In my first post I mentioned my Dad running out on Mom and me when I was seven. I thought I would take the time to fill you in a little on my background.
My dear ol' Dad is Irish and German, but his family has been here in the States since the time of the Civil War. He was the third child of five and the eldest son. My father and both of his brothers served in the military, but only he came out alive, if you want to call it that. He had addiction problems and suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder or Syndrome or whatever the hell they're calling it these days. Like I said in yesterday's post, he ran out on me and my Mom when I was little. The less said about the sod, the better.
Mom’s Italian-American and was Dad's high school sweetheart. Her folks came to New York sometime around 1890 or little before, Gran’s a little fuzzy on the details, and settled in Brooklyn.
Both Mom and Dad were a little too young for the '60s counter-culture scene but were right there for the sex-drugs-and-alcohol-induced haze of the disco '70s. They were there in Studio 54 quite a few times and in her more lucid moments, Mom told me stories about that place, which if half were true, would make for some interesting footnotes in the biographies of quite a few famous people.
I was born in Jamaica, Queens in August of 1985 where my parents had moved after they married, and spent the first few years of life being an adorable little guy. I was my parent's only child and, later when I was in school, would sometimes wonder what it would have been like to have a brother or sister since. I had to content myself with my rarely-seen cousins for that. I did much better with friends.
Despite my parents fucking up their own lives, I guess they did right by me as much as they could. Granted, I often wished I could have had a perfect family -- you know, house in the country, lots of money, parents who were sober and not high all the time -- but they did what they could. I have come to terms with my crappy childhood.
After Gran took me in it took years to undo the damage the ‘rents had done to me, but with Gran’s love and patience, I made it. I was not a stellar student by any means until mid-way through High School, then it was bust my hump to graduate on time. Math was always a problem for me, so Gran got me a tutor. Mike was a Senior when I was a Junior. He was suggested to Gran by the head of the Math Department as a way of getting my grades up. I already knew Mike. He was on the basketball and swim teams and he had been in my Spanish 3 class.
Now, this was at about the time Gran helped me admit to myself that I was much more into guys than girls. Since I knew Mike, I liked him, he may have been a jock, but he wasn’t stuck up, he was one of the guys. Besides, I had my sights on a member of the baseball team. I can’t remember his name, Steve something, but I sure do remember the curve of his ass in that uniform! Talk about bubble butt!
Anyway, Mike came over Gran’s house twice a week every week thereafter and we worked on my math. Two weeks into those tutoring sessions I got my first passing grade on a math test! That test hung on the refrigerator for the rest of the semester as a reminder of what I could do. Mike continued to work with me and by April I didn’t need his help anymore, but he still came over, always after practice smelling of sweat. My dick often got hard sitting there next to him. That’s when I made a major mistake in judgment. I told Mike how I felt. His response: “You’re a fucking faggot?” I never felt so low. He said I was lucky he didn’t beat the crap out of me for wanting to suck his cock and make him a faggot too. Then he said he wouldn’t say anything to anyone ‘cause it would hurt his reputation. That’s when he left and I never saw him again outside of school. A couple of months later he graduated and was gone for good.
The whole Mike experience taught me I needed to be careful who I came out to. Thank heaven I didn’t pay attention to that lesson when it came to Eddie.
More about him next time.
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