"FIRST CRUSH" by Shawn O'Shea

Today was one of those therapy sessions. You know the type: you think you spent the entire hour divulging every finite detail of every secret hidden within every shadowed recess of your soul, but she says she thinks you are holding something back. She says talking in metaphors and literary comparisons is not truly expressing my thoughts and my----dare I say it?---- feelings! Ugh!

I guess I rolled my eyes one too many times and too close to the end of the session because she had the audacity to give me----me!----a writing assignment. Of course, now I'm convinced she doesn't know what she's doing because when I asked what I should write about she just said my feeeeeeeeeeeeeelings! What kind of answer is that?

So here I sit, pen in hand, notebook on lap, with absolutely no clue how to begin. The only thought that comes to mind is I feel this is a waste of time! But, somehow, I don't think that's exactly what she wants.

What was it she asked me today? That's right: when did I first know I was gay? My, god!, who remembers!? Come to think of it, though, when did I first know?

There are so many first things about being gay I do remember: first boyfriend, first sexual experience, first gay bar, first gay porn......

Wait! What was that? A brain flash! A memory! But what was it? Oh! There it is again! Come on! Think! Think! Think! Aha! Here it is!:

I'm seven, no, eight-years-old. There was this older boy, he made me feel weak-kneed and, well, the only word to describe it, ga-ga every time I saw him. I was never able to figure out how old he was; I knew he had to be at least sixteen since he drove. And, oh!, that car! It was and incredible white sports car with a red stripe that outlined the hood. I have no doubt that when he drove you actually felt like you were going at a speed of Mach five!

He had an always perfectly groomed crop of black hair. He had a white racing helmet he occasionally wore; He looked hot in that, too, but I preferred him without it. His large, beautiful, long-lashed eyes were as black as his hair, not an ominous menacing black, however. Rather, they were like a pair of highly polished onyx gemstones which begged to be stared into. And I was more than willing to oblige!

I remember feeling so happy every time I had an opportunity to look into those eyes!

I can't forget that one outfit of his, either. It was a dark-blue, short-sleeved polo shirt with a white collar and white piping around the sleeve edges; gloves mad of light-brown leather; extremely tight, and, therefore, extremely erotic crisp white pants; a red ascot-like scarf, matching socks and black leather penny-loafers. And he never had a smudge or stain, he was always clean and pristine!

It makes me feel tingly just thinking about it!

Sadly, though, I didn't exist in his world. I had to watch him always be fawned over by her!, that emaciated, mousy-haired little tramp of a girlfriend of his. Trixie was her name. I couldn't stand her!

Who would think that after all these years I would still feel such jealously toward her?

But, sitting here with this happy reminiscence, it really doesn't matter that he and I always did and always will exist in different worlds. He will always be my first love.----my first crush!----my Speed Racer!!