Our young past

   Like a waterfall, all the books on the shelf in the closet came running down towards. One of them hit me on the foot, but it was a small one, so the pain was not that bad. However, the incident reminded that stuff had been stored around the house for years and years. There were so many shelves and drawers and hidden little closets and tiny spaces to keep things, and we had all used them ever since I had lived there as a young boy. I even remember my mother telling me where and how to store everything.

The book that had hit my foot was one that I had read a lot when I was young: 1984 by George Orwell. I remember being fascinated by the world building this master of writing had achieved. I really felt there, with all the characters, enduring their hardships and helping them survive somehow. Of course, the book was maybe too dark for me as a young man, but it was one of those building blocks of my personality. I think everyone should be obliged to read such a masterpiece.

 I decided to grab all the books and put those I wanted to keep in a box. Of course, 1984 would go there but there were many others that I hadn’t seen for decades and now I had to decide whether to throw them away or not. The first thing I decided on was to put all my former schoolbooks and notebooks on trash bags. I had no use for that. School had been kind of a nightmare at the end, so it made no sense keeping something that reminded me of any bad moments in my life.

 Some people keep those kinds of books as souvenirs, even to help their children in the future with their homework, but I’m more of a realist. I will never have any children and even if I did, I wouldn’t put them through the trauma and boredom of watching how lousy I was at school when I was young. I’d rather help them with current knowledge and not by reminiscing about things that no one longer cares about. So I put the about ten books and seven notebooks in trash bags.

 I did the same thing with notebooks from college. I had already studied enough and keeping them would only occupy space for other books that I would like to keep. For example, I had a small but very well preserved collection of graphic novels that I had binged through during my college years. They had been great entertainment when I wanted to relax for a while and not be so dependent on internet or anything associated with it. They were a great source of a imagination and certainly helped me build my own creativity during those years. I loved them too much to part with them.

 The remaining books where old and had belonged to my parents. So it wasn’t my choice to put them away or throw them away. I had to ask before doing anything. So I put all of those in a different box and clean the whole space with care. I put on a mask on my mouth, as the amount of dust was just incredible. It took me a long while to properly clean the closet, every single corner and space, before leaving for my former bedroom and start doing the same thing there. It seemed like a job that wouldn’t end.

 But, in time, it did. Every single thing that I wanted to keep was in boxes that would be sent to my place. Some other things would be sent to mu parents home, where they could decided if they wanted to keep all that or if they want to throw something. Knowing them, a visit to their place would be necessary because parents are all the same, they have difficulty trying to part with anything that reminds them of something you did when you were young or that reminds them of a tiny thing they did year ago.

 It’s their choice anyway. I carried all the trash bags to the containers and said my final goodbyes. After all, many of those books and toys and so many other things had been there through my younger years. Years that had been difficult at some points and joyful at others. It is weird, but as humans we do tend to give this human quality to everything that is not alive. We care for our things as if they knew we cared for them and it goes beyond of trying to preserve them as long as possible. It’s a weird kind of love.

 Driving back home, with two boxes filled with my past, my eyes started to fill up and I had to take advantage of a red light in order to clean my eyes with a tissue and just try to compose myself. Cleaning the house in which I had lived for so long had been a very unexpected experience. It’s one of those things you don’t really think much about but, once you’re there doing the job, you realized that it’s not as simple as it looks. It’s difficult to stare at your past and just see it all in front of you, kind of like a movie.

 I was grateful to get home and put the boxes on the elevator. A young woman I had never seen on the building helped me hold the button for me, as I pushed the boxes into the steel container. She got down first. She seemed very nice and that made me realize I really had no idea who my neighbors were, except for the lady that lived next door who loved to sing opera at the top of her lungs every single afternoon. I guess she thought it would be less annoying at that time of day. Maybe she had been a famous opera singer or had failed to reach her life dream. Who knows?

 I pushed the boxes all the way from the elevator to my doorstep. I was about to pull the keys out of my coat, when the door flung open and he stood there, smiling. Apparently, he had heard me coming from the elevator and had waited patiently to open the door. He grabbed one box and I took the other. We put them by the sofa and hen just fell on the furniture. I was exhausted and he seemed to be tired too. He had gone out with friends to hike some mountain or something like that. A sportsman, he was.

 We lay there for a while, slowly embracing each other, in silence. Then, the afternoon came and we realized we had fallen asleep for a short while. I woke up because my stomach was hurting. I had been working on the house all day and had not eaten a single thing. He proposed we should order takeout but I reminded him we had no money to spare for that. So I decided to stand up and cook something fast. Pasta came to mind, so I just started cooking right away, not even listening to what he was saying.

