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Beep..... Beep.... Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
Every time I watch ‘Bridget Jones’ Diary’ on TV, it makes me want to write about my sentimental misadventures.
Obviously I have to make cuts, otherwise we’d be here until 2012 and I have shopping to do before the world ends...
But it all began at 16 with my first girlfriend! Yes! Well, I confess!
The first man I ever kissed was a girl.
Things were a little complicated when I discovered that in fact, while snogging her face off (and we did snog with extreme frequency ...), I always imagined kissing Clayton Norcross, the blonde, buff guy from 'The Bold and the Beautiful'.
I do not want to disrespect my ex-girlfriend, but touching her breasts, squeezing her against me, kissing her on the neck.... It did nothing for me.

Flat line. 
Flogging a dead horse.
But if I thought of Clayton.....
After 5 months we broke up, as three in a relationship is always too many. At least for me.
Then came girlfriend number two, I was already 18 years old and she was really pretty. At the insistence of a friend we had in common (like: get together so we can all hang out as a group of couples...), I said to myself, 'Let's try ..... Better than being the only single guy in the gang....', and so I threw myself into this little adventure, which lasted just one summer.
It all felt to me like some kind of farce, as I couldn’t care less and  was frightened at the idea of being alone with her, in case she made moves to get into my pants.
Then one day she came out of hers.

While making out on the wall of the village church, her sitting on the wall with her legs around my waist and me standing, she had her period unexpectedly (.... and I thought that every girl knew her due date...) and fucked up my new sweater with blood.
I am not happy...
She was so embarrassed that she didn’t know where to hide her face, and I looked like ‘Carrie’ at the fucking prom.
At that moment I realized that I wanted nothing to do with ‘that thing’.
We never met up-close me and 'that thing', except once, yes, at my birth ... I came out of one, but never looked back.
Me and 'that thing' are long distance friends.
I respect her and she is resigned to the fact that I will never visit.
With regards to the girl, I totally lost track of her, but I hope that at least she got into the habit of keeping a calendar in her Iphone about the dates on which she becomes 'dangerous' for other people’s laundry.

Such is life. But then everything changed.
First came the courage to give myself the right name: Marco, you're a homosexual. 
You like boys, you like muscles, you like short hair, strong hands, and the rest. 
Here it is.
Clear as day. What to do now?

The huge effort to put a label on my forehead and look in the mirror, afraid not to recognize my own reflection. 
In fact, perhaps it was more the fear of recognizing myself and hating it.
But no. 
I liked being a poof immediately. Everything made sense. 
My obsessions, my weaknesses, my languors and my sorrows.
I literally blossomed.
Life had granted me a second adolescence in which to have my experiences again, one at a time, but with the boys, which was far, far better
No blood stains on my sweater to start.

Innocence makes the world taste better...
First person I kissed PCO (Post Coming Out) was F. and he was a hunk, can I say it?
I was clumsiness personified around him and one day it just happened.
I was 19 years old and he was 20. 
We kissed in my car, on Christmas Eve, in the dark. 
My hands were frozen and he placed them under his shirt on his chest. The contact with his skin is a feeling that I have not experienced again in my life. 
That’s because there was all my innocence in those hands.
All my innocence totally burnt up in a blaze that made me dizzy.

Impossible to relive. Impossible to forget.
F tasted like cigarettes, chewing gum and some cheap random aftershave, but that kiss was a real tsunami of feelings that I still remember. 
I remember getting out of the car and refusing to hold his hand, always prey to the paranoia of  a small village where everyone knows you.
But my legs were shaking so hard I could barely walk.
And I could not stop smiling.

We went to T's house to play cards, there was everybody, all our gang, all sitting around the table with a mountain of cakes and sweets in the middle.
The fireplace in the room was roaring cheerfully and I and F  were playing footsie under the table and giving each other signals to meet outside with the excuse of a cigarette and kiss some more.
I remember the electricity that was in the air. The sense of possibility, danger and hormonal adrenaline.
It lasted only one night.
At the end of the evening we were already on different planets. The fickleness of young love...
But it was better this way.
We were two kids... A lifetime ago.... 
Yet from that evening my story started and I bet he doesn’t even realize that he sucked out of my mouth the last vestiges of the small, insecure, bullied Marco and made room for the new individual exploding with energy, sexuality, and curiosity.
Almost a monster.
Oh well, I exaggerate for the sake of effect.
Obviously, I was drunk with my new skin of homosexual, I was confident that the world was just waiting for me.
I felt irresistible, as if there weren’t any other 19 year olds as curious and daring in the world except me.
Everyone would love me, I was out of the shadows now, and I felt like a predator.

Unfortunately the following years proved to me how much I was in fact a prey.
Prey to the envy of one, prey to the jealousy of another.
But even more, I was prey to my stupid heart, worn as a badge on my sleeve and surrendered to anyone that offered me a little tenderness. 
With all the hopefulness, the abandon and the hunger for happiness of a nineteen-years-old boy who just started living.
My stupid heart that always fell in love and broke and never hardened. 
A major flaw in the design of any human being. 
But what can you do?
Sometimes things make sense only when they break and if they do, it's because they're working fine.
But that's another post.


la tina said...

oh queen father I love it!!! and speaking about your post, it gave me a couple of ideas that I obviously will manipulate and recreate but... reading you, to me, it's pure ispiration!! :)

oh, I'm happy your heart has found a sure place, a port where to feel sure and beloved, your husband's arms.

dabogirl said...

this is poetry. Poetry.

jon said...

Nice post. Deja vu for many...

In her last show, Empress Extravanganza Oprah Winfrey opined (er, pontificated some would say) about the greatest lessons she's learned over the years with all the inspiring guests she's had on her show: the common thread with everyone seemed to be 1) a sense of unworthiness and 2) seeking validation. I thought the observation was right on, especially for so many in the gay community who are born social pariahs and spend most of their (our) lives always trying to please others (family, society, etc) to release the sense of unworthiness and gain validation. Some figure out how to do this; others struggle their whole lives with the shame and stigma and, as we know only too well in the gay community, it spawns all sorts of behaviors that can be self-destructive.

Her conclusion: "Your being here your being alive makes worthiness your birthright. You alone are enough. "

Very true