My First (Not So) Gay Experience

Growing up in a city like Los Angeles, one usually becomes acclimated to different cultures and lifestyles at an early age. Your friends and neighbors tend to be people from all walks of life.

I think that's why I find myself comfortable and at home regardless of my surroundings. I joke with and tease anyone as if I were a part of their culture, and they of mine. Most people seem to respect that sort of candor.

Life is only socially awkward if you allow it to be.

I remember the first time I had to come to terms with a weird situation.

I had two really good friends growing up - they were brothers. The older one, sixteen, happened to be gay. The younger one, thirteen, while a lot more meek and girly, was not.

Their parents were the owners of a chain of restaurants, while mine were not - so, naturally, we hung out at their posh estate in the Hollywood Hills a lot more than my tiny little apartment in Hollywood.

We had some great times there. Adventuring through the brush and hunting lizards like we were Crocodile fucking Dundee. Swimming in their football field sized pool. Playing every video game ever made. It was like hanging out at Disneyland.

One day in particular stands out for me.

I should have known something was going to happen because we kicked off the day by shooting the gardener. No, you didn't read that wrong.

The poor guy was minding his own business, plucking the weeds and trimming the bushes on the hill across the street. Unfortunately for him, we were bored teenagers with a fully pumped and loaded air rifle. And he bent over a lot.

Yes. We shot him in the ass.

After we got yelled at by our parents, we found ourselves bored again - and this time with no air rifle.

We had a good two hours to kill until we were scheduled to attend a house party down the street, so we decided to try on some clothes and see what we looked best in.

I had just come out in my spiffy new party clothes when the older brother exclaimed, "Someone looks good!" If only he'd stopped there...

"The girls are gonna be like, Ooooh Dan," he shouted.

And that's when he went to grab my balls.

My ninja-like reflexes kicked in - I zigged to the left, and zagged to the back - but I was too slow for his superior homosexual agility.

He managed to firmly grasp a hold of a single testicle. It was the first time anyone, let alone a man, had touched one of my jubilees.

I think he realized what was happening, because he quickly let go of it and apologized. Either that, or he saw the terror in my eyes as his jaws of life clenched onto my little kiwi.

I didn't know what to do.

Part of me wanted to panic. Was he hitting on me? Did this mean I was gay? Was my Dad going to disown me now? All these things rushed through my head as we stood around in awkward silence for a good three seconds.

Until I said the two magic words, "You fag." And we all broke out into laughter.

Needless to say, the moment passed just as quickly as it came, and what could have been a weird situation ended up being a funny story we told for months afterwards.

While it wasn't a life-changing moment, I think it was one of the many good lessons I learned at that young age. No, I wasn't gay. Yes, he still was. No, he wasn't hitting on me.

Sometimes a grabbing of the balls is just a grabbing of the balls.