The Brother Who Left My Life

This is the one of the most honest and sensitive topics I will write about. I hope you read until the end before you judge. It will mean a lot to me. Thank you.

I want to tell you about my older brother. He was the second child in the family and only three years older than myself. I looked up to him as a kid because he took care of me, plain and simple. I remember how he used to come up with these crazy funny jokes that made everybody in the room laugh and he had a laugh that would make us laugh some more. He introduced me to new music, hairstyles, fashion trends, graffiti, cigarettes, youth gangs, and the way drugs worked. He was amazing.

But as much as I hate to think about him as a person with great potential who let drugs take over his life, I know that’s the truth. He started drinking and smoking weed in junior high and soon upgraded to doing heroin and cocaine while in high school. During his senior year, the drugs took over and he started to act paranoid. He stayed up during most nights, checked the windows, and insisted people were coming to harm the family. In his head, he was only trying protecting us just like he did when I was younger. But as a teen, I didn’t want any protection.

One night I was frustrated with the way he was behaving that I started yelling at him to act normal and stop pretending to be mentally ill (I will never assume someone is faking ever again). I don’t know how it happened, but I remember that suddenly my brother was on top of me and he started choking me. I couldn’t move. All I could do was stare at his face. He looked so  terrified. From there one, I just remember how cold his hands felt around my neck. That was the first and last time he ever laid his hands on me. My oldest brother came rushing downstairs, pulled my brother off, threw him to the ground, started hitting him, and told him to never hit me again. He kept his word.

After that incident, I convinced myself to never talk to my brother again. I gave him the silent treatment which did a lot more damage than I had ever anticipated. I ignored his jokes and pretended he wasn’t my brother. I would leave the room when he wanted to talk. He would beg for me to listen, but I looked the other way. Ignoring him was the easy part, but noticing the real problem was the hardest.

He soon starting behaving more psychotic. He stayed in the room for hours and laughed hysterically when he was by himself. He refused to eat and lost a lot of weight in a short period of time. He refused to take showers or clean himself after going to the bathroom. He would make stories up and believed there were people who wanted to harm the family. He was suffering, but I didn’t care. I always thought he was pretending. My cousins suggested that I talk to him because that is what he really wanted. I’m not sure if talking to him would have prevented or prolonged his condition. I really don’t know.

He soon got arrested for being in a gang neighborhood that his probation terms prohibited him from entering. That was his third strike, so he got deported back to Mexico. He remained there while I graduated high school, received my AA degree, and moved to San Francisco. He called home on his birthdays, December 31st, and my family would take turns talking to him on the phone. They would wish him a happy birthday and say that they loved and missed him. I would get skipped whenever it would be my turn; my family knew that I didn’t want to talk to him. I now wished that I had.

You see, my brother was living in a place where there continues to be many kidnappings and murders, and my family lost contact with him almost a year ago. My mom prays that he will one day show up and we will be a family again. She has hope. I don’t now how. I can’t imagine the pain of not knowing if your son is dead or alive. I hope I never do. I visited my mom a few months ago, walked in her room, and saw a small shrine of my older brother with a photo of him that was taken before he lost weight. I couldn’t help, but get sad.

During that trip, I kept on thinking about how he didn’t see me graduate high school or wish me good luck before moving to San Francisco. I kept on thinking about how he missed out on my life. But then again I wasn’t there when he needed my help or when he got deported. I wasn’t there to wish him a happy birthday. I wasn’t there to tell him that everything would be okay and that we will soon be together. I wasn’t there to hug him when he needed it.

Then I think think of all the things he won’t get to see. He won’t get to see me when I get married. He won’t be there to wish me good luck when I get my first professional job. He won’t be here when I adopt a child. He won’t be here to protect me anymore or to tell me that everything will be okay and that we will be together soon; that makes me cry.

I often wonder if he ever thought of me during those nights in Mexico. I was a bad person to him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he stopped caring. Truth is, I really miss my older brother. He was a good person that just needed help. I can’t take back what I did (or didn’t do). It’s too late for that now. All I can do is hope that he’s in a good place right now, and to tell you that I love him.

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The First Sexual Encounter Of My Life

This post may contain some explicit content.

It’s the story of my first sexual encounter and I want to be as honest as possible. Before I can begin, I must take you back almost a year before the actual act. I was 17 years old, in high school, and still coming to terms with my sexuality. I developed strange feelings for guys at a young age and  spent a lot of time thinking about kissing and doing more with them, but there was a problem. I never had “the talk” with my parents, so I didn’t know a thing about sex. I didn’t know what “more” meant, but the thought of two guys having sex always fascinated me, better yet, I became obsessed with it. I was really more curious about the idea of sex, rather than the act itself.

I remember sneaking to the backyard one night, logging into the internet from my PSP, searching gay websites for the first time, and finally being exposed to the online gay world. What I found shocked, but excited me at the same time. I was entering a different world, a gay one at that, which was much more sexual and raw. That night I saw another mans nude body for the first time and instantly got aroused. Seeing another person naked suddenly brought new sexual thoughts to mind. Thoughts of touching another man’s body, his thighs, his penis, his chest, his arms, and his face; I mean really touching these parts. I soon spent hours looking at pictures of naked gay men and inventing different scenes in my head, but after months, pictures were not enough.

