A blonde babysitter, 17, once when I was 12.
A redheaded girlfriend, 17, for a year, starting when I was 16.
A blonde college junior, 20, twice when I was 15 (we’d kissed when I was 13, and she was 18, but it was weird, for her).
A redheaded girlfriend, 16, endlessly at 16, for about four years, into college, some breaks, and once we had sex three feet from her sleeping sister, 15, blonde, but no, the sister didn’t get involved. She didn’t even wake up.
My girlfriend’s sister’s best girl friend, blonde, 15, twice at 16. (My girlfriend’s best boy friend, blond, 16, every two or three weeks, from 16-17.)
Two girls with the same name, at the same time, both 18, blonde and the first redheaded girlfriend above, a handful of times at 17. The blonde is now a lesbian. The redhead is now an Evangelical Christian who uses her faith to perpetuate hate.
Four girls from my high school I used to photograph, 16-18, regularly when I was 17, although I never photographed them nude.
Two girls on spring break who think they slept with a British exchange student named Trevor (or Spider) Gaines, 17.
A gorgeous Greek/American girl, brunette, 21, who passed me a note on a napkin in a Houston, TX restaurant saying she’d sell her mother to f*** me, at 18.
We did it only once in the bathroom of a gay dance club, Power Tools. She was driving me back to my car when she was pulled over for expired tags and arrested on the spot for outstanding bench warrants in another state. I had to walk the remaining 2 miles.
A blonde Swedish girl who looked just like Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction, said she was 20, but was really 16, on the bathroom floor at a house party with three people watching, when I was 19.
The blonde woman, 40-something, Mother of one of two kids to whom I was a summer camp counselor, it happened once when I was 19.
The sister of a blonde “girlfriend”, with whom I went on dates and had a mutual fascination but not sex, because she was only 15, and there’s a rule about that. They were Spanish royalty. The sister was brunette and 24. We dropped the kid off and had sex at the construction site of the (then) most expensive home in Naples, Florida. I was 19.
A girl who later came out as a lesbian, brunette, 18, a few times when I was 19. We both admitted it was fun, but not really fun.
An Icelandic, amazon, tow-headed girl, 19, under my Christmas tree, at college, when I was 19. It was her first time.
A guy and a girl at once, all of us 19. She looked like Barbie. He looked like Ken. I must have been G.I. Joe. The guy and I didn’t do anything together. He’s straight as can be. (Here is a pic of him now, with Paris Hilton.)
A stunning, crazy, redhead of Sephardi descent, 19, in college on spring break, when I was 20.
A Czech/Italian, blonde amazon, 6’2″, with about twenty syllables in her name, over 18, that same year. A google search just revealed that she is the VP of Global Marketing for a worldwide cosmetics company, based in Paris.
A fraternity brother’s German girlfriend, 19, brunette, many, many times that same year.An archetypical blonde (and not the brightest bulb on the tree) bombshell named Candy, who camped out in my room in the Lambda Chi house naked for an hour until I arrived. I actually didn’t discover her. My roommate came down to the dining room and said, “Dude, there’s a naked chick up in our room, waiting for you.” Did wonders for my rep.
A blonde model, and former charismatic Evangelical Christian, 24. I was 21.
One of my best friends to this day, 21, a readhead, (not MH), on a couple national holidays. We’d get drunk and cruise hot bouncers together.
A roommate, brunette, smart as a whip, and 30, and I was 23. We were really drunk.
A brunette Parisian of aristocratic lines. She’d kick my ass at tennis, and then while we went at it, she’d swear at me in French and slap me across the face. I never really understood that, but it got her off. Her boyfriend didn’t play tennis.
The last girlfriend I had was brunette, 21, whom I really loved, but I wasn’t in love with her and just couldn’t take the next step. We were inseparable, but actually only had sex twice. One night, we had a party at her apartment and she found me outside, drunk and kissing a guy, 22, from our English Lit class. She attempted suicide, and failed, thank God. Her parents took her out of school. I didn’t see her again.
A blonde, British girl from Epsom-Surrey whom I affectionately called “Puddles” because she was ridiculously, unashamedly multi-orgasmic, 22.
All this from a guy who was called a ‘fag’ for for at least half of his life. The funny thing is, the girls didn’t really care that people thought I was gay. They just loved the fact that I would dance with them, and listen to them. They loved that I was bold and fearless with them. That’s the lesson on straight technique. The guys? They bullied and made fun of me daily and relentlessly, even though (or because) I was getting more than they were. Strangely enough, more than a few of them wound up in my bed too – but that’s a different blog.
With few exceptions, the name calling came to a screeching halt when I came out in college. It was as if people had actually known all along, like they could smell it, and they didn’t have as much of a problem with my being gay as they did with me not knowing who I was or not owning up to it.
At my 10th reunion, in 1995, I bearded. I took one of my dearest friends (not in the list) with me and God bless her, she posed as my fiancée. I knew then I’d have to explain the missing wife ten years later, but it didn’t matter. I was so afraid, which was really stupid. The reunion was boring. It needed a highlight. It was a decision I’ve always regretted.
Fast forward to my 20th reunion, in 2005, I was 37. I walked up to our class’s big, blond (see a pattern here?) quarterback who used to bully me almost as constantly as I used to fantasize about him, and said, “Tony, you always said I was gay, but I guess I just wouldn’t listen.” We laughed. He hugged me. Boy, did I fantasize about that later. But it didn’t feel any better than it did being out of the closet to my senior class, and if not accepted whole-heartedly by everyone of my classmates, I was at least fully content to be who I am.