Tuesday, January 31, 2012

What to do?

Loved making this one. 

My First Kiss

This one was tough.  I covered a bit more ground than I intended to, but I think the payoff is quite nice.  It's kind of fun, writing like this.  It's so organic, so natural.  I just establish my characters, and let them dictate where the story goes.

I think part of the fun is that I'm writing it in first person.  I get to be someone else, just for a few minutes a day.  It's almost like literary acting.  And the story is turning into a very sweet little tale, so far.  I hope you're all enjoying it.

My First Kiss

Even as I stood in front of my closet, I knew it wasn't normal.  Or maybe it is.  I don't really know what that word entails.  Do regular guys fret about what outfit they're going to wear on a big date?  Do they go through ensemble after ensemble, trying to get it just...perfect? 

I did.  And I still do.  I just can't help it.  I mean, it's important, right?  I don't mean to be shallow or anything, but I care about the way I look.  Maybe it's because I'm insecure about my body or something.  I can't control its size or shape.  But I can control whether or not my outfit is color coordinated.  I can dictate my style.  They say the clothes make the man, right?

And so, I was absolutely exasperated.  I wanted so badly to impress Amy, even though I knew I was so unimpressive that I felt almost invisible.  The only thing keeping me afloat was the fact that she had asked me out.  She wanted me.  And that was enough.

But there was still the outfit to worry about.  I've chronicled my social woes, so I don't think it'll come as a surprise that I simply didn't know what to wear.  Did I go with something casual like jeans and a tee-shirt?  Or should I wear slacks and a button-down shirt? 

We were just going to a movie.  Surely, that didn't call for my Sunday best, did it?  Casual.  I had to seem like dating wasn't so new to me, lest Amy know just how excited I was, how much I liked her.  That would have been an absolute disaster, if she had known.

It's funny, isn't it?  The more we like someone, the more we want to hide it.  Is that normal?  Even as screwed up as I am, I know that, normal or not, it isn't healthy.  But who can help it?  We all want to be so cool.  We can't imagine that simply being honest would get us to our destinations far more quickly than dancing around the subject.

But I'm going off the rails, here.  That's not the story I'm trying to tell.  Back to the date.

i settled on some slacks and a polo shirt.  As I looked in the mirror, I realized (not for the first time) just how pretty I was.  There wasn't a hint of masculinity in my cherubic face.  Not handsome.  Pretty.  Plump lips, button nose, wide eyes, smooth cheeks...no, I'd never be called rugged.  But maybe rugged wasn't Amy's cup of tea.  Maybe she liked pretty boys.

The doorbell rang, and my heart jumped into my throat.  I heard Amy's voice downstairs, and I swallowed hard.  I felt cornered.  What if she didn't really like me?  What if it was some sort of joke?  Doubts danced in my head.  I wanted to go downstairs, but my feet just wouldn't move.  I don't know how long I stood there.

"Are you coming, or are you just going to stand there looking all cute?" I heard Amy say.  I turned, and all of my doubts vanished. 

She has that effect on me, I guess.  It's something about her confidence and the way she looks at me.  I always feel so...safe with her. Not physically.  Emotionally.

From there, the date was a bit of a blur.  Nervousness, warm, fuzzy feelings, and awkward attempts at wit all blended together to culminate in the feel of her soft lips on mine.

She held me so tightly.  My head tilted back (she's so much bigger than me), and i felt her hand on the small of my back.  With my eyes closed, I lost myself in her embrace.  I wanted it to last forever. 

But, like all things, it had to end.  When we finally separated, I was slightly short of breath.  I smiled shyly at her. 

"I had a good time," I managed to say.

"Me too," she answered with a smile.  "Can I see you again?"  I could only nod.  She liked me.  She really liked me!  "I'll call you," she said.  Amy leaned in, and kissed me again.

I opened the door, and stepped inside.  As I closed it, I leaned back, closed my eyes, and grinned from ear to ear. 

She wanted to see me again!