 He apparently grew tired of not getting real answers, because he then turned to the boxes and opened them. He grabbed some things, looked at my toys and browsed some of the old magazines I had wanted to save from the dumpster. He laughed when he saw my old video games, as he had never known I had played videogames when younger. It’s weird but we had never really talked about our childhood personas. Our younger self sometimes feels like a whole different person, away from us.

 I saw 1984 in his hands, just as I chopped some tomatoes for the sauce. I waited to hear if he had something to say about it, if he had any input about me owning such a book. He didn’t say a word for a while. He appeared to be checking the state of the book and some of the pages. But he wasn’t saying anything. For a moment, I asked myself what kind of couple lives together for almost a year and they don’t even share their tastes to one another. It made me feel like a failure, so much so that I almost cut off a finger.

 Then, he started reciting. He just opened the book on a random page, the one where Winston talks about Julia, and how he sees her and how he feels. The way he read it was just delightful and, as the water boiled and I put the pasta in, I smiled hearing his voice reading my favorite book ever.

 He only stopped when started serving. The food looked amazing and I think his reading inspired me. He left the book on the coffee table and, before sitting down to eat, he kissed me softly and I gently grabbed him by the waist. It felt different somehow. But different good. We smiled and ate, while talking.

My truth

   The moment I came out from the interview, I took out one my cigarettes and lit it up right there, in front of the office building. There was no one there doing the same thing, so of course people looked at me as if I was the strangest thing they had ever done, almost as if they had never even seen a human smoking in their lives. Maybe it was my clothes or the way I was standing up or maybe the fact that it was obvious I didn’t belong there. Maybe they were very good at looking through people and knowing their truth.

 I didn’t stay long to figure it out. With my cig on my mouth, I walked towards the bus stop. I didn’t really want to go back home so soon, so I wasn’t precisely running to grab the bus. I stood a bit far from the bus stop in order to finish the cigarette, as I thought of the questions they had asked me and the answers I had given. My truth right then and there was that I wanted to scream, to run away and just put my head inside a hole in the ground. I was frustrated and tired and just fed up with everything around me.

 My bus came in too fast, so I had to put off my cigarette. Luckily, the bus was not as filled up as it could have been. I was a bit pissed off that I had to pay for it, only because I knew going to that stupid interview had been a waste of time. The same thing had happened that year, once and again and again and again. Sometimes it was in places close to my home but I mostly had to travel by bus in order to just feel like an imbecile once I got to the actual interview. I had to sit there and pretend I knew shit about shit.

 Somehow, I had learned to pretend and lie in many parts of my life, but never in situations like interviews. Actually, more than not knowing how to do it, I think it was something related to not having the same mindset than the people doing the interview. I knew I wasn’t one of them. And I don’t mean it like saying I’m better or something like that. I’m certainly not better. But the point is we weren’t understanding each other because we were two very different types of people who could never connect at any level.

 That happened to me in every interview, from the moment I came out of college until today, six years later. Six years and I have never had a steady job because people won’t hire me. Maybe it’s lack of enthusiasm or maybe it’s just that I don’t have any skills or knowledge that can be applied in a “useful” job. And I live in a country were jobs are a precious thing, not really offered in every corner. And yet, some people get them and stay in them for several years or maybe all of their lives. And here I am, over thirty now, jobless and still wondering if I will ever be able to live by myself.

 As I step down the bus, a couple of blocks away from my house, I decide to take my ass to the nearest park. I have no need to hear my mother’s questions about the interview or feel how my dad looks at me knowing that I’m a complete and utter failure. No, I need to mix it up a little bit and maybe the park has exactly what I need. If I was a pothead, I would consider smoking there for a while but I cannot even have an interesting hobby like that one. I’m very boring and just sit there by myself.

 There are many guys walking dogs and old ladies also doing the same thing. I get obsessed for a while with people picking up their dogs businesses. Then, I remember why I’m there and my world just crumbles again. I feel the need to cry but I really don’t want to. I’m tired of having done that so many times in the past. It’s like I’m dried up, just too damn tired to shed one more tear into this ungrateful fucking world. I’d rather just stay put and think about something else, escape from everything once again.

 Yeah, I know what you’re thinking. Why doesn’t that faggot just commit to something and start changing his ways? Why doesn’t he just become whatever it is that people are looking for in a worker? I mean, that’s what people do: they pretend to be this superhuman in order to be considered for anything from a job to a damn relationship. Fuck, even people that want to fuck each other lie about many things in order to get laid. So what’s up with this guy? Why doesn’t he just do what everybody else does and shut up?

