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And Reid captures the psychological dynamics of being a closeted teenager perfectly: Of course, I regained my senses quickly, thankful that no one would ever find out what happened. In fact, I quickly turned the incident to my advantage--psychological judo: The next summer in camp I told the story, more or less as it had happened. I related my genuine disgust. I heaped all the worst invectives I could on that perverted thing, to establish my own normality--and I even managed to deduce from the subsequent conversation what the hell a blow job was. Here's my story. By the time I was sixteen, my passion for zoology was such that I'd established quite a name for myself; I was the "boy wonder" of the local zoology club, several generations younger than the other members. Not only that, but I was presenting seminars and teaching classes in zoology to these folks. At the provincial zoology association's annual seminar that year, they flew in the pre-eminent zoological big-whig from Toronto, J. Randolph Mercer, to be the guest speaker. I was so excited! I'd read his writings and heard of his expertise for years; he was the zoologist in Canada. At the seminar, Randolph spoke eloquently at the Friday night plenary and then all day Saturday and Sunday. I sat there soaking up his exuberant lectures, totally engrossed and ga-ga over him. Keep in mind, of course, that I was this sixteen year old closet-case; but also, that Randolph was not the slightest bit attractive to me. He was extremely obese, pock-marked, with big hair and a bushy black beard: I was reminded of Henry VIII. But he was a genius, and I sat there in the audience, alone, fawning over his every word. It was half-way through the last day, Sunday, that Randolph walked up to me during one of the breaks and called me by name. I nearly fell over. "They've been telling me about you," he said, "what a bright young zoologist you are." I blushed; I could not say one word. "I think you are a lot like me," Randolph went on. "I started to get interested in zoology when I was exactly your age. Yes, I think you and I have a lot in common. How old are you, anyway? Sixteen. I'm twenty-six, exactly ten years older." I was shocked; Randolph looked fifty to me. Before I could stammer out a reply, Randolph suggested that we meet up after the closing plenary that afternoon to talk more. In his hotel room! Of course I said yes; my dad and my grandma had driven me down to the seminar, and they were okay with waiting around for an extra couple hours before heading back to the farm. Up in Randolph's hotel room, he did almost all of the talking. I was completely intimidated; he was my idol, eh? Funny, though, that he didn't seem to want to talk much about zoology. He quickly turned the conversation to--you guessed it--sex. I knew nothing about sex; I'd certainly never had any. Randolph didn't mention the G-word, but already, at that age, I had a sixth sense for queer vibes. I was pretty sure--not only that Randolph was a homo--but that he wanted to get into my trousers. And not that I was queer or anything, I thought to myself as I sat there in my obese hero's hotel room, but if I was, he wouldn't be my type. Just at the point when I was getting squeamish about the direction our conversation was taking, Dad knocked on the door. It was time to go. I was relieved, and as I processed all this on the three hour ride back home, I put the gay-vibes-part way way at the back of my mind, focusing instead on the fact that this zoological genius had paid dorky little me some attention. I was giddy. Especially when, only two days later, Randolph called me long distance from Toronto! I couldn't believe it. We talked about burning zoological issues; he promised to help me, mentor me, mold me into the next J. Randolph Mercer. I was astounded at his generosity. And, yes, I still picked up these odd vibes from him; I still tried to ignore that part of the interaction. A few months later during another long phone chat, Randolph came out to me. I knew it. Not only did he tell me that he was gay, but that he thought I was too. "I'm sorry Randolph," I remember saying, "I guess this is where our similarities end. It doesn't bother me that you are gay, but I am not that way." Having convinced him of my heterosexuality, or so I hoped, I thought the matter would end. Randolph took my straight claim at face value, promised that we would still be friends, that he would still help me out. And he did keep in touch after that. The following summer, the summer immediately following Grade 12, my parents planned a trip to Toronto and environs to visit relatives. I'd never been to Toronto, and I was very excited; my parents consented to me