QColumn: A Gay In The Life: Summer Lovin’

Summer Lovin’
By Steve Prince
I admit I have a terrible memory. It’s true. One of the best reasons to get into a relationship with me is that I won’t remember anything. Hence, if my significant other and I fight he can always say I said something and I won’t recall saying it or not. One would think that I’d write things down. I usually intend to, but then I forget. Go figure.
However, I did keep a diary when I was in middle school. From the ages of twelve to fourteen, I religiously wrote all my inner turmoil down on paper. This probably occurred because I had very few friends in middle school. As everyone was going through puberty and wanting to explore the opposite sex, I just wanted to hide away from the world in my room. Yes, I was that very, VERY dramatic gay teenager that just wasn’t understood by anyone. Thankfully, I grew out of it. Okay, some say I’m dramatic, but I haven’t the faintest clue what they mean!
I had forgotten how much my diary had meant to me until I was cleaning out some old boxes a couple of weeks ago. I’d decided to finally go through the huge box of mementos in the bottom of my closet. Once I wrenched the box free from the clutter of shoes and CD’s, I opened it to find my diary sitting on top just waiting to be opened.
As I flipped through it, memories flashed in my mind, both good and bad. And then I noticed something. I’d written in my diary every night, yet during June I’d not written for two whole weeks. Why the gap? I read forward to the weeks afterward but there was no mention of what had happened. Finally, I found a mention of meeting a friend at camp, and then I remembered…

Ah, summer camp.
I went to summer camp for five years, from ages fourteen through eighteen. Not just any summer camp, mind you, but a fine arts camp… in Oklahoma. When you’re a gay boy who likes to sing and act in a small town of 3,000 people, a two-week fine arts camp is like going to heaven for fourteen glorious days. It was a respite from a world I felt didn’t understand me; a place where artistic, sensitive, and emotional qualities were cherished, not ridiculed.
I loved everything about the camp, except for one thing—the end of camp dance. Why? Why must there always be a dance? I hated dances. Well, that’s not true. Dances were truly bittersweet for me. I loved dance whenever the DJ played Paula Abdul’s Opposites Attract. Dancing to fast songs with my friends was a ball. But when the DJ played, End of The Road by Boyz2Men, I always felt left out and alone.
The end of camp dance was no different. As the beginning music to Seal’s Kiss From A Rose, begin to play the DJ’s voice echoed over the mic.
“And now ladies and gentleman,” his voice graveled in a fake baritone, “the last song of the evening.”
Ugh. I didn’t even wait for it to start; I started to make my way to the door.
“Ouch,” a voice said as I bumped into him. I looked to my left. A young boy, about sixteen started back at me.
“I’m sorry,” I apologized, smiling.
He smiled back. I then noticed his hair.
Let’s take a moment.
As a teenager, I obsessed over hair. My own and other people’s. Why? Because I hated my own. My hair is really full, coarse, and wavy. Actually, it’s wavy all over but the front is ridiculously curly. This annoyed me to no end. In the early 1990’s straight hair parted in the middle was all the rage. Basically like Hugh Grant’s hair in 9 Months. As hard as I tried, my hair would never do this. Instead it ended up looking like a poufy blonde mushroom.
I glanced at the guy I had just bumped into. His hair looked just like Hugh Grant’s. “Oh, hey, you’re Steve, right?” he asked. “I’m Dallas.”
I already knew who Dallas was. I was in the camp choir and he was in the acting class. He was tall, lanky, and incredibly talented.
“Hey,” I said awkwardly, with a pause.
“Not a big Boyz2Men fan?” he asked, his head motioning towards the DJ.
“Not much,” I said.
“Wanna grab a soda?” he asked.
Ten minutes later we were sitting in the woods being bathed in moonlight, sharing a Dr. Pepper. Dallas was different than me, more educated and refined. He was also 17, two years older than me. He was from Tulsa, which is probably the most progressive city in Oklahoma. I loved imagining what his life at a huge high school was like. I was envious.
“I hate dances,” Dallas said, “making small talk and being someone you’re not.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said. “It just seems like a popularity contest.”
“Well,” Dallas said with a pause, “they don’t really plan dances for gay kids.”
I looked at him with shock and offense. Was he calling me gay?
“What do you mean?” I asked.
As if reading my mind, Dallas stepped the conversation back a bit.
“I mean, I’m gay,” he said. “They don’t make dances for me, for me.”
“Oh, okay,” I said feeling relieved. “Well, that blows. I’m sorry.”
“Well, it’s not your fault,” Dallas said curling up and hugging his knees.
The crickets began to sing louder in the tops of the trees as the wind rustled life into the early night.
I put my hand on his knee. “Well, it still sucks.” I looked at him, and then I leaned in and kissed him…
So this was the missing gap of my diary. I still had the memory of Dallas but I felt sad that was all I had. As I said before, my memory is for shit. I remember the emotion but it’s been fifteen years ago and most of it seems blurred in my mind. I remember the next day not being able to look at Dallas in the eye. We both left camp and never saw one another again.