Monday, January 30, 2012

Such a Brat...

This photo mod turned out really, really well. Hope you like it.

A Random, Life-Changing Assignment

I'm really enjoying building this character.  I have a firm idea of where this is going, and I have to say, you're probably going to be a bit surprised at where this ends up.  Individual scenes and circumstances aren't going to be quite as original (it is still me writing, after all), but it'll be worth keeping up.

Let me know how this is being received.  Do you like where the story is going?  Do you like how I'm structuring the installments?  Would you prefer them to be longer (or shorter)?  Feedback would be appreciated.

Thanks a bunch for reading!

A Random, Life-Changing Assignment

How many people can pinpoint the day, the very moment that changed his life?  I'm guessing not that many.  I suppose that I'm different in that respect (among so many others).  Sometimes I wonder how I would've turned out, had Amy and I not been paired as lab partners.  Would she have made the first move anyway?  Maybe.  She'd had her eye on me for a while.  One thing I know for certain is that I wouldn't have ever even approached her, had it been left up to me.  It's not that I didn't want to -- I did.  Back then, I was just so shy, and my self-confidence was woefully lacking.  I couldn't imagine what I'd have to offer a girl like her.

But as it happened, fate intervened; we were paired as lab partners for an entire semester.  It was so random, the pairing, that it had to be fate.  I mean, the assignment wasn't alphabetical or where we were sitting.  It just sort of fell that way.

I was scared to death, at first.  Unsurprisingly, I had had very little experience with girls  Our communication during the first week or so was quite minimal; I wanted to talk to her.   I really did.  But all I could utter were single syllable answers to her sparse questions. 

After a while, though, she'd had enough.  Finally, she just started talking.  She asked me questions which demanded more than a simple yes or no.  She engaged me, and, over time, we became more comfortable with one another.  Or I became more at ease around her, at least.  I can't imagine she had a problem with shyness.

I remember the day she asked me out like it was yesterday.  I know what you're thinking.  What boy gets asked out by a girl?  Well, by now, you know me...or at least you have vague idea of who I was back then.  With that in mind, does it really surprise you?  Didn't think so.

Anyway, it was about a week after Valentine's Day, and we were in class.  She was talking about some movie she'd just seen (I'll admit, I wasn't really paying attention - I was still a bit distracted by, well, her).  At least, in that way, I was relatively normal.  And then she asked the question, "So, what are yoiu doing this weekend?"

To which, I responded, "I don't know.  Not much, I guess."  I wanted to lie, and say that I had some interesting plan.  But I've never been great at lying or thinking on my feet.

"If you're not busy, I mean, if you want, we could, I don't know, go to a movie or something," she said.  She was actually nervous.  What did that mean?  Did she like me?  Was it finally happening?

I tried to be cool.  "Yeah.  That could be fun."  She smiled, and my cool evaporated.

"Pick you up at seven?" she asked.

I managed to stammer, "Sounds good." 

Married Young

Sunday, January 29, 2012

Love (or infatuation) At First Sight

I re-read the last installment earlier today, and, though I'm happy with it overall, I probably wouldn't have focused so much on the medical stuff if I were to go back into it.  I guess I just can't help it.  I over-explain.  Usually, when I edit, I just cut that stuff out.  But with this experiment, my work is raw and unedited.  This is where my mind goes while I'm writing. 

I do like where the story is going, and we're getting closer to the fun stuff.  Hope you're enjoying it.

Love (or infatuation) At First Sight

The moment I saw her, I was in love.  She was a red-haired goddess, and she showed me what real beauty could be.  Beside her, every other girl I had ever seen paled in comparison.  It’s so hard to explain adequately.  Do I remember it with the filter of nostalgia?  Probably.  But even now, when I see her, my breath catches.  

