A sweet gay boy in Atlanta

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I can't remember how I met Pinky, probably on the street. Nor how he came to my apartment to bake brownies. My first memory is of my cock in his mouth while the brownies were in the oven. I don't even remember why I moved into him.

Likely reasons for all above: pale silky skin, sweet lovely face, slender well-formed body, with a fey and complaisant personality. When you are nineteen, randy and have barely been out for a year beauty seems a sufficient reason for anything.

Pinky was a space cadet. Gentle, lovable but no brain. He'd fiddle at home while I worked. Sometimes after I went to bed he'd go to bars to dance (not learning to dance was a so damned mistake). I was sure he didn't go home with anybody; Pinky wasn't the type. But as long as I didn't know I really didn't give a damn. I felt real affection but was never in love with the boy.

Looking back I think Pinky had been hurt, probably as a child. He was looking for a strong man to take care of him. I was too young to see this. And it was probably outside of my powers to heal him.

For some insane reason we hitched down to Savannah. Having bad luck we had to spend a night in the woods. Back then I was a coward, afraid of the dark. But that night with Pinky's head on my chest and my arm around him the night held no imaginary terrors.

Morning found us near my maternal grandparents hometown. I called them, they picked us up and called my parents who came and took us to the city.

In Savannah a man made a pass at Pinky. Suddenly I did care and wanted to knock the nasty little shit down. That was simply pride of possession. Pinky didn't register the guy who while moneyed was effete and boring.

We went to visit John. I was still completely enslaved to him. Soon I was giving Pinky money to go back to Atlanta by himself. I was a fool and a shit.

I paid for it.

John and I moved to Atlanta. As always he was really in love with himself, his paranoia and whatever drugs he could find. For a short time we squatted in an abandoned apartment building. One day John vanished without warning or leaving a note.

Finally the siren song was silent. Tears and time had been wasted on a love that would never succeed. I never felt tempted to ensnare myself again. My romantic hopes died: I stopped being in love with love. When a nice looking boy makes himself available enjoy him. But don't get caught in self-damning fantasies.

John I never saw again. Talking to him a couple of years ago he told he he'd gone on to becoming a junkie but had rise above that to alcoholism some months earlier.

I don't know what happened to Pinky, against all reason I hope it was something safe and sustaining.

Comments

I seem to recognize the opening feeling…with my cock in his mouth…

It would have been difficult, and inaccurate, for me to have refrained from making a characteristic comment on this one. The similarities are astonishing—it is a perticular subset of man that is able to view life from that particular vantage point AND understand what it does (or doesn’t) signify.

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Please share your feelings about A sweet gay boy in Atlanta.
Thanks,
Richard

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