My First Crush

Once I figured out that I was gay - halfway through the seventh grade, in 2003 - I knew that it was in my best interest to hide it. While I knew that my mom wouldn't particularly care, my stepdad had made it clear that if I ever came home with a boyfriend that I was going to be kicked out. While the idea of being free from his abuse was tempting, I didn't want to be away from my mom, nor did I want to give up the opulent lifestyle that came hand-in-hand with my stepdad's abuse. Being called a faggot and a fucking idiot, getting screamed at for not understanding math, slapped and choked for talking back all sucked, but to make up for the abuse, I got things.

I had had slight crushes on girls in the past - mostly because I thought that that was what I supposed to do. I vividly remember I announced that I had a crush on a girl in the sixth grade; we'd had a small conversation about the movie Riding in Cars With Boys, which I thought meant that we were cool. Once it got out that I was crushing on this girl, she started dry heaving and excused herself to go the bathroom; I later heard that the idea of me having a crush on her made her throw up.

Despite my crush on Angel - and his actor David Boreanaz - I hadn't had a crush on a guy before, not beyond a childish crush. And then I met the kid who was to become my first actual crush. His name was Brian Sullivan; he was tall and thin, with dark hair and glasses. He was an athlete and very high up on the popularity scale. I don't what exactly made me notice him in that way - I hadn't given him much thought before that - but suddenly whenever he looked at me, I felt like my heart was going to beat right out of my chest. When he deigned to speak to me, I was dumbstruck, unable to think of anything to say.

I wouldn't say that Brian bullied me per se, but he didn't step in when his friends and peers were being unkind toward me. He'd usually make a smart-ass remark, letting me know that I was not on his level on the social scale, but overall, he wasn't completely unkind to me. As far as I can remember, he never said anything about my sexuality; if he did say anything unkind it was more centered on how weird I was.

I knew that I couldn't tell Brian that I had a crush on him; even if he didn't freak out and hurt me, he'd tell everyone and I'd never be able to live it down. I didn't even want to be overly nice to him, afraid that my affection for him would be wholly apparent. At the end of the year, I did swallow my pride and ask him to sign my yearbook; he told me that he already had - he hadn't. I was hurt, but I also understood that we weren't friends, and although we got along enough to be able to exchange words here and there, there was nothing more to it; I had been rude to him, desperate to hide my true feelings for him a la Helga Pataki from Hey Arnold.

At thirteen, I was not mature enough to even begin to know how to handle not only a crush, but a forbidden crush. When the school year ended, I was sad that I wouldn't see Brian until the following fall: I didn't have his number even if he had given any indication that we could at the very least be friends. One day that summer, I was bored, so I got out my yearbook, grabbed a piece of printer paper and drew Brian. My skills at that age were laughable at best, but once I had his head drawn - as accurately as I could - I drew his naked body, or, what I imagined that his naked body would look like. I knew that he was thin and athletic, so I gave him pecs and abs; I completed his body with what I thought was a decent amount of pubic hair - not too much, but not bald - as well as my ideal - soft - penis size. I wanted to keep the drawing hidden away in my room that I could use it for masturbatory purposes, but I knew that if I did, my mom would find it and I'd have some major explaining to do. In the end, I hid the drawing amongst a mess of papers in a random filing cabinet in our basement. I was the only one that used it; I knew that it was the safest place that I could hide my drawing.

Once school started up again, Brian and I didn't have very many classes together. My crush on him had not diminished over the summer, but I had started to notice other boys. A lot of Brian's friends were jocks, and hot; I figured since it was an unrequited crush, it would be okay for me to fantasize about Brian's friends when I touched myself. No matter how much I appreciated the other guys I fantasized about, Brian was the one that I wanted anything serious with; I longed for him to pull me into a corner and kiss me. I wanted to feel his hard body against mine, to map out every inch of his body.

I always dreaded gym class. I was chunky and had absolutely no interest in sports or any kind of physical activity. I was terrified of having to climb a rope in front of the class - thankfully that never came to pass - and hated having to participate in sports, especially volley ball. I did not have the hand-eye coordination to be good at volleyball, let alone to serve. Whenever I was forced to serve, I wished that I could crawl inside of myself and shrink down to the size of a pea. Humiliation soared through me when my serve would make the ball hit the net, or I'd miss completely. One of my biggest fears and anxiety triggers was failure and being made to look dumb in front of everyone. One day, our gym teacher let us play kickball, which I actually wasn't terrible at. As much as I dreaded having to go up to kick in front of everyone, when I finally did, I blasted the ball across the gym, allowing my team to score. Brian, who was on my team, came up to me - looking hot in a t-shirt and gym shorts - and said, "Nice, kick, Gabe." He held his hand out for me to slap. I was glowing already from his praise, but when our hands touched, I felt as though a jolt of electricity was surging through my body. Although our gym lockers were near each other, I didn't dare cast surreptitious glances behind me, hoping to catch a glimpse of Brian in his boxers; I was so self-conscious about my own body that I stripped and got dressed again as fast as humanly possible. One guy named Nick would head to the locker room early to shower; we often got treated to a glimpse of his lucious bubble butt as he walked back to his locker - start naked. He had a nice ass - and dick from what I could see - but I didn't find him attractive; I made sure that he didn't catch me looking at him, either. Deep down, I was grateful that Brian didn't walk around naked; if I'd seen him in all of his glory there was no way that I would have been able to not stare at him, appreciating every bit of his naked body.

