Case Studies in Modern Life - 11. In Sam’s Room

Sometimes we never forget our first lover.
This is another adult themed story.
 

The room had hardly changed in eleven years. The walls were still the same pale green and the furniture was arranged as I remembered it. A wardrobe, two chests of drawers, a desk and a large single bed. All made from the same dark and heavy wood, but long ago they had been painted a glossy white, which had faded to a dirty cream. Upon one wall was a mismatch of bookshelves, all packed to overflowing. The only new item of furniture was a vivid green director’s chair, pushed under the desk.

The decoration on the walls had changed. Gone was the eclectic mixture of posters of pop groups and films and handsome-faced actors. Now there were a handful of tastefully framed prints of famous paintings. Paintings by David Hockney, Francis Bacon, Keith Harding, Gilbert and George.

This had been Sam’s bedroom for most of his life, but I also knew it so well. It held a special place in my memories. In this room, eleven years ago, on a summer’s night so humid that my skin seemed to be permanently sticky with moisture, I lost my virginity.

I had been sixteen, and Sam was three years older. I was nervous and naïve at sixteen, and Sam was my first boyfriend. Suddenly a handsome and intelligent man had taken an interest in me. I felt as if I was walking on air. I was deeply infatuated with him; I would have done anything for him. So when he’d suggested we sleep together I’d readily agreed. I was a horny sixteen-year-old. I would have agreed to sex with someone as attractive as Sam at any time or place.

That night Sam had the whole house to himself, his father was away on holiday, and we took advantage of it. We spent the evening curled up on the sitting room’s sofa as Sam introduced me to real kissing, and then we retired to his bedroom.

The air, that night, hung heavy with heat and almost stale humidity; it felt as if it clung to my body. There was barely a breath of air, but none of that mattered. I was drunk with lust and excitement. I was finally going to have sex with another man. I was finally going to be fully gay – not just fantasise about it.

Once we were in his bedroom, Sam began to casually undress, as if this was the most natural thing to do. For me, it was a trial of embarrassment. Would he still want me when he saw my thin, naked body? I need not have worried because he was as aroused as I was. His naked body wrapped itself around mine as we fell onto his bed.

That night was one of sheer physical pleasure as another man’s body pressed against my own. Sam’s body was so similar to mine, but in places so different. The mat of hairs that swirled around his nipples and trailed down his stomach, his big hands that almost dwarfed mine, the wiry patch of hair at the base of his spine, just above his buttocks. I felt so comfortable and safe when he held me so close.

That night we didn’t rush through the whole world of gay sex, barely a short introduction to it, but it meant the world to me. Sam was a careful but passionate lover; he’d sweep me along as he took the lead. That had been my greatest fear, that I wouldn’t enjoy sex, that the fantasy would have outstripped the reality, but it wasn’t true. It was so good, and I loved it.

After our second orgasms (we were young and awash with hormones) we’d settled down to sleep, our bodies wrapped up together. Sleep came easily to Sam but not me. I was far too excited to sleep. I wanted every inch of my body touching Sam’s; I was high on the excitement of it all. Even when I dozed, I woke up whenever Sam moved in his sleep.

The next morning, we went deeper into the world of gay sex. I was Sam’s willing pupil, and his deflowering of me was both gentle but also nerve-raspingly exciting.

Now, eleven years later, I sat down on Sam’s bed and stared at the room around me. I wanted to just remember the events of that night, but I couldn’t divorce them from my other memories of Sam.

I’d loved Sam so deeply, but he wasn’t easy to love. His moods would swing in wide arcs. One day he was all affection and the next he was cold resentment, refusing to even see me. He would sulk for days and then demand I spend the whole weekend with him. Eventually I couldn’t cope anymore and broke off our relationship, even though it broke my heart.

We kept in touch, but things only improved when I moved to go to university. First with letters and later with emails, we finally opened up to each other. From time to time we met, and every time Sam would be full of life and love. Often we slept together, and he was as lively and passionate as always, but we were never lovers again. I loved him, but I knew I couldn’t cope with him.

At first, he was diagnosed with depression, but later it was refined to Bipolar Disorder. He was often admitted to hospital and was always taking one medication or another. The pathetic state of his health only made me love him more, but also robbed me of any way of really helping him.

“I finally came back,” I addressed the empty room.

Downstairs Sam’s father was the host to everyone who’d come back from the crematorium, that quaint tradition of the funeral tea. People standing around making small talk. After only a few minutes I couldn’t cope with it and slipped away up here.

A week ago Sam had killed himself; he’d taken a massive overdose of his medication. He’d left no letter or explanation. That night his father had called me and, fighting back the tears, told me what had happened. That night I’d wept, and now, here in his room, I wept again.

Like a physical pain, I missed him …