Soup

If you're going to read this, you're going to delve into my thoughts, feelings, and most of all; my story. Of course you'll never know who I am. That's part of the deal. I use this as a tool to vent, to spill, somewhere to release all my thoughts that I ought not to have, and you will snoop, and pry, and wonder who this tale could possibly belong to. Of course I don't blame you. In fact, I welcome you.

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1. A meeting

Don't get me wrong, I won't try to fool you into reading this under false pretences: my story is rather uninteresting. You probably wont be amused by my life, the life and times of a 16 year old boy. But, if by some strange chance, you are: I shall begin.

I'm bisexual. I could drag it out, play with words and form a long, enticing and beautiful sentence out of my confession to you, but I won't, I will keep it simple, plain, and to-the-point. For a while I thought I was gay you know. It can catch you off guard, whilst walking down the street and all of a sudden you catch a glimpse of some beautiful boy out the corner of your eye and you want him for your own. I suppose some, 'normal', men yearn to be other men, or at least to be great friends with them, but I definitely wouldn't be satisfied with only friendship with the men I admired. 

So that was it then, I was gay. Slightly difficult, but at least simple, and plain. I enjoyed the smooth curvature of other men's taut torsos, the line of their chiseled jaw, so elegantly matching mine, and the cold yet deep and slightly pained expression of the male eye. It would of course be difficult to tell my father, but not because I knew his reaction would be bad, because I always knew he would take news like that well and with love, but because of fear of my comfortable life changing. What I didn't know then, at 13 years of age, was that it could get much more complicated than being gay. I still looked at women the same as any other boy did, I desired them, the soft and delicate frame, and the love that shines through their smiles. I didn't know what to tell anybody, so I kept my mouth shut.

And so year 9 began. And the moment I walked into class and I saw him, I knew. I knew he was different, I knew he was special, I knew I loved him, and I knew that he could never be mine. The boy assigned to the seat next to me was wonderful. He had pale, smooth, porcelain skin and large grey orbs for eyes. He had two piercings beneath his lips and his longish, spiked hair was coloured a beautiful shade of sunset purples and oranges, and long pointed wisps hung down half way down his eyes. Finally, I wasn't the only male in the class with "unnaturally coloured hair" and "obnoxious piercings". When he turned to regard me, I noticed that his eyes glittered with kindness and looked through me.

"I'm Harold, pleased to meet you!" I exclaimed, using the most cheerful tone I could muster. I really wanted him to like me. "What's your name?"

"You're gay.", he replied, very simply. "Oh, and it's Reed.", he added. "I don't mind by the way, but I just want you to know, I'm not interested in a relationship, man or woman."

It was the oddest introduction I had ever encountered. He spoke unabashedly and straightforwardly, with a genuinely friendly smile. I was so stunned into silence that my heart didn't have a chance to sink at his 'relationship' comment. I waited for him to elaborate, but he didn't, he simply sat on his plastic school seat looking straight at me, blank as my maths examination paper. Nothing was happening, so I spoke.

"Uuuh.. h-h-how did you know..? About.. the.. you know, homo, um, thing..? I mean 'cos I-"

"I could just tell", he interrupted, "I'm not trying to say you look gay, but I always know."

I thought about what he said the whole duration of my History lesson. I thought about his words, I thought about his eyes, and I thought of twenty ways I would like to get to know Reed better... eighteen of which involving physical contact.

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