There’s Always One Special Kid - 1. Chapter 1

For those of you interested in why I acted the way I did during this chapter of my life, read “It’s Not How I Remember It,” which explores my first thirteen years.

I attended a parochial boys’ high school in an affluent city in Westchester County, New York. I had met my best friend, Vincent, in middle school, along with a few other friends and acquaintances. Puberty was hitting me hard at this point, and I was a typical “good” Catholic boy with no sexual outlet. I didn’t even have access to porn. I had to satisfy myself with a very active imagination.

In every school I’d attended, about five percent of the boys stood out to me as hot, and high school was no exception. The difference was the sheer number of boys. Enrollment was over seven hundred, and my freshman class alone had around two hundred healthy adolescent males. That meant roughly ten boys in my class alone qualified as hot, and they did. Another rule that has always held true for me: of that five percent, one, maybe two, would be hot enough to die for (not literally, but you know what I mean). Jim was one of those boys. Who knows, maybe I was the other for someone.

I don’t remember exactly when I first noticed Jim. He may have transferred in mid-year, because once I saw him I was obsessed. I hate when stories jump straight to physical description, but in this case it’s unavoidable; his looks are central to the story. Everyone has a type, a checklist of traits we hope to find combined in one person. Jim checked every box and added a few I didn’t know I had. He was about 5’9” with striking blue eyes and blonde hair. He was trim but still carried a hint of boyish softness. That softness was exactly what I loved. Jim and I were similar in many ways, except I had sandy hair, was a little taller, and by that point had become athletic with defined early-teen muscles. I far preferred his body to mine. Jim was my physical ideal, and from the moment I saw him he became the star of all my fantasies, especially the sexual ones.

I didn’t have any classes with him freshman year. I’d see him at lunch or occasionally in the hallway between classes. I learned where his locker was and made a habit of walking past it a couple of times a day. I would have done it more often, but I didn’t want him to realize I was basically stalking him. I even convinced Vincent to switch tables in the dining hall so I could spy on Jim from a safe distance, not the same table, but close enough to watch him without being obvious.

I was always careful not to meet his eyes. Jim was too perfect. In my mind, I could never be the kind of boy someone as gorgeous as Jim would like. I had to settle for fantasies, which I replayed every afternoon after school and every night before sleep. What else could a horny fourteen-year-old do? I was convinced I was the only gay kid in the entire school. Well, there was Herbie, but that’s another story, and I was only an observer in that one. A few of the teaching brothers also raised suspicions among us boys, though I only had one oddly intrusive encounter with one of them. It felt violating, but there was no sexual attraction on my side.

We had school assemblies a few times each year. I can’t remember the purpose of most of them. Once they showed a horrifying film about the liberation of Nazi death camps in Germany and Poland, footage most of you have probably seen, with bulldozers pushing emaciated naked bodies into mass graves. It shook everyone up.

Most assemblies, though, were just boring lectures and announcements. At one of them, Vincent and I arrived early and grabbed seats near the center aisle. As the auditorium filled, I scanned for friends or teammates. Then I inhaled sharply and froze, staring straight ahead. Directly behind me was Jim. This was probably the closest I had ever been to him.

A million thoughts raced through my head: Do I look okay? Is my hair all right? Do I smell decent? (That last one wasn’t a real worry; I showered after every gym class or practice and had been using deodorant since seventh grade.)

Then it happened. Jim leaned forward between me and the boy to my left, pressed his groin lightly against my shoulder as he reached past me, and tapped the kid in front of me on the shoulder. Our faces were inches apart. I don’t remember what they said, but I’ll never forget Jim looking right at me. The contact lasted only seconds, but it sent an instant jolt straight downstairs. He sat back down. That night, and for weeks after, I kissed him a thousand times in my dreams while replaying the moment.

I wondered if he had chosen that seat on purpose, if the brush against my shoulder had been intentional. It became a cornerstone of my near-daily fantasies for weeks.

Then I started noticing things. At lunch, when I’d steal discreet glances, I’d sometimes catch him looking back. I’d immediately look away, blushing. Occasionally he’d hold my gaze for a few seconds before turning. I became convinced it was a trap, that he was trying to lure me into making a move so he and his friends could expose and torment me for being a fag. I’d always struggled to take risks with boys I liked.

Freshman year continued like that: fleeting glances (or what I imagined were glances), but, just like with Greg back in California, we never spoke.

