the wonderful story of a gay horse and a buffalo

it'sAdam Thu Jun 18, 2009 7:48 am

Warnings:
gayness
cross dressers
language. Lots of it.
sexual content and situations

So, hi, I guess. My name is Cris.

Yes, that's how I spell it, not Chris, Kris, or Criss.

Although, if you're actually bothering to read this, you probably know that.

I'm sixteen years old, love alternative music and I guess I'm straight. Before you're now asking why I said I guess I'm straight, there's a simple explanation to that one: The fact that I haven't had a girlfriend since I went past the stage of slobbery-wet kisses and playing „mother, father, kid“, meaning for about twelve years.

Now, you might wonder why the hell does this guy lack a girlfriend, and again I can provide a simple explanation – It's not that I'm disfigured, morbidly obese, ugly as sin or anything of that sort; in fact, I'm perfectly healthy, and (not to be cocky) I'm actually quite good-looking as well, to be exact, I kind of look like Jeremy Hoffman's clone.

...yes, the teenage Hollywood sensation Jeremy Hoffman.

How many other Jeremy Hoffman's are out there, actually?

Well, anyway,that's not the point, I was going to write about the reason why I don't have a girlfriend, and not about Jeremy Hoffman.

Well,technically Jeremy Hoffman is actually relevant to the reason I don't have a girlfriend... or rather, Jeremy Hoffman is the reason I don't have a girlfriend, by which I am not implying that he lives in my town and every girl is dating him.. Last time I checked, he lived in a mansion in California while I lived in a small town house near Frankfurt.

No, the issue of me lacking a girlfriend was pretty much about the fact how much I looked like Jeremy Hoffman.

Yeah, now you're wondering again, I know for a fact that you're wondering, well, if you're so bloody good-looking why is that an issue, and you justknow that I'm going to provide a simple explanation now.

And yes, that I will do now.

You see, thing is, I'm pretty much the definition of an outcast, listening to unknown bands, wearing clothes from underground stores, and what not. Considering that I look like Jeremy Hoffman (as pointed out at least three times by me in this half page and at least seventeen thousand times by random “teenie boppers” throughout about fifteen months and a day), you can just tell that I don't like the kind of girls who hit on me, and the kind of girls I hit on don't like me.. either that, or they didn't want to be seen with me because some thirteen-year-old girl asked me to sign her tits mid-pickup line.

As you might be able to tell from that, despite being a stunner I will never get a girl to like me.

Well, now that I've rambled about half a page on my girlfriend-related issues, let's finally start with what this fine piece of text is actually supposed to be about; my life.
So yes.

With a silent sigh, I flop down onto the mattress,reaching out for the remote control and turning on the TV.

Tomorrow, my first day of eleventh grade would be, and just like it always was on last-Sunday-before-school-Sundays, therewas nothing to do in town, and none of my favorite bands would play aconcert anywhere near me, either... given these circumstances, Iwould have to resort to fill the entire evening with watching random stuff on TV.

Well, technically it was either that or I'd have to call up Jacob and ask him whether he'd want to hang out, write some songs, jam a bit on his old acoustic or something like that... I guess I'll have to tell you about Jacob first for you to get the whole thing. Jacob H. Wagner (note, I have no clue what the H in his name stands for), seventeen, guitarist in a band calledDead and Contagious. They're quite good, I guess – that is if you enjoy mindless screaming, lyrics about death and sex and ear-drum bursting bass lines.

And, well, do you remember how at the beginning of thisI said that I guess I was straight? Because, well, Jacob isn't; not that there's a problem with that, it's fine with me as long as he keeps his hands to himself.. which brings me to the point of explaining the reason I didn't want to talk to Jacob.

It happened at a party only a few days ago, and to be quite honest I don't actually remember much of it myself, considering that I've been stoned as hell that night, but the bit that I do remember was that it was way too wet, involved tongues being forced down throats, slightly smelled like sweat and pot and tasted a lot like tofu burgers, with a slightly bitter aftertaste.

Not exactly like I had pictured my first kiss, but, hey, first kisses weren't something that could be chosen..

And if you know me well enough to read this you by now have probably figured out why I couldn't just call up Jacob, so the only option left would be watching TV.
Which I should probably do now instead of rambling.

Once again, I grab the remote, looking for something good on TV.

Sex, drugs, murder, and more sex.

Nothing exciting, as always on one of those nights. With another sigh, I change the channel to MTV; I end up watching an interview with some mainstream pop band for a good fifteen minutes, and it's not until my mother enters the door that I realize that this isn't even relevant to my interests. Quickly, I turn off the TV and move to face her.

“Knock first?”, I mumble, getting up and sitting down on the windowsill.

“Sorry, darling”, my mother exclaims, closing the door behind her and setting a cup of coffee down onto the top of my drawer..

I sigh; couldn't she just drop that darling part already? Last time I checked, I was sixteen, not three.

“Why are you even here?”, I ask, it wasn't too usual for her to be in my room unless someone just died or there was a reason to celebrate. (Or probably both.)

