shit, I indulged in more than my fair share of partying. Things really took a turn for the dramatic when hard drugs started playing a major role in my life. I guess I really can’t blame anyone but myself. I mean, sure, there were people, friends, in my life that presented me with possibilities that I might not have come across on my own. At the end of the day though, it was me. I was the one who rolled up the bills, crushed the coke, lied in bed alone all those nights, naked on top of the sheets with a drug laden cd case in front of me. Unlike the case with my sexuality, the problem wasn’t that no one knew, it was who knew. And who knew, was my father.
    I had always known that my dad had struggled with drug addiction most of his life. Various injuries had introduced him to prescription meds, opiates in particular. I also knew that regardless of how much he’d claimed to be a different person to my mother, he still relished in the glory days of his reckless youth. So when he caught me walking in the house at four in the morning, tweaking off my ass, his reaction wasn’t so shocking. Where most parents, I’d like to believe, would be furious or concerned or corrective, my father was inquisitive. Where’d you get it? How are you feeling? Is it pure? If not, what was it cut with? In the rush of my compromised mental state and impaired judgement I responded to his barrage of questions with one remark, “Do you want some?” No matter what I do, I will always regret that I let those words escape my mouth.
    His first response was no, but the words were out there. I went into my room and went to bed. The next day he approached me with more questions. “How are you feeling? What did you do when you were out last night?” In the light of day and the clarity of a sober mind I could see the wheels turning between his ears. Because of bad business decisions, his company was on the verge of bankruptcy and we were on the verge of losing the house. I can imagine that the immense level of stress played a contributing roll in the events of the following months. Because of his acceptance of my party-hard lifestyle, my dad had grown to know things about my recreational activities that no one else in my family was aware of. While he never explicitly black mailed me, the fact that he had leverage over me was more than implied.
    It started with a simple request. “Hey Matt,” he said, sounding tired and worn from a day of stressful decisions. “how hard would it be for you to get some of that stuff again?” I had already molded my decision making process into a state of compliance, a sort of submissive self-defense. “Pretty easy actually.” I answered, in a tone that sounded very matter of fact. “Okay, okay….” he paused. “How much is it?” Now, I’d like to be able to say that what I did next was out of anger towards him, my secret way of getting back at him for even asking me to do such a thing, but if I’m going to be brutally honest about myself, I must admit that I came to this answer out of greed more than anything. “Well,” I said, “its going to be $100 a gram.”
In actuality it was about $40-$50 per gram, based on the shipment, but I saw this as a golden opportunity to either make some extra cash or score some free blow.
    What started as an occasional act, grew in frequency till it was almost every weekend. He would give me the money. I would drive to my dealer and then I would hand it off to him. If he wanted it at his office, he would arrange to meet in the bathroom at Panera, or some other random location he believed to be discrete. He would tell me to bump into him and drop it in his pocket, and then proceed about my business as though we didn’t know each other. My dad had this delusion that he was such an important public figure in our community, and that enough people wanted to shut him down, that he was constantly being monitored. We had stupid code words for things on the phone. Our lines are tapped he would claim. “I’m going to play pool with my friends” meant, I’m on my way to pick up the drugs. “I just sunk the eight ball” was code for I just got the goods.
    I think the fact that most of my friends knew, because most of my friends benefited from the free drugs, made it easy for me to not feel so convicted about what I was doing. It got to the point to where it was an ongoing joke amongst us. We had come up with a system to get the most out of the situation. Every month or so, I’d tell my dad that the dealer was going to be dry for a while, so if he was planning on having coke around, he’d have to buy big before the drought. The biggest buy I ever squeezed out of the old man was a solid ounce. Now, this is Tulsa, Oklahoma we’re talking about. There’s no way in hell that you could come across an ounce of pure uncut cocaine without some impossible connection to an untouchable drug lord, but my father couldn’t tell the difference as much as I could describe the anatomy of a woman. The financial structure for calculating a big buy was the same as any other upcharge, where an ounce actually cost between $700-$800, I told my dad it was going to cost him $1600. Even thinking about it now makes me sick to my stomach, that I could get my dad to drop that much cash for my own selfish benefit, when my family was on the verge of being homeless.
    That weekend my dog died. It is, and will be one of the saddest moments of my life. I was at a party, riding the high of the weeks big purchase. My mom called me at 1 in the morning, not uncommon, she usually just called me to tell me I shouldn’t be out so late. This time was different though. “Matt…” she said, her voice cracking “you need to come home. Buddy’s dead.”———— It was like the world stopped spinning and I was suddenly, and painfully, sober. I fell to my knees and barely choked out “What?”. Through her tears she told me that he had gotten up to move and, while walking down the hall, fell on his side. I went downstairs to get Evan and Taylor, the friends who had come with me. As I walked down the stairs, I caught the eyes of my friend Shelby. “What’s wrong?” she said (Shelby was always the mother, the concerned caretaker among our group of delinquents). “I have to go…. my dog died.”

Anonymous asked: if you really loved us you'd show us everything. ;]

you still havent seen my cock… or my asshole for that matter, so dont get too sassy ;)