Twinks First

Twinks First

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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These guys had been through the emotional throes of dating, and ultimately, they had been able to fall in love again – even multiple times. I needed to know their secrets.
Jul 13, 2016, 01:40 PM EDT | Updated Jul 13, 2016
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We had about twenty minutes before he had to leave for the airport. The image I had conjured of the thirty-two-year-old currently en route to my front door from our meager interaction on Grindr was as telling as a police report: an assumed age, height, and weight, as well as one scrupulously selected profile picture. And often enough, the photo too ended up a rough sketch. These physical characteristics as well as a few words – “What are you into?” – were all that had been exchanged between me and this city planner from Washington D.C.
This was last summer when I had just turned twenty-two, fresh off the boat from flirting with my first serious relationship. I was seasick, and as this older man and I hit the sheets, I found that my body struggled to deliver what I had ordered.
When everything physical was said and done, we nestled in my bed together where I offered my condolences for my sexual underperformance. “I’m sorry, you’re just the first guy since my breakup,” I said. Confidently, he checked the time on his iPhone, which was perched on my nightstand and looked up at me. “Well, there’s good news and there’s bad news. Which do you want first?” he asked.
“The bad, always,” I responded. With texture, he said, “The bad news is that it won’t get any easier. Losing love. The good news is that you’ll get more used to the pain.”
The insight that this perfect stranger offered me resonated with me throughout the process of that first true heartbreak. And it dawned upon me: older gay men may hold some of the answers. These are people whose sex lives pre-date apps like Grindr or Scruff, and they may have even evaded the widespread millennial mentality of quickly finding something defective with a new lover, only to start brainlessly swiping again.
For me, older gay men came to symbolize the one thing more inspiring than heartbreak: rebirth. These guys had been through the emotional throes of dating, and ultimately, they had been able to fall in love again – even multiple times. I needed to know their secrets.
Dating back to pederasty in Ancient Greece, there has existed a sincere social bond between older gay men and male youth – perhaps in the form of today’s “bears” and “twinks” – where intimacy was mingled with the dispensing of emotional intellect. By all means, in Greek culture, this relationship was considered an education. But today, relationships between older gay men and younger gay men are seemingly plagued by peer judgment over presumptive motivations.
Admittedly, I have been one to shy away from intimate encounters with men much older than me in the past. Most of my gay cohort, as well as previous partners, had exposed their +/- four-year rule to me out of fear that they would be deemed “sugar babies” for taking interest in somebody markedly older. A lot of gay men around my age assume that older gay men, on the other hand, are mainly into younger gay men for the sex, perhaps so the youth can somehow rub off on them in bed like some heavy cologne. Still, many ask: “What really would you and an older man have in common?”
But that’s the whole point. Older gay men know things I don’t. If people undress the “ick” factor, isn’t this connection simply another ripe learning experience not dissimilar to one gained through relations with somebody of a matching age?
Today, online dating apps have intersected many gay men of differing ages and backgrounds. And though these apps may be seen as grassroots one-night stand delivery services, they also provide rich, rare inter-age experiences where younger and older gay men, already comfortable under the veil of physical intimacy, can communicate and dispense insight into the minefield that is the modern gay dating world.
Though I do often tend towards men my own age, I also love to reflect on the rhetoric I’ve heard from men who have been in the business a bit longer. Now, I see that long-term relationships are a plausible goal – and that they don’t necessarily have to be based on black-and-white monogamy. But with the little experience I have, that still somehow appeals the most.
Follow Jack Rushall on Twitter: https://twitter.com/jackrushallnow

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