I signed up for a gay dating site using a fake name because I was scared my friends would see me there. Interacting with gay guys proved more difficult than I had anticipated. I didn’t understand the language, and would get confused when I received messages asking if I was a “Top or Bottom?” I assumed that if I was on my back and a guy was on top of me being penetrated then surely I must be a bottom. I got many messages whenever I responded like that. Being young, inexperienced, and ethnic must have been appealing because I would go online and talk to many guys at once. I was soon addicted to the attention. The fantasies I once had were being replaced by ones that these men were providing for me. Perhaps months of chatting with nice gay guys and learning about sex from them was enough reassurance to try sex; or perhaps I was just horny.

He was Latino, 21 years old, and chubby. He asked if I had done anything with a guy and I responded with a simple no. He immediately sent a lot of messages asking if he could be my first. I still don’t know why I said yes to meeting with him after knowing him for less than an hour. I guess my urges got the best of me. I called him using my aunt’s number and risked being caught. For some reason I hoped that he didn’t answer. He didn’t and I felt relieved. That is until he called back. The conversation was brief, but he sounded like a nice person. He and I decided to meet at a nearby store. I immediately regretted my decision. I stepped inside, began sweating, and my heart began beating fast. He pulled up to the store really fast and didn’t even park correctly. He seemed really eager. He went inside the store, saw me, and signaled me to go to his car. I walked there slowly.

I entered his car and began breathing heavily. He quickly looked at me, rubbed my thigh, and told me that everything would be alright; I smiled. Then I took a real look at him. He looked more stocky in person and his face was much more round than in his profile picture. I couldn’t look at him directly because I felt nervous, so I looked down instead. He began asking if I knew of any places where we could have sex, and I told him that I didn’t and that I was sorry. He told me not to worry. He drove around and found an empty church parking lot and parked (I know, I’m the worst). He was quiet for a few seconds, but then he proceeded to undress me. I felt cold. I didn’t know where to look, so I looked outside the window. I had forgotten that it was around 3pm in the afternoon and that the sun was out. It was a really nice view.

I then looked at him as he was performing oral, and I suddenly felt small. Not in that sense. I felt unsure if I wanted to be in the car with this person, this stranger who I just met. He knew what he was doing and here I was not knowing a thing. I was sitting there in silence. He began complimenting me and saying that I was cute and perfect. I smiled; I really didn’t want to have a conversation with him. He began playing with himself and asked if I wanted to perform oral as well. I said no thank you, so he continued to perform oral on me again. I enjoyed being pleasured this way; I’m not going to lie. He seemed to be enjoying himself more than I was, so I felt a bit guilty. I finished quickly and cleaned myself on his towel. He began playing with himself again, but I didn’t want to look. Once done, he told me that he loved every moment of it. I didn’t say a word. He drove back to the store and he thanked me for the “fun” time. He told me to message and call him again. I just said okay.

I waited until he was out of sight and then walked home alone. I kept on thinking about what happened and why I decided to do something sexual with a stranger. I guess I felt dirty even though I did clean myself. I didn’t want to talk about what happened to anyone. It was years before I did anything sexual with another gay guy again. I remember arriving home, logging online, and blocking him.

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My Life In Private

I’m a private person. I don’t mean the type of private where you keep to yourself and never let anyone know what you’re doing. I’m talking about the private where you don’t share your feelings, secrets, concerns, or let people in your life (the real life you live).

I can tell you about the time I went clubbing for the first time, got really drunk, made-out with a stranger in the cab, almost got roofied, had a panic attack, and arrived home around 5 in the morning. But it’s hard to tell you that I felt sad for being away from my family that I decided to drink in order to cope, but ended up drinking a bit too much. I’ts hard to tell you that I was scared of not fitting into the gay scene that I didn’t object when a guy came to me and kissed me. It’s especially hard to tell you how disappointed I felt at myself for letting all the bad things happen that I had to step outside to be alone, but I felt so overwhelmed and had my first panic attack. That’s too personal to tell.

I don’t mean to tell people the half-truth. I really don’t. I just don’t want people to judge the real me. If I tell you all about what goes on in my head or how I view the world, you’ll probably laugh. At times, I even laugh at myself for thinking the way I do. I once thought people in this world would not purposely want to harm me (emotionally or physically), but I was wrong. People lie and people have hurt me. I freak out and break down whenever that happens. I cry sometimes. I remember crying at night when I was alone in my room in San Francisco. I was crying so hard and loud that I had a hard time breathing, and I remember feeling exhausted after and fell asleep like a baby. I nearly freaked myself out. You’re probably right in assuming that I’m rambling, but I’m letting you in my head; the random part and the private part.

I hardly tell my family as much as I’m telling you today. They’re really private people. I can’t blame them. If you knew how much drama the family has gone through, you would want to keep private too. I tell my family that I’m going out with friends. I don’t tell them that I’m going to a gay club to drink, that my friends are gay, or that I’ll possibly hook up and sleep over at my “friends'” house. I don’t tell them how miserable I feel sometimes. I don’t tell them how unsure I am of my future or the random thoughts I have while I’m home. I don’t know why. I guess i’m just a really private person.

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