staying behind an additional two weeks, touring around with Randolph to do a bunch of zoological stuff. Sure, I was a little nervous about the prospect of Randolph coming onto me when we were alone together, but I was sure that he'd bought my breeder-plea, hook line and sinker. (Meanwhile, just so you know, I was in love with the coolest guy in my grade--Derek, masturbating to homoerotic fantasies and my sister's Playgirl magazines several times a day, and totally denying that any of this gay stuff was happening inside me.) So there I am, seventeen years old, in the big city of Toronto with my hero. On our first night together after my parents went back home, Randolph took me for a drive downtown. I remember him pointing out the rows of parked cars by the harbour along the Don Valley freeway. "That's where all the married men go to get blowjobs from other guys!" he announced. I did not respond. We drove up Yonge Street. It was a sultry Friday or Saturday night about 10 pm; the sidewalks were teeming with strange looking people of all shapes, sizes and colors. I've never forgotten the bare-chested brunette guy wearing only tight jean cut-offs. When I saw him walking by on the street, my heart lurched; when Randolph saw him, he squealed. "Wow, is he ever hot!" he exclaimed; good straight boy that I was, I had no comment. Next thing I know, Randolph pulled off Yonge onto a side street (which I know now was Gloucester Street) and into a parking lot. I asked him, a scared tone in my voice, what was going on. "Do you trust me?" he asked. "Sure," I lied. "I want to take you to a gay bar. Just so you can see what it's like." I was utterly panic-stricken, but I did agree to go in. My belly was tied in knots, and I was flustered, terrified about what I might see. How I might feel about what I saw. The gay bar was packed. We could barely make our way up the stairs. But when we walked into the main area, I had a conniption. Not only did I have a conniption, but I exerted every ounce of restraint to render my conniption invisible to Randolph's watchful eye. Everywhere I looked were gorgeous men drinking and dancing and touching one another. Half of them were shirtless. Everyone was having so much fun. I felt nauseous. Horny. Unready. The image from that bar that remained imprinted on my memory--mostly because I jerked off to it for the next three years--was of two sexy men standing with their arms around each other, chatting and laughing away. One guy was shirtless, and his friend reached over and gave his nipple a friendly tweak. That was it. The most dangerous and arousing thing a tortuously-closeted seventeen year old could witness. After about twenty minutes, Randolph suggested we leave. I acted totally relieved, but I could barely tear that secret other part of myself away from this room full of disgusting queerness. Of course, Randolph wanted to know what I thought about the bar; I believe all I said was that I'd had to pee but had not wanted to use the men's room. Fast-forward a few days. Randolph and I were in Kingston visiting the secretary of the Ontario Zoological Association, Katherine. Katherine had already heard of me, of course; my 'boy wonder' reputation preceded me. She was a gracious host; the only thing that freaked me out was that she put Randolph and I up together in one room! Thankfully, it had two single beds; but still, this was way way too close for comfort. Randolph took me out for dinner that night in Kingston; yet again, he brought up the "gay issue". I'd had enough; he could not leave it alone, and I was getting frustrated. So in a hopelessly round-a-bout way, I tried to say once and for all that I didn't like this poking away at my sexual orientation, that I was straight, dammit all, and to let it drop. Of course, I idolized the man, and he was so much older than me, and I was not strong on confrontation at the best of times. So my words came out all wrong, and--wouldn't you know it--Randolph happily misconstrued my spiel. "I knew it," he said. "I knew you were gay too!" Fuck. It took a while to straighten that out. But I eventually made him understand that I was not coming out to him, I was uncomfortable with his endlessly checking back to see if my status had changed. Whew. So there I was, feeling a little less freaked out about sharing Katherine's guest-bedroom with him after this clarifying conversation. Wrong! No sooner had I stripped down to my briefs and tucked myself in bed than Randolph walked over and kneeled down beside me. "Randolph! What are you doing!" "What do you think I'm doing?" he replied, a jaded, almost sarcastic tone in his voice. "Cut it out. You're freaking me out. What are you doing?" (Meanwhile, my dick was getting hard.) "I want to give you