To cover my tracks, I started dating a girl named Samantha - Sam. She was pretty enough - short, thin, with dark hair and decent breasts. It was an innocent eighth grade relationship where we basically were just friends; my biggest problem was that we would talk throughout the day, and then as soon as I got home, she'd call me and want to talk for hours. As if that wasn't bad enough, once I finally did get her off the phone - so that I could game or read or watch my shows - she would promise to call me later in the evening. I should have been honest with her, but I thought that maybe if I willed myself to like her hard enough, it would come true. When I masturbated thinking about having sex with her, I was able to finish, which gave me hope that maybe, at the very least, I was bisexual; still, I didn't feel for her the same way that I felt about Brian.

Toward the end of eight grade, we were in math class one day when one of popular girls started to bully me. I tried my best to give it back - still too green to know how to sense someone's weakness and go for the jugular - but ended up embarrassing myself instead. At one point, Brian got involved - not on my side. I hadn't expected him to defend me, but because I was crushing on him so hard, I felt like he should have saved me. I turned to him with disgust and said, "Shut up, Brian. Who cares what you think? You're ugly and boring." My - in my opinion - vicious comeback only made the group laugh and gave them more fodder to make fun of me. I don't know why I thought that calling Brian ugly was a power move, but it only made things worse.

In the last normal days before finals that year, we had a substitute teacher in health class; spring was in full glory, which meant that instead of being cooped up in a classroom, we were allowed to go outside to the track. As I sat with my friends - and the sub - and discussed movies, Brian and the other jocks took their shirts off and laid on the ground, tanning. It took all of my willpower not to stare at his naked chest, to admire his toned abs and brown nipples. Had I been allowed to get contacts, I'd have been able to hide behind the tinted lenses of sunglasses, but instead, I was still forced to wear glasses.

When I started high school, I stopped having classes with Brian. In fact, I did not have a single class with him in the four years that we attended Anchor Bay High School together. Over the summer between eighth and ninth grade I started to outgrow my crush on him; early into my freshman year I began crushing on my history teacher. He wasn't particularly attractive - he had a big, shiny forehead and a receding hairline - but for the rest of freshman year I would find excuses to see him before class. At some point, I dug out the old drawing of Brian and shook my head at how pathetic - and creepy - it was. I perfunctorily ripped it into shreds and threw it away, grateful to remove any and all evidence of my clandestine crush. Throughout high school, I continued to crush on teachers; once I moved to Pinconning I had a brief infatuation with my friend Bob, but once he moved to Arizona for college, I quickly grew attached to the forty-something gay guy who owned the video store that was in the lobby of the pizzeria where I worked.

It's crazy to me to think that it's been almost twenty years since I graduated high school; those golden days seem like they were just yesterday for me. Unfortunately, I don't stay in touch with many people from school - with the exception of a few close friends - but I do sometimes look people up on Facebook - mostly people who were mean to me - so that I can laugh at their bald heads and beer guts. Occasionally, I look up Brian, just out of curiosity. According to his profile, he got married in 2024 and lives in Longwood, Florida now. He works in state government and has honestly aged very well. It seems like life has been very kind to him, which gives me a rush of joy; even though we were never friends, never anything more than classmates, he was my first crush and holds a special place in my heart.

Sometimes, I think about adding him as a friend. He probably doesn't remember me, or if he does, he hasn't thought about me since eighth grade, but part of me wants to reach out to him, to tell him that I had the biggest crush on him back then and thank him for being one of the nicer jocks at my school. I know that that's insane, that if Brian got a friend request from a random school mate that he hasn't interacted with since 2004 he would be sufficiently - and rightfully - creeped out. Besides, he's married, so telling him about my crush would do nothing but appease me, especially since he never gave even the slightest hint that he was anything but straight. Part of me thinks that it's just a desperate attempt to recapture the glory of my youth, to transport myself back to happier, less stressful times rather than something I actually need to fulfil myself; while I was rude at times, I didn't hurt Brian or do anything so bad that I need to make amends. Why shouldn't I just let him rest in the past as he no doubt has done with me? Why would it matter if he knew about my crush on him, now, after all these years?

I'm glad that as I've grown and matured, I've become less obsessive with my crushes; just because you like someone doesn't mean that you own them or that they have to like you back. Unfortunately for me, unrequited love - and crushes - has become a recurring event in my life; sometimes I think that I only allow myself to catch feelings when I know that there is no real chance of it turning into anything, that way I can protect my heart while still getting to enjoy the high of the infatuation and the fantasy of it being reciprocated. I could probably make a therapist very, very rich if I ever summoned up to the courage to seek professional help,