Boys In The Attic

It was October of my senior year in high school, when my
parents decided to remodel the attic over the garage, making
it into a small efficiency apartment. They told me they were
doing it for the additional income the apartment would
generate -- that the money would come in handy the following
year when they had to pay my college tuition. I knew the
real reason for the apartment. Money had nothing to do with
it. They were afraid I wouldn’t succeed in college without
some help. They thought it would be good for me to have
someone near my own age, someone with some college experience
whom I could talk to.

It was no secret to me that my parents, and probably
just about everyone else who knew me, considered me to be an
introvert. All my life I had been labeled as being shy, or
backward, even withdrawn. When I was younger, I attempted to
make friends. I tried really hard to fit in. It was a great
disappointment to my parents that I never seemed to measure
up to the social standards they had strategically mapped out
for me. I got tired of the disappointments and humiliation.
I didn’t understand why it was my fault that no one liked me.
Maybe I didn’t like anyone much either. Was it my fault I
found most of my peers to be self—centered offspring of
equally narrow minded parents, with whom I had nothing at all
in common? My parents accused me of not being able to
communicate well, I had no problem communicating. I couldn’t
help it that no one wanted to listen to what I was saying.

My parents, who are very social people, found it
impossible to believe I could be happy spending so much time
alone. Sometimes they were right. Sometimes I did get
lonely, but for the most part I had gotten used to my
solitude and actually preferred it to the gregarious back-
stabbing on which they seemed to thrive.

David was in his second year of college. He was a nice
guy, very friendly and extraordinarily polite. He had made
an immediate favorable impression on my parents. In their
eyes, David was exactly what I needed. He was the perfect
role model —— an excellent choice for the apartment.

Much to my parents dismay, things didn’t work out as
splendidly as they had planned. David was quite personable,
but like myself turned out to be a bookworm of sorts. He
spent most of his time reading and sketching. He seldom went
out, and very rarely had any visitors. My parents were
deeply troubled by their miscalculation of David’s character,
and seemed to abandon all hope of my ever amounting to a
damn.

To be perfectly honest, I too was surprised by David’s
lack of socializing. He was a very attractive young man. I
had always assumed young, attractive college men were party
people. I had expected to see a lot of beautiful girls
visiting his apartment, but not once had I seen him in the
company of a female.

I could relate to being an attractive young guy and not
being very popular with the opposite sex. In this regard,
David and I seemed to have a great deal in common. I
couldn’t help wondering in what other ways might we be
alike.

Often I would sit in my room and watch David - he never
drew his blinds. All that separated my second floor bedroom
from the apartment over the garage was an eight foot wooden
deck. There were times when I would sit in the dark for
hours just watching him. It was almost like being in the
same room together. It wasn’t often that I met someone I
really wanted to get to know, but David was one of those rare
people. There was something about him, something elusive. I
couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but he intrigued me, even
aroused me.

We remained little more than casual acquaintances until
the following spring. As the weather became warmer, David
began spending a lot of time sitting outside on the deck,
usually with a book or his sketch pad. I began joining him,
and we would talk for hours. David was easy to talk too. In
a short time we got to know each other quite well. I began
looking forward to the time we spent together. It was a
relaxing time, with David I could feel comfortable being
myself.

Usually David or I would choose a very general topic to
discuss; school, politics, current events, stuff most kids my
age found dry and boring. We had never discussed anything of
a personal nature until one afternoon when the topic of gay
rights happened to enter into our conversation. David and I
agreed we would reap a more productive society if everyone
would just mind their own business and stop trying to impose
their personal beliefs on everyone else. One thing led to
another and we found ourselves divulging very private details
about ourselves.

I felt secure enough in my friendship with David to
confess to him that my sexual experiences were very limited.
I freely admitted to having had sex only twice, both times
with the same girl. I freely acknowledged that I had been
scared as hell both times.

David didn’t look at me like I was weird; he seemed to
understand. He was able to relate to my feelings and fears.
I’d never had anyone do that before. For the first time in
my life, I felt comfortable sharing my most private feelings
with someone. It felt good to be able to speak so openly
without fear of ridicule. There was something about David
that told me I could confess anything to him and not have to
concern myself with him later violating my trust.

David admitted he too had been uneasy the few times he’d
had sex. He conceded the fact that he was much more at ease
with —— and got far more physical pleasure from ——
masturbating.

I cringed at the word, I masturbated frequently myself,
but had never been able to get comfortable with the shame of
doing it. I had never admitted my masturbatory activities to
anyone. It was an act I had always been ashamed of
committing, one I felt had to be kept private and hidden
away. I admired David for having the courage to confide
something so personal in me. His blunt honesty seemed to
open my soul, and I found myself admitting to my own self—
indulgent sexual practices.