a blow job," Randolph explained. "Surely you'd like a blow job. You can close your eyes and fantasize about whatever girl you want." Randolph was physically repulsive to me, yes; but the thought of anybody's lips on my virgin wang most certainly was not. So I had a major dilemma--alongside my major woody--to contend with. Looking back at that scared, horny seventeen year old that I was, I'm still amazed at how I pulled it off. I could feel precum soaking through my tented briefs under the covers; my mind was racing. How to get what I wanted without giving him what he wanted? How could I take control of this situation? No longer was I intimidated by this zoological guru; no longer, I realized in those intense few moments, did I even like him. Randolph was a total jerk; I could see that. But I had this adolescent hard-on screaming at me under the covers, and I suddenly somehow knew that I was powerful, that I could wrap this ugly, dirty old man around my little finger. "You know I'm not gay," I began, "And you know how much I value our friendship and appreciate all that you've done for me." Randolph nodded. "As a token of my appreciation," I continued, "while a blow job is out of the question, I would allow a hand job." I immediately went on to lay down my conditions: "One, I don't want my face touched. Two, I will not touch you at all. Three, if you ever try this again--or so much as mention this to me--our friendship will be over." Randolph hummed and hawwed, said this and that, and then yanked on the covers I had pulled up tightly around my neck. "Wait!" I said. "You haven't agreed to my conditions!" I'll never forget the meek look on his face as he said "I agree to your conditions." In that moment, I tasted adulthood. Randolph peeled back the sheets and caressed my nipples. No one had ever touched me there, or anywhere; I gasped. When my gotch were exposed, he exclaimed at the dark wet stain, yanked them down. He jerked my dick for only a few moments before he went down on me. Hypersensitive and curious, I did let him push the envelope that far. But when, a few moments later, Randolph tugged on my arm, tried to move my hand toward his crotch, I snapped it right back. No fucking way was I touching him. I'd never had a blow job before, but I could soon tell that he was doing it wrong. Way too much teeth happening; I started to lose my erection. A minute or so later, Randolph came up for air, tugged on my arm again. But this time he was dragging my hand toward my own crotch. "Finish up, then," he said. I did. My first orgasm in the presence of another person: what a load. He shushed my cries while I was spurting; our host and her husband slept next door. Then he did what at the time I thought was the most disgusting thing imaginable. He lowered his jowly bearded face onto my seventeen year old belly and began slurping up the hot muck. I was grossed out. "Oh, don't do that!" I said. "Yuck, stop!" He raised his head, didn't say a word, and I saw oozy droplets of me in his beard. Nothing else was said between us that night. I remember that I didn't sleep, hardly at all. I remember the shower the next morning, how much I needed that shower. Scouring off every last bit of the unspeakable. Man of his word, Randolph did not make another pass at me, nor did he mention our vile commingling, for the rest of my visit. I remember one day a week later when Randolph was at work, snooping in his bedroom and finding--I'm not exaggerating here--a refrigerator-sized cardboard box full of gay porno mags in his closet. Woo hoo! Did I have a field day. But no, I wasn't gay, you see. Nope. Soon after this trip, Randolph and I lost touch. I was not too sad about that. But when I got back home to my parents, there were all manner of high school graduation parties and what-not to attend. Picture me, drunk, hanging out with classmates later that summer. "Hey everybody, guess what happened to me in Toronto? My friend Randolph and I were bar-hopping on Yonge Street and we accidentally walked into a gay bar! It was fucking disgusting!" Picture me, drunker, in my parents' hot-tub with many of these same friends. Including Derek, my true love, to whom I'd lent an extra bathing suit for the occasion. (Which I would go on to drape over my face and jerk off to daily for the next several weeks.) Lollygagging in the steamy water, I leaned into Derek, resting my arm on his succulent tanned bare shoulder, and continued my story. "And I saw these two fags talking, eh? One guy had no shirt, and the other guy was playing with his nipples!" Derek screwed up his face. "That's fucking gross," he said. "Fucking right," I said. As I tried to memorize his beautiful skin with mine.
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