“Oh, it's nothing, Christopher”, she begins, and judged by the fact that she was actually calling me by my full name it didn't seem to be so much of a nothing, “I just wanted to tell you that there's someone moving in next door.. they have a son your age.”

Once again, I just sigh at that; why is she even telling me?

(You should know that as usual, when my mother claims someone is “my age” she's usually terribly exaggerating – meaning that people who were supposedly my age usually ended up being either eleven year old wannabe gangstas and slash or geeks in their senior year at college; and in case someone “my age” was actually my age, they were guaranteed to drool over Paris Hilton's tits, listen to crappy music and label me an “emo faggot”.)

“So what?”, I ask, trying to get over the topic quickly.

“Well”, she says, taking a sip from her cup of coffee, “I just thought you guys could like, become friends or anything.”

Once again, I just sigh; I was old enough to pick my own friends.

“Can you like, leave now or anything?”, I mumble, attempting to mock her voice.

“Alright, then”, she exclaims before turning around and stepping out the door, but not before letting out a cough that sounds strangely like “teenagers”.

I just sigh and turn on the TV again, once again swapping through the channels to find something decent. In the end, I just end up watching that mainstream pop band interview again.

How pathetic can you get, I think, running a hand through my hair, while the lead singer of that-mainstream-pop-band is telling the interviewer about how they wanted to be “different from today's mainstream rock music”. Different, my arse.

With a sigh, I turn off the TV once again and get up, moving to look out the side window of my room. It's raining, as always, and the meadow between our house and the neighbors' has turned a muddy-brown color... as always this time of the year.

There's times when I'm wondering whether something will ever change in this town, or whether everything will stay the same, just as it'd been for about a few dozen years.

Same houses, same weather, same people, and just as I'm writing down the same people part in my mind I notice something that deeply disturbs my “everything stays the same” analogy.

The something, or rather the someone, was incredibly tall, incredibly skinny, wore a dark jacket with the hood pulled deep into their face and carried a box of books.

Seemed to be the “son-my-age”, I think, getting up from my place on the floor; probably I should go outside, just say hello or something like that.

Quickly, I put on the nearest hoodie and go downstairs, then out of the house, and I really don't know why I'm hurrying up so much; it's not like he'd disappear at any time soon.

The rain falls down onto my face and hair, and I slightly shudder; I hate rain. (To be honest, I hate just about any type of weather, but rain was probably the worst.)

Son-my-age-kid had in the meantime put away his box and was now carrying another cardboard box from the car in the driveway to his house (how many of those did he still have packed in there?).

He opens the door, closes it again, and then there's silence.

Oh shit, what if he's already done with his stuff?, is the first thing in my head; but then I remind myself that he lives right next to me, so there'd be enough time to introduce myself to him.

Just as I'm about to turn around, son-my-age-kid leaves the garage, carrying a third cardboard box.

“Hey”, I say, just as he walks past me, and his reaction really was not the one I expected.

Any normal person would probably have turned around, shook your hand and introduced themselves... not this fellow though.

To be quite exact, he jumped up, flailing his arms and letting out a surprisingly girly shriek, causing the cardboard box to tumble down and open.

An avalanche of books cascades down onto the sidewalk; big books, small books, thick books, thin books, hardcovers, paperbacks. You get the idea.

Now you'd probably expect son-my-age-kid to bend down and pick them up, like any normal person would do.

Turns out he seems to be seriously abnormal, because instead of doing so, he just shrieks once again, before reaching out for the cardboard box and clutching it tightly in his arms.

“You douche bag!”, he shrieks, and there's that girly voice again.

He bends down to pick up a few books, putting them in the cardboard box carefully.

Oh shit, I think for a moment, bending down to help him pick up the books when something with extremely sharp edges hits me in the ribs.

“Can't you, I don't know, watch out or something!”, the girly voice goes again, and once again I'm hit with what seems to be a hardcover book, and now a string of insults – of which “douche bag” seemed to be by far the most g-rated one – is coming out of kid-my-age's mouth.

If a random pedestrian would see the both of us likethat on the sidewalk they'd probably assume we were having some kindof kinky exhibitionist sex (minus the sex part, maybe), and for somereason that mental image makes me start giggling. Yes, giggling. I hadn't giggled since I was maybe five, but I am now.

Kid-my-age immediately stops attacking me both physically and verbally, and now he moves to stand up straight again.

I pick up two books, getting up from my crouching position as well, and that's when he starts to stare at me.

Stare.

When I say stare, I don't mean he was just looking at me, more like, he was glaring at me like he was going to eat me; like his eyeballs were about to pop out of his head.

“Um, I'm sorry?”, I ask, shrugging and handing both books to him.

He just continues to stare at me from under his hood, and asides from his eyes I couldn't really see any other part of his face clear enough to describe them; and instead of even answering in some sort he just bends down to pick up the rest of his books, leaving me just standing there.

“Shut up”, he just hisses, “Go ahead and leave already, b*tch.”

With a sigh; I turn around – it seems like I really had no choice other than to leave..
which I did.

What a douche bag.