I kept rummaging through the box. Minutes later, I reached the bottom and found myself staring at a pamphlet from the arts camp. I wondered why I had kept that? It seemed like a random schedule that had nothing to do with the choir. As I picked it up and flipped through it, the booklet opens to a scribbled page in the back.
I’d forgotten that I wrote about Dallas that night. As I read the entry, I know understood why I had forgotten the experience—it was too painful at the time to remember. Too shameful. Also, to share this with you is a bit embarrassing. Did I mention I was SUCH a dramatic kid? Well, my writing shows it. Reading this made me laugh and cringe. It made me sad that I was so tormented about “sinning” and being gay, yet grateful that I love who I am now. I guess it’s nice to remember where we have come from. Hope you enjoy… Steve
June 25, 1995 12:15 a.m.
He kisses my neck. Oh God, is he going to kiss my mouth? No. His lips move down toward my chest. As his tongue licks my right nipple, instinctively I clutch the back of his head and stiffen. Shivers run through my body.
I lean my head forward and kiss the top of his head because I think that is what I should do, right? I’ve never done this before. With soft kisses he presses downward. My head falls back to the earth and I exhale enjoying the mouth on my stomach. Then as quickly as his mouth kisses, it retreats like a cat waiting to pounce. The warm night air of an Oklahoma summer wafts through our shirtless bodies, swaddling the quiet singing of crickets. A thudding heart thuds. Waiting…bump-bump…waiting…
A supernova of fire ignites between my hips as his lips embrace me. A guttural gasping moan escapes before I can even stifle it. My body feels lifted into a spasm of feeling that seems to encapsulate my every cell. However I got here, whenever I got here does not matter now. I cannot think because my body can only feel.
Like a diver his lips plunge down into my pubic bone as he takes in my whole self. With delicacy his tongue dances with it, teasing. Soon his pace quickens bringing a foreboding of desire. Quicker and quicker he moves steadying me with his right hand. While taking me in, his head begins to turn and my body squirms with surprise of a new sensation. He comes up for air and the warmth disappears. The wind tickles my wet self. He looks me in the eyes and smiles. I smile back. Timid and scared of what happens when this is over.
He dives again, but this time he does not stop. He takes me in. Faster and faster. It’s building. The delicacy is gone. He is a hunter devouring its catch. It’s building. I stiffen more and he presses on even harder. He won’t stop and a part of me wants it more and more. My body is covered with goosebumps and my forehead is moist in a cold sweat. It’s coming now and even I can’t stop it. With a release I explode from my body, my back arched, my toes curled, and my mouth gasping for air.
For a second the air hangs still as innocence is lifted from my body.
He slows like a marathon runner taking a victory lap. The dry, tanned grass crackles underneath his shifting body. He’s so hot. I shut my eyes not wanting to see him, but I still do.
He asks me to look at him. His breath smells of me.
I open my eyes as he inches towards my mouth. He closes his eyes and embraces me, parting my lips with his tongue. I have kissed a boy before but this doesn’t feel the same. He said he was gay? Does that make me gay? Oh, fuck…I can’t be. I can’t be.
But I am different now, but I just can’t explain.
Feelings that I had imagined and buried now bubble in my throat. I once had banished these desires thinking to enjoy them would be too dangerously exciting; however, now that I did it, I feel less black and white—I feel grey, clouded. He kisses me and I taste the salt and cum of me, yet even stronger on my palate lies the taste of sin.
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Years after moving from Oklahoma, Steve Prince is still acclimating to the gay scene in Los Angeles—he’s a slow learner. By trial and error and a lot of sex, his mission is to make the uncomfortable, comfortable. Also it should be known that he is gayer than butt sex.
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Previously, on A Gay In The Life:
The Birds and The Birds
Lyin’, & Twinks, & Bears—Oh My!
Going Public
Christmas in July
Luck Be A Lady Tonight
I Left My Heart In Oklahoma
As Luck Would Have It
Shock & Awe
Blame It On Britney
The Unending Journey
Makin’ Copies
Bullets and Bracelets… and Lube
To Tell The Truth…
Stars Aren’t Blind
The Dark Knight
Come As You Are
A Date?
A Happy Ending
Better Than Nothing
A Man With A Slow Hand
Taking The Long Way
Everybody Knows
Wake Me Up, Before Ya Go-Go
Definition
The Best
The Upper Hand
Hit Me With Your Best Shot
2000-Date
Dick The Halls
The Queer Dear
A Night At The Museum
A Conversation
I’m Just A Girl Who Can’t Say No
Change The Way You Feel
Kissing A Fool
Leo The Lamb
The Elephant In The Room
Zuckerman’s Famous Pig
A Birthday Surprise
The Sleepover-er
SP Phone Home
Out of the Frying Pan and into the Closet
What If…
Just Beat It
Intimate Portrait
Intimate Portrait (Part Deux)
Intimate Portrait (Part Trois)
State of Mind
The Age of Disbelief
A Man For All Seasons