I'm not sure why I'm gay. Born that way, I assume, but perhaps other factors contributed. Maybe my orientation has someting to do with early successes courting, seducing and -- eventually -- molesting girls.
Now don't get carried away -- I was but a child myself when I first mastered anal penetration. And no, it wasn't with my prepubescent tallywacker, but with a crayon. I was always one for accuracy, even back then. As you likely recall, thermometers are administered rectally up until a certain age. So, when playing doctor, I insisted on inserting the crayons as if they were actual thermometers. If you had a fever, you got a red one. If not, blue.
Crayons had always served me well. I'd sit up at night meticulously crushing my gold, silver and copper crayons into a fine dust. On the playground, I'd offer girls "gold" (if I really fancied them), "silver" (if I was marginally interested) and "copper" (if I felt sorry for them). It worked quite well.
As did my stint as a doctor. Don't misunderstand -- there were no prurient thrills involved. Those came when my playmate and I discovered her mother's stack of Playgirls. I was much too young to feel so inadequate.
Eventually her mother busted my makeshift examination room. My doctor days were over, a young boy's dreams crushed. I could've been somebody -- I could've had money. And a stable of girls. Instead, I'm just a lowly gay writer with crayons on the brain. And not as many regrets as I should have.
There is no lesson here, though parents might want to think twice before buying their sons a pack of Crayolas.
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