It was just before Christmas break in my junior year of high school.  She walked through the door of the classroom, and my heart skipped a beat.  Like I said, goddess is the only word I know that can describe her.  Tall (like 5’10”), athletic (turns out that she was an all-state volleyball player at her old school), and, well, gorgeous, every eye in the room was glued to her.  Did any of actually hear the teacher introduce her?  I can’t imagine that we did.  Even the girls were in awe.

And that smile.  Most people have this shy tint to their smile when they’re introduced to a group of new people.  It’s natural.  But not Amy – she looked me in the eye.  Me.  The small, feminine boy who everyone else just overlooked…I wilted under her gaze.

After that, every day was an exercise in obsession.  Or maybe infatuation.  I guess it could have been love.  When I tell the story, I say it was, at least.  

As those days melted into weeks, and then weeks became months, I simply watched her.  Back then, I was way too shy to do anything about my crush.  I mean, what could she have seen in me?  I wasn’t that smart.  I definitely wasn’t much of a man.  In fact, it wasn’t uncommon for strangers to mistake me for a girl.  Why would Amy want to talk to me?

But that did not lessen the way I felt.  I dreamt about her.  My every fantasy involved her.  In fact, I was so distracted that I didn’t even notice that my body was changing subtly.

Pseudo-puberty.  That’s what I call it.  The doctor has a long name for it, but…well, I can’t remember it.  Even if I could, I wouldn’t be able to pronounce it.  Long story short, I grew a bit of hair, got a little taller (topping out at 5’4”), and…well, that’s it.  I still didn’t look like a man, but I wasn’t a boy, either.  Somewhere in between, I guess.

But my…you know, didn’t really get much bigger (if at all).  It did, however, start to show my excitement.  You know…I could get hard.  Talking about it is a little embarrassing, I guess.  By that point, I was well aware of how small I really was.  I had seen porn.  I knew that at a little less than two inches (erect), I was woefully inadequate.  

I guess that’s why I chose to focus on my fantasies of Amy.  I could lie in bed, close my eyes, and pretend that it wasn’t so small, that I could be with her like a normal guy.  

Armed with a box of tissues and a locked door, that was my nightly routine.

Even in my fantasies, though, I had a hard time imagining that I’d be the one taking charge.  She was so much bigger than me (who wasn’t?).  I wanted to be a man.  I wanted so badly to bend her over, and … never mind.  I knew even then that it was silly.  How could I ever take charge?  I was a passenger, not a driver.  Still am, though I’m working on it.

But even so, Amy did notice me.  I didn’t know it, but she did.  

There was so much I didn’t know.  Looking back, I know that Amy has been the catalyst for my life.  I would be a completely different person in a completely different place if she hadn’t come along.  And that excites me.  It scares me.  And it saddens me.

Saturday, January 28, 2012

The Diagnosis

I couldn't help it.  I made myself wait until after midnight (as per my 1 entry per day rule), but I couldn't wait any longer.  I simply had to continue telling this story.  We're almost through the introduction, and we'll probably start into the meat of the narrative tomorrow.  Lots of fun scenes planned.  Hope it keeps your interest.

The Diagnosis

In the summer of my sophomore year of high school, my mother became worried.  I still hadn’t hit puberty, you see.  We knew it wasn’t normal, but you know how it goes with things like that.  No one ever wants to talk about or even acknowledge them.  So it was with my development, or lack thereof.   Mom tried not to let it show, but I could see it.  I knew her so well.

It had always been just us.  Dad left when I was too young to even remember him.  I recall glimpses and flashes, but nothing more than that.  I probably wouldn’t even know him if he walked up to me.  But mom…well, I know her, and she knows me.  So I could tell that she was worried; we both were.   We didn’t talk about it or anything, but it was there all the same.  

What was wrong with me?  Was I doomed to live my life as a prepubescent freak?  There I was, fifteen years old, and still, I hadn’t shown any signs of impending adulthood.  I was still a child.  How was I supposed to act like a maturing teenager when my body just wouldn’t cooperate?  Increasingly, it was all I thought about.  I retreated into myself.