 Well, I can’t. I physically can’t. I cannot pretend forever, I cannot work in something I despise or don’t even have an interest in. Of course I don’t have that luxury, to like what I work in. I don’t and I know that. But even in that case I just feel like I have no other option but being this sack of gas and shit that biology turned me into. I cannot just acquire all of those things that people have because it’s a case of you have it or you don’t. At least it is for me, from my point of view.

 Of course, you people are just thinking: “Who the fuck does this guy think he is? Why doesn’t he just do something, like all the rest of us do?” And the real answer to that is that I don’t have a fucking clue why I don’t do that, why I don’t just turn into someone else and become this being that everyone wants to be connected with. But I can’t. I have failed as a human male, I know that. And I’m trying to reconcile with that in a world that doesn’t give a fuck about individuals, where the group is always much more important than anything you might be feeling in your little weak head.

 When I realize it, it’s almost completely dark. The lamps on the park illuminate everything in the creepiest way and it does remind me that this city is filled with rapists, murderers, robbers and, the worst part, stupid fuckers. So I stand up and walk a few blocks towards home. I prepare in my mind phrases to tell my mother and my father. As I enter the building and press the elevator button, the sense of dread enters my soul once again. I feel awful, like crying once again, but I just don’t do it. What good will that make?

 I enter home and, as predicted, she asks me about how it went and my father looks at me over his glasses. I just say whatever thing it was that I prepared and then excuse myself because I really want to pee. And it’s true, but I also want to run away from there because I have no need to watch them look at me. I feel parents can really see through their children, even if they decide to buy the lies you tell them as their sons and daughters. Parents always know, in one way or the other, and that has always scared me.

 I enter the bathroom, close the door and pull out my penis. As I pee, I look myself at the mirror and see someone I don’t completely like. It’s not only his looks that I have always hated, but also the fact that he cannot be the person that everyone wants him to me, that he needs to be in order to survive this motherfucking world. Look at him, staring back at me with those depressing little eyes and that fucking brain that’s only filled with garbage. I can say I sometimes despise him to death.

 And his looks. He cannot even get anyone to fuck him and there is no doubt why. Never mind the tiny dick, just look at his face. He looks sick and oily, just disgusting. He finishes peeing, washes his hands in seconds and leaves. I enter my room and just fall on my bed. Again, I want to cry and scream and yell and hit and kick. But I can’t. I know nothing of the sorts will help me be whoever it is I’m supposed to be. It just won’t and I don’t know what to do next, when to just quit for good. It seems like the obvious choice.

 How many times can I stand being rejected for a job interview? For how long can I wait until I understand that no one will ever hire me to do anything? Am I resistant enough to last like this forever? Should I even keep doing that now, that I know the reality of who I am and my possibilities?

 I fall asleep and wake up in the middle of night. My mother apparently understood it all, because she didn’t wake me up or nothing. It’s four in the morning and my thoughts race through my head. I’m trying to stay in control, but sometimes it is taken from you and there’s nothing you can do about it.

Humble beginnings

   It started only a few years ago. I was about to turn seventeen years old but my body and my mind were years beyond that. From the moment puberty hit me, I had a very pronounced urge to explore every part of my body and my sexuality. Of course, I was too young at first so I did all of that exploring by myself. It was a great moment for me, because I discovered that I could learn who I was and what I liked in the privacy of my own room. Masturbation became something that made or broke my day.

 I wouldn’t say I got obsessed with it, I just thought it was fun to do it and try different things, with oils and stuff like that. From that young age, around twelve years old, I started watching porn on my parent’s laptop. It was our first computer and not even my parents knew a lot about the Internet or how to use it, so it took them a while to discover what I did with it. But when they did, they sent me straight to a shrink. That’s the type of parents my parents are, very nervous and prone to freaking out for nothing.

 The expert told them it was normal for a boy my age to explore his sexuality, but as most adults and people in general; they refused to believe I had any idea of what I liked at that age. They thought I was basically going insane because of bad influences around me. They forbid me to play more videogames, as well as watching any TV. I also was forced to interact more with people in school, only because I had few friends and none of them really ever had any kind of relationship outside of school.

 Weirdly enough, it was not long after that, between the shrink and my paranoid parents, that I met this new kid at school. We were a little bit older and hit it off right away. I had been forced to enter a sports team, so I was playing football with other guys, but I never really played. They all knew I hated being there so they left me be. But this new kid really loved to play but he also like talking to me when he was waiting for his turn to chase after the ball. He was very kind and funny and I liked that he didn’t pretended to be an adult.

