Ian's Story -- Part One

Since I seriously restarted posting on this blog about a year ago, I’ve been asking Ian to write down some his experiences to share with you.  He was reluctant for a long time, but last Friday he gave me a flash drive and told me to read it.  He said I could share as much of it with you as I wanted.  What I read was as close to an honest account of Ian’s life as I ever got out of him before.  Some of it he had never told me before and, frankly, I was a little surprised by it all.  I will be sharing quite a bit of it.  I don’t intend to edit it beyond maybe cutting out some of the really boring parts, like his eleventh birthday party at the bowling alley when he got his first turkey.  What follows is the beginning of Ian’s story.

I was born in Brooklyn in 1986 to my parents, Tom and Sadie.  I am the youngest of four children.  I have two older brothers, Ben (born in 1971) and Elliot (born in 1974) and a sister, Megan (born in 1977).  I was a happy accident, a joyous oops.  It’s not that my parents didn’t want more kids, it’s just that after the two miscarriages after Meg was born, they thought more kids weren’t in the cards for them.  Then I came along.

My father was a Senior Vice President at Union-Pacific Railroads and earned an extremely good salary, but when the company moved its headquarters to Pennsylvania in 1988, Dad decided it was time to retire. 

I had a fairly typical childhood except for where I went to school – I went to a private elementary school and a private all-boys high school that both my brothers had attended and I guess even those schools were fairly typical.  It was in high school that I first understood I was gay.  I had known for quite some time that I was different, but it wasn’t until high school that why I was different crystallized for me.  And while I could admit it to myself in my most secret moments, I could not act on it out of fear.  So that all-boys school I attended was a torture, especially mandatory swim class, three times a week throughout high school.  When I first started at the school, my brothers told me these stories that swim class was done in the nude. I wasn’t sure if I should believe them, but they knew best, right? I was terrified about spring a boner in swim class. Thank goodness my brothers hadn’t actually told me the whole truth. It seems, there had been a tradition of nude swim class, but that disappeared before even my brother Ben got to that school. Still, there was always those few minutes of nudity in the locker room and the showers after class. There was even one this time I caught the instructor, Brother Albert, using the shower when he thought no one was around. He was a middle-aged man and the first adult other than my father and brothers I had ever seen naked. The thing I remember most clearly about him, other than his uncircumcised penis, were his tattoos. His upper arms, back and chest were covered with religious tattoos. 

What made Swim Class even worse than trying to hide my occasional hard-on was that it was always followed by Religion Class.  Seven minutes of nakedness followed by forty-six minutes of fire and brimstone, of hell and damnation if you ever had an impure or lustful thought! 

It took me a couple of years to reconcile my Catholic upbringing and my sexual urges.  After all, good Catholic boys wait until they’re married to have sex and they definitely don’t suck cock.  But even as I struggled with this, don’t think by any means that I was a virgin by the time I left high school. 

After I graduated I started taking classes at NYU, but I missed so many classes that first semester I was placed on academic probation.  When my grades did not improve the following semester, I received a letter from the university’s Dean of Students telling me that I could not register for any classes for the Fall Term as my enrollment had been terminated.  You can probably guess as to why I failed so many courses that first year – I was too busy partying and fooling around.

That’s when my parent’s got tough with me.  They had given me everything I asked for and provided me every opportunity as the son of wealthy parents – the best toys, the best clothes, the best schools.  Growing up, we went on fantastic vacations – Key West, Aspen, London, Paris, Rome, Rio, Buenos Aires, Tokyo.  But when I flunked out, my father, who had never so much as raised his voice in anger to me, kicked me out of the house.  It wasn’t as if he left me homeless though.  He set me up in a basement apartment in a building he owned in Queens.  It was small and somewhat dark, but there was a couch to relax on and a bed of sorts to sleep on.  There was a smallish TV across from the couch and my lap-top was on the kitchen table and I remember thinking “At least there’s a kitchen” – it was a row of cabinets and a sink and cook-top along one wall.  The white walls of the apartment had yellowed with age and the carpet was a little thin in places and a gray that had once been blue.  But, it was warm and dry and fairly clean.  My father said I could live there rent-free, but I had to pay for my own food and utilities.  That’s when I realized how much I had screwed up.  I didn’t know how to do anything useful and I sure as hell was not going to work in some fast-food place; that was beneath me.  I knew I had to get some kind of job, but what?  I looked through the want ads of all the papers, but nothing seemed to fit.  Then I found it – an ad in the Village Voice for a male escort service.

I figured some escorts make as much as $1,000 a night.  Going to the theater or a charity function with some lonely woman or older man, how hard could it be?  I’ve been told I’m fairly intelligent and have good looks; most people would want me as their escort.  And, if the rumors about sex were true, that wasn’t beyond me either.  I’ve been to movie premiers, black-tie events, even opening day at Bellmont and I have to say, escorting is fairly boring.  It was usually stand there, look handsome but say nothing.

Not too long after I began escorting, I was invited to a Halloween party and that’s where I met Garth for the first time.  Since the party was being sponsored by a college’s gay student union, when he came up to the bar where I was hanging out between dances, I told him I had seen him around campus.  But the simple truth is he was hot!  He wore new white sneakers, a skimpy red jockstrap that left little to the imagination and a red and white baseball cap.  He was all sweaty from dancing and I just could not resist.  I asked him if he wanted to dance and the rest, as they say, is history.  We danced, had a quickie in the men’s room then went back to my place and fucked all night long.  We got together often the next few months.  I even took to hanging out at his college when I didn’t have a job to do on the hopes we would bump into each other.

It’s because of my relationship with Garth, and later his grandmother, that I eventually went back to college and got my degree.  I quit escorting when I moved in to Garth’s grandmother’s home and hadn’t looked back since.  Garth never knew what I did to make money, but I think his grandmother did, though she never said anything or judged me.  She was an amazing woman.  I consider myself lucky having known her.

Having read most of my husband’s old blog entries, he’s exposed himself as fully and unabashedly as he could.  Sometimes it was to titillate, sometimes to confess.  I will endeavor to do the same in future entries.