It was in that summer, though, that I would get some answers, though I wouldn’t care much for them.  Under the guise of a routine checkup (Mom didn’t want to scare me), we went to the doctor.  She talked to him without me in the room; she didn’t want to upset or embarrass me.  When I went into the room, he asked me a few questions, and then took me to another room where they took some blood.
I would later find out (years later, from my mother) that the doctor had been optimistic that I was simply a late developer, and that if worse came to worst, they could jump start my development with hormones.  

As we left the doctor’s office, I remember feeling a deep sense of trepidation. 
The results came back a few days later.  The reason that I hadn’t experienced puberty was because my body simply could not process the testosterone correctly.  Apparently, it had to do with some rare genetic disorder (the name is way too long to remember).  But the bottom line was that the aforementioned hormone therapy would have little or no effect on me.  Either I would have to submit to radical, untested gene therapy or I would have to let my body work its own problems out. 
Of course, there were pros and cons to either way.  With gene therapy, we had a good shot at fixing the root of the problem, but, like I said, it was largely untested and could have serious consequences to my overall health (cancer, shorter life expectancy, etc.).  With just letting it ride, well, I might develop.  Or I might not.  Or somewhere in between.  But at least doing so wouldn’t actively contribute to failing health.

I’ll admit.  I wanted to take the gene therapy.  It seemed like such a no brainer to me then.  Thankfully, my mother’s cooler head prevailed, and she convinced me to wait it out.  For almost six full months, I hated her for that.  I’m not talking simple annoyance or hyperbole.  I literally hated her.  And I hated myself.  I’m ashamed to admit it, but I actually considered suicide a few times. 
But then I met Amy.  Well, that’s not exactly true.  When I saw Amy for the first time is when my outlook on life truly changed.  I didn’t meet her for a few months after that.  Blame my shyness, I guess.

Friday, January 27, 2012

So I think the writing experiment is going well.  I'm only writing one section per day (usually with a natural stopping point), and I've found that I have to make myself stop writing.  I kind of know where the story is going, but I'm not sure of the details yet.

But the best thing?  Writing this has opened the creative doors.  I have multiple cool and unique story ideas now.  Which makes this a success, even before I'm finished with the introduction of the story.  So there's that.

Anyway, here's today's installment:

The Waiting Game

Luckily, the shower incident was near the end of the school year, and I didn’t have to deal with that again that year.  I tried to push it to the back of my mind, and, at times, I managed to forget it.  But eventually, it always cropped back up to rear its ugly head.  

It would happen at the strangest times, too.  I’d be joking with friends, and all of a sudden, there it was.  Once the thought was there, I couldn’t get rid of it, either.  I couldn’t stop thinking of the implications.  Were the other guys more manly than me?  Is that what it meant?  I tried to tell myself that it was silly to think like that.  I knew basic biology.  All it meant was that they had hit puberty before me.  I was a late bloomer, that’s all.

But reason doesn’t stand a chance against blind, unwarranted embarrassment.  Looking back, I guess that’s when my personality really started to develop.  I withdrew into myself.  No one knew my secret, but they didn’t have to.  I knew it, and that was enough.

It wasn’t like I just flipped a switch and became an introvert, though.  I was still me.  I still had friends.  I was just a little…docile.  I was a bit submissive, especially around other boys.  I let them take the lead.  Of course, it wasn’t conscious, and I didn’t even know I was doing it back then.  But in hindsight, I can recognize it for what it was.

Of course, the hallmark of youth is that, well, you’re young.  Anything could be around the next corner.  One day, you’re one thing, and the next, everything has changed.  And that was my most fervent hope.  I told myself that I would certainly hit puberty over the summer break.  I told myself that when we all got into the locker room in High School, that I’d have nothing to hide, that I’d be just another guy.

As it turned out, that’s not exactly what happened.

I grew a little, but nothing like growth spurts my classmates had experienced.  And my…you know…well, it stubbornly stayed the same diminutive size.  In short, that whole puberty thing – it just didn’t come.