 That year and the next one, we spent them together. I stopped that football nonsense but we stayed great friends. So much so that we went out for ice cream together, we would go to the movies and he would even come home and talk to my parents for very brief periods of time. And they loved him, even if I had left the team and I didn’t really have any other friends. They thought everything with me had gone back to normal and they were very eager to see the next step in my growth, the moment were I would decide my profession and go on to college to meet the woman of my life.

 Well, as I knew it would happen, I disappointed my parent’s big time. First of all, I kept masturbating and watching porn. I just got smarter than them, so they couldn’t catch me. Second, my friend Caleb (the new kid at school) had been one of the main influences in how to channel all of that that I had in my head and just all over my soul. Because I really thought it was part of me. We would steal porno magazines and we would always check out the ones with men first, because he knew very well that’s what I liked.

He got a girlfriend when we turned sixteen, a girl named Debra who was cool and all but I just didn’t find interesting. He told me he had sex with her several times but I never truly believed that. Not only because she looked too much like a prude, but because everything he said had a bit of exaggeration to it and it was very easy to notice. Anyway, I didn’t care at all because Caleb was a good friend to me, he didn’t judge or anything and we would have long and stimulating conversations about things we actually liked.

 It was just a couple of years before graduating that he came to me all excited. He had come home with his laptop and showed me a page where they announced the search for new actors in the area. It was not precisely for a period drama, but for porn involving younger actors and older actors. I was confused at first, but Caleb was very much excited, telling me it would be a great and fun thing to do, to just try out for a porn film and be able to tell that experience later, even if I didn’t get chosen.

 I wasn’t as excited as him when I saw it. Yeah, I spoke a lot about sex and bodies and all of that but that didn’t mean I actually knew how to do any of that. Caleb knew very well I was a virgin, but he seemed to have forgotten all about that. The other thing was that I had no self-esteem, at all. At that was something we didn’t really discuss because it’s not something very easy to talk to with friends. He was the guy I liked to hang out with to have fun, not to speak about things that made me feel like shit.

 But there was one detail that actually made him stop smiling at once and the webpage was clear about it: the actors had to be at least eighteen years old. They even stated that they would ask for ID before anyone would be able to do an audition. So Caleb’s enthusiasm fell to the floor because we were not even seventeen. He could have passed for older, because he already had some facial hair and he was very tall, but I still looked like a kid and had nothing going on for me to make people think that I eighteen years old. There was no way I could pass for someone older.

 But then, Caleb smiled again, grabbed his laptop and ran out of my room, only yelling he would see me in school after the weekend. There were some weekends we would hang out, but he knew I had to visit my grandparents and that always took way longer that it should, so we just hoped to see each other again the next Monday. During those two days, I did wonder about what idea had passed through his head after I had pointed out the age thing, but it was sometimes better not to dwell too much on things like that.

 I really liked how impulsive he was and how much of a good friend he was. He really didn’t care at all about me being gay and we even did that promise that if we hadn’t married anyone by the time we would be forty, we would marry each other.  It was a silly thing to do but nice anyway. We mocked my shrink and my parents together and how he would always do whatever he wanted whenever he wanted because his parents were hippie vegans or something like that. It was just a very entertaining relationship.

 On Monday, he arrived at school with two fake ID’s. He told me he had grabbed my picture from Facebook, because he thought I looked a bit older in one of them. He had done the same with his and then he had gone to a cousin of his that knew very well how to make fake ID’s. I didn’t even ask anything else because the cards did look authentic, with the proper seals and everything. I asked if he needed any money and he just assured me that his cousin owed him too much to be asking for any money.

 That Saturday, we went out late and told our parents we were going to see a movie. Instead, we went to this gay neighborhood were the auditions would take place. Funny enough, the guy didn’t say a word when he gave him the ID’s. He just gave us a number and told us to wait. That night, we only got checked out by three guys. I was one of the few men there that got selected to actually have an audition.  It would take place right then and there, only a few hours later. I was excited but really nervous.

 Anyway, that’s how it all got started. I have been working in this industry for six years now and, although it was very difficult at the start, I was able to pull through even after people in my first productions learned that I wasn’t as old as I had said I was at first. I was fired and hired in a matter of days.

 As for Caleb, he was just there to support me. He and his girlfriend stayed together even after our prom. Then, he realized that he wasn’t really into her and moved on to guys. He says he’s pansexual or something but the only thing I care about is that a very good friend has my back.