Straight Shota Story
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Straight Shota Story
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Basic Trope : An adult (usually but not always a woman) in a relationship with an underage boy.
I Lost My Virginity to a Straight Boy
There’s a way to burst through the shame gay men are made to feel about homosexuality.
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I was 19 when I first had full-on sex with another man. I was at college, living in dorms, and the experience—aside from the usual horrifying awkwardness and somewhat spontaneity of the occasion—was completely and utterly unremarkable aside from one thing: the guy I slept with identified as straight.
The whole thing went down near the end of my freshman year at a party, at which people from the whole dorm floor were drunk and celebrating, carelessly streaming in and out of each other’s rooms, following the various different pop songs until one room took their fancy. I can remember, although I'd had some drinks, sitting alone in my friend’s room on a single bed, the mattress overly springy and with a coarse plastic coating, attempting to stream a song over our dorm’s spotty Internet connection.
It was late (or early, depending on your outlook on the world) when I was joined by the boy who was living in the room next to mine, way back on the other side of the building. He was clearly intoxicated, but it was a party after all and who was I, quite drunk myself, to judge. The minutiae of exactly how things developed from us being together in that room to us having slightly unsuccessful sex in a bathroom in a different corridor have since escaped me. All I know is that one moment we were talking and the next minute, well... we weren’t. I didn’t tell him that I’d never had sex with someone before; instead, saturated with vodka and inflated by nerves, I was swept up in the motions.
Before that night, I had hardly been a nun. When I was a teenager, I was precocious and restless. As the only out young gay kid at my school, I took the advancement of my sexual experiences into my own hands and I did what we all do: I bought a fake ID and hit the gay clubs. Out on the scene I had thrilling and, now looking back, precarious hook ups with guys, going far but never all the way. I know now as LGBTQ people we can define exactly what constitutes sex for ourselves, but when you’re young and your only sex education comes in the shape of illegally downloaded Sean Cody videos, penetration seems like the end all be all.
Still, as I grew into my late-teens, venues started to crack down harder on underage drinking, and it soon became increasingly difficult to go and hook up with guys much older than myself. I felt, in my increasingly anxious and deflated state, that I was being left behind. My first year at college, apart from being grueling mentally, was hardly a sexual smorgasbord of one-night-stands and hook-ups. Instead, I reverted to my teenage years, pining after straight boys who I knew I had no chance in hell with... until that night.
I’d love to say that I felt empowered by fucking my first guy, but the whole experience left a lot to be desired. While I knew it wouldn’t be like a gay college erotica I’d read on Nifty.org (gay canon, really), I rather naively wasn’t expecting the fall out. The boy told his then-girlfriend (who I knew about), saying I had come on to him but that nothing had really happened. Although one thing I can vividly remember was that it was quite literally the other way around, the visceral shock of being somewhat shoved back in the closet and denied the celebratory expungement of my virginity was palpable.
For the next year, we’d hook-up on and off, usually at 3 a.m. after we’d been out partying. We’d meet surreptitiously in dark and make out in the cold British weather on a park bench before venturing back to his place to have sex. And while at the beginning I felt like I had the upper hand in the situation—I was the one who was out and comfortable in my sexuality, right?—after each time we met became more secretive and more dirty, I began to feel secretive, dirty, and most of all shameful . I’m not sure whether I really fell for the guy or not, but I do know that at the end of it he was just using me to get off.
I never learned whether the boy I lost my virginity to was struggling with his sexuality. I think, when I look back now and occasionally find myself tumbling through his Facebook page, that he wasn’t. I believe it was just sex, or at least that’s what I have tell myself now to avoid slipping into a memory induced k-hole. I realize I fell into that old gay adage of placing my feelings on a person who, for whatever reason, was never going to invest them back in me. Worst of all, though, the shame attached to the memories of those first times marred how I would approach sex for years.
It was listening to Years & Years’ new song “Sanctify,” and seeing the band’s out gay singer Olly Alexander talk about how the song was inspired his sexual trysts with straight men, that I realized that these feelings are way more common than people let on. Sure, I know all about gay guys having sex with straight guys, but it felt reassuring to see him describe the “saint and sinner role” he embodied during those experiences, and to hear the uncertainty and melancholy weaved into the song.
More than anything though, was the repeated lyrical mantra of “I won’t be ashamed.” Because as queer people, we’re buried in lifetime’s worth of shame so vivid and searing that oftentimes it’s crippling. Bursting through that shame is our badge of honor, our beautifully united experience. And maybe, like the song says, that does sanctify our sex lives and makes us just a little bit holy.
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What do you see when you look at
this picture?
Obviously there are four feet, two
from an adult and two precious little ones from a toddler. I bet that you
would never see or assume the truth behind this image, this haunting portrait.
The two little feet that you just see were sold for $60 US Dollars to a
pimp.
A three-year-old turned sex slave. His name is Michael Angelo.
Navotos, where Michael lives, is a
community of 10,000 people who live on top of tombs in a graveyard in the Philippines. Michael
lives in the part of the community that is raised about twelve feet off Manila
Bay’s polluted waters. All nine of his family members live in a two-story
makeshift squatter home. Most of the bottom level is rotted out and can’t
be used. You get up to the top floor by climbing a slippery ladder and
once you get up to the top, you realize that this family literally has
nothing. Each child has one shirt. Some don’t even have
pants. The baby’s bottom is diaper-less and the severe rash has bubbled
his skin over to look like a thick crust. Michael spends all day alone in
the house with the baby and his other two-year-old brother while his father and
mother go out to try to find work so that they can eat. His older
siblings are left to govern themselves and find work.
When the pimp came to the door
with a picture in her hand, the family thought that their luck had
changed. She promised them that by giving Michael to her they would
become rich. She said, “At the age of 20 Michael will come back to
you with a million dollars and you will not have to struggle like this
anymore.” She also promised that Michael would be taken care of and
treated like a king at his new home in Japan. The exchange was made – a
child for $60.00 – a poor boy turned to “king” in a matter of
minutes.
PCF has two schools., one in the
dump and the other in the graveyard. One of the teachers found out about
Michael Angelo and notified the social work department at the school.
Three of the social workers decided, despite how scared they were, that they
were going to do something about this tragedy. They worked tirelessly to
find out all the details. They discovered that the pimp worked for a
couple that live at and own a bar in Japan. They also sell children
undercover. The pimp became pregnant herself about four years ago and it
was decided by her boss that she would pimp out her own child when he was
around three-years-old. The time had come for her to give up her
son but she could not bring herself to do it. She took a picture of her
son around the Navotos village to find a child that looked like her son.
When she found Michael Angelo, she found a way to save her own flesh and blood.
The social workers called the
mother into the school, sat her down and scared the heck out of her. They
told her that the adoption was illegal and that she could be put in jail if she
didn’t get the child back. The conversation took hours before tears
streamed down her eyes because she realized that her child would be used for
sexual pleasure by a man four times his size. They said that it took her about
another hour to find the courage to go to the pimp’s house to retrieve her son.
On June 15, 2008 at 12:00am, mere
hours before the child was scheduled to leave the country and fly to Japan,
Michael Angelo was back in [his mother’s] arms. I asked the social worker [if
she thought] she will sell him again. She shrugged her shoulders and
said, “We will notify the police to arrest her is she does. She is
still thinking about that million dolla
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