And so, I found myself in high school, a petite boy armed only with a tiny penis and an ever-increasing degree of shyness.

When it came time to face the showers in high school, I chose the lesser of two evils.  I knew they’d notice even as I chose not to shower.  I figured I’d get teased, and I was right.  Of course, I tried to play it off by saying things like, “What?  You want to look at my junk?” but even I recognized them as halfhearted attempts at avoiding an embarrassing situation.

So I became the weird little kid who didn’t shower after gym class.

Thursday, January 26, 2012

Sweat, Showers, and Secrets

Today's installment turned out really well, I'm thinking.  I feel good about the language, the story, and the emotion.  And it was fun to write.  Anyway, here it is.

Sweat, Showers, and Secrets

I guess it didn’t really start in high school.  It’s not magic.  It doesn’t happen overnight or even over the course of a single year.  It’s gradual, and who you become is the cumulative of your years.  For me, though, I guess I first realized I was different in junior high.  My story may start in high school, but to understand it, you have to know who I was when that story started.

Like I said, it was in middle school when I knew I was different.  As the other boys hit puberty, I just stayed the same.  Or that’s how I saw it, at least.  They hit growth spurts; I didn’t.  I knew what was supposed to happen.  I knew that I was supposed to grow body hair, get bigger, and grow into a young man.  But I didn’t.  I kept waiting, and it never came.

What body hair I grew was wispy, soft, and fine.  Unless you were up close, you couldn’t even see it.  And forget about facial hair.  My features never sharpened, and my body never really grew.  I guess it did, a little, but not like the other boys.  

But all of that was banished to the back of my mind.  I just didn’t think about it.  I would hit puberty at some point.  Everyone did.  

And then there was the day of the shower.  I remember it so well. 

Now, I don’t know how other kids grew up, but we weren’t required to take showers after gym class.  I don’t know why.  Looking back, I guess we must have smelled something awful for the rest of the day.  But that’s neither here nor there.  

We actually had showers in the locker room, though we never used them.  Until that one day, near the end of junior high…

To this day, I don’t know why we were required to take a shower that day.  Maybe it was in preparation for high school where it would be an everyday occurrence.  Or it could have been just the coach’s whim.  But on that day, well, he made us take a shower at school.

I guess I was a bit nervous going into it.  I knew I was smaller than the other guys, but it had never been an issue before.  Being naked, though…that seemed like it would make it worse, like it would throw my small body into stark contrast with theirs.  I hesitated, but with a deep breath, I shed my shirt.  Then, I pulled off my gym shorts.  And finally, slipped my underpants down my slim, hairless legs.  Quickly, though, I wrapped my towel around my waist, and went to the showers.

I tried to keep my eyes up.  I didn’t want to see the other boys showering, but I couldn’t help it.  My eyes wandered.  Just a glance here or there, it was quickly apparent that I just didn’t stack up. 
What was I going to do?  I couldn’t let them see.  Would they even look?  No, they didn’t want to see another naked guy any more than I did.  

It’s kind of a funny thing, when you look at it objectively.  Why should I, or any other guy for that matter, be ashamed or proud of the size of his…parts?  It’s not like we can control it.  But even knowing that, those of us who are underendowed can’t help but get that feeling in the pits of our stomachs.  Shame.  Embarrassment.  Fear.  It’s all there, knotted up and fighting to unravel.
I froze, then and there, in the showers, clinching my towel like it was my one and only shield from a life of embarrassing taunts.  So what did I do?

What would any boy do?  I turned around, faced my locker (so no one could see), and I put my clothes back on.  Crisis was averted.  What were they going to do? Call me out for not showering?  No one even noticed.

I tried to forget it, but for that entire day, my stink (why hadn’t I noticed how much an hour’s worth of physical exertion could make a person sweat?) followed me around like a red flag.  It told everyone of my fear, of my shame.  I was too afraid to shower at school.  

But at least they didn’t know my secret.