The year flew by. Aside from my unrequited crush on Jim, I loved literature and history, struggled with math and science, and got decent but unremarkable grades. I played soccer in the fall and pole-vaulted in winter and spring track; the vaulting was probably why I had any muscle at all.

My classmates and I started tenth grade with newfound confidence; we were no longer the little freshmen. The summer break had cooled my obsession with Jim, until the first day of second period, when he walked into the classroom. I don’t recall the subject (probably geometry, which would explain why I barely passed), but I’m sure it wasn’t literature or history, because I was in honors for those and would have remembered.

Jim sat a few rows ahead of me. He had changed over the summer: the last traces of baby fat were gone, his bone structure sharper, his whole presence radiating teenage sexiness. I felt it from three rows back.

At first I couldn’t even look at him. My feelings of inadequacy from the year before were now magnified tenfold; my hormones were in overdrive, and his presence made them surge. I was literally breathless that first class. It was also the first time I watched him interact with other boys up close. He was friendly, relaxed, even a little loud, completely at ease.

I had to remind myself that not everyone saw Jim the way I did. My best friend Vincent actively disliked him. I didn’t understand it at the time, but later I figured it out: Vincent was straight (as was virtually everyone else in the school except Herbie and me, as far as I knew), and Jim’s flamboyant, free-spirited energy rubbed Vincent the wrong way. Vincent and I were both serious and reserved; Jim was the opposite. He’d act out when bored.

One memorable example happened in gym class, which we now shared. After changing, we’d gather in the gymnasium waiting for the coach. Usually we played basketball, volleyball, did gymnastics (one of my strengths thanks to vaulting), or, if the weather was nice, went outside for flag football or laps.

One day, while we waited, Jim grabbed the microphone from the scoring table (set up for that night’s varsity game) and started making loud, echoing sex noises into it. At first I was confused, but then it hit me: he was imitating the sounds of jerking off or a blow job, complete with wet slurping and moans of “It feels so good.”

It was shocking and kind of gross. Most of us stood there uncomfortable. It only lasted a minute or two, but it permanently changed how I saw him. I had always imagined my first experience would be with someone as innocent and clueless as I was. Clearly Jim was miles ahead of me.

After gym we headed to the locker room. My locker was in the separate varsity alcove with big single lockers instead of the cramped double stacks everyone else had. Mine was near the entrance to the alcove, and by then I knew exactly where Jim’s locker was.

I had never seen Jim naked; it was one of my ultimate fantasies. A lot of the non-athletes avoided the communal showers, and I assumed Jim would too. I showered quickly, dressed, then lingered, hoping to at least catch him in his underwear. I peeked out of the alcove, and there he was, one foot up on the bench, talking to a seated kid, completely naked and sporting a semi. I froze, staring. When I finally looked up, he was looking right at me with a strange little smile.

I ducked back inside, grabbed my stuff, and practically ran out.

Nothing like that had ever happened in my school life. I’d once seen our soccer goalie pop a boner and sprint mortified for a towel, but this was different. Jim was openly displaying himself to the kid two feet away and to anyone else who cared to look.

As attracted as I was, it scared me. I think I was as upset that he was blatantly showing another boy as I was by his total lack of shame.

About a week later, I was waiting for Vincent at our usual after-school meeting spot by the back entrance for the walk home. It was between sports seasons, so we were leaving earlier than usual. I saw the door open out of the corner of my eye and looked up, expecting Vincent. Instead it was Jim, alone on the landing a few steps above me, drinking a small carton of orange juice. He took a loud sip, locked eyes with me, and said, “It tastes like cum.”

What I wished had happened:

I looked him dead in the eye, grabbed my crotch, and said, “You should try the real thing.”

“Sure,” he shot back. “Whip it out.”

“No time right now, but if you really want it, let me know tomorrow. I can always make time for a blow job.”

I couldn’t believe how bold I was being, but I felt safe. If he was serious, the next day we’d sneak off somewhere and I’d finally have real sex with the hottest boy I’d ever met, and I’d happily return the favor. If he wasn’t, we could both laugh it off as a joke and no harm done.

What actually happened:

I just stared at him, probably with a blank or shocked expression. I said nothing. After a couple of beats, he turned and walked back inside.

I never caught Jim looking at me again. I remained physically attracted to him, and I still think about him to this day, but I knew he wasn’t the boy for me.

If I had played it differently, would Jim and I have hooked up? Knowing what I know now, almost certainly yes. And I’m equally certain that any relationship with him would have ended in heartbreak and disillusionment for me.

After all, there were nine other hot boys in my class and more than thirty-five in the school. But Jim was the one.