In most if not all of my narratives, I think it's abundantly clear that I was a "forward" kid, sexually. Most of the times I had sexual contact with others was at my initiative, not theirs, and that was true from the beginning. Of the remainder, a large proportion were mutual - i.e., both boys were ready and willing to do it, whatever it was at the time. And there's that small number of boys who hit on me. There weren't many; but when it happened, I really liked it. (Assuming it was a boy I liked, that is; I'm not counting the times I had sex against my will. That wasn't sex, it was force.)

In the days and weeks and months that followed those first encounters, some of my partners liked what we did and wanted to do it again. Most were somewhere around neutral. I'd guess the most typical reaction would be expressed like this: "Umm... it was fun... but I don't know if I wanna do it again... let's stay friends, though." Of course, it wasn't always verbalized. Especially that last phrase. Boys don't talk about feelings much, not in that way. :)

And inevitably, there were the other boys - boys who came to regret what we did, afterwards. Some did not want to stay friends. There weren't many. I wish there had been zero. It's part of what happens when your self-confident and have a strong personality; you aren't always sensitive to others' feelings. I tried, in my own un-self-aware fashion. But I didn't always succeed. And that's part of what I feel guilty about.

Maybe I'm putting my own slanted light on it. When I think back and remember... most of those boys were interested in the same kind of relationship I was. It wasn't love. Just sex. Two horny boys, tickling each other in a special way. I can't relate to stories such as "I fell in love at age 11, and I knew I would never be able to think of anyone else..." I never, ever felt that way, back then. I didn't want to fall in love. To the extent I thought about it at all, I thought I wanted orgasms, and sperm. I did care about my friends, deeply - but not romantically. Even with my two boyfriends, romantic love wasn't part of the picture. I would call those a type of love, but it wasn't hearts-and-flowers love. It was deep, deep friendship. In my mind, deep friendship is love.

Anyway, my point is that, even though it was mostly physical, emotions played a role - even in the most casual encounters. And some of the emotions that resulted from sex were negative.

There was a boy in our school, Max. He was one year younger than me; he entered in 7th grade when I was in 8th grade, my second year at the military school. He was a very quiet, very shy boy, and he wasn't "cute" - he was heavyset and had a round face. I befriended him. He rode the same school bus I did, and I noticed a few days after school began that he always sat alone, with no friends. I always befriended boys like that - partly because I felt sorry for anyone alone, and partly because - I hate to say this, but it's true - they were usually more willing to have sex.

I rushed things too fast with Max. I began sitting with him at lunchtime, began asking him over to my house in the afternoon, to study together. Within a couple of weeks, I brought up sex. I had a somewhat-standard format for this at age 13. I would ask boys if they ever liked to see girls naked... if they ever thought about sex... if their weenies got hard... if they had any pubic hair... if they ever jerked off... if they wanted to do it with me.

I went through this process with Max, sitting in my bedroom one afternoon. I was blind to the signals he gave me that he wasn't interested. I persisted. And I was a persuasive boy when I wanted to be. That afternoon, I guess I wore his defenses down. Or maybe I got him genuinely curious for a few critical moments, and then he felt differently... but it was too late. I was on a roll with him. I don't know.

After some time, I got him to pull down his pants and underwear (I had already pulled mine down), and his cock was stiff. I assumed this meant I had gotten him interested (and usually, that was what it meant.) I started to jerk off slowly. Max didn't touch himself and wouldn't look at me. That should have been my clue, but I wasn't picking up on clues.

I reached over and touched him. He jerked, but didn't move away or anything. So I took things to the next step, as I typically did. I grasped his cock in my fingers and started to jack him off, talking to him about sex as I did so.

Max suddenly stood up and shoved me in the chest, hard. I fell over backwards off the side of my bed, and hit my head, which dazed me slightly. I realized that he was crying, hard. He got his pants pulled up and ran out of the room, and out the door of our house. I was too dazed by the fall and by his sudden reaction to do anything.

After a few minutes, I got up. I was feeling really low. My head hurt, but I didn't care about that. I felt bad that Max had left crying, and it was my fault. And, in the interest of honesty, I'll add another thing: I also felt bad that I hadn't come, that I'd gotten excited and hadn't finished. Selfish, but that was part of my feelings.

Max lived about 15 minutes from our house via bicycle, and he'd ridden his bike over that day. After about thirty minutes, I called him. I guess I was going to apologize, but I really hadn't thought it through; I was just going to play by ear. His sister answered, and when I asked for Max, she called him to the phone. I could hear him in the background, saying, "If it's Danny, I DO NOT want to talk to him." She asked me if I was Danny, and I almost lied, to get him to the phone, but I didn't.

The next day, he was as usual sitting by himself when I got on the bus. I went to sit down next to him, and he glared at me and said, "Fuck off." I started to sit anyway, and he kicked my leg. I went back a couple of rows and sat down next to my friend Leif, who had observed the whole thing (along with the rest of the bus - Max wasn't subtle about his reaction.) Leif said, "So, what's up with him?" Leif didn't like Max very much. I could tell Leif the truth; he and I had already sucked each other off once (and did it again several more times, till he found a girlfriend), but I didn't want to announce it to the whole bus. So I said quietly, "Tell ya later, okay?" He nodded.

Later, after we got to school and were walking down the hall to our lockers, I told Leif the story. His reaction: "Danny, dude, you should've known better. Max is just an asshole." There was a point to that. Most kids didn't like Max. But I still felt bad.

To make a long story short, Max hated me from that moment on, for four years. He was introverted and not nice to most people, but I was definitely on his list. I always remained nice to him, but he stayed cool, if not downright hostile; and after a while I quit pressing any efforts at friendship.

I guess there's a grace note at the end of the story, at least. Finally, when I was 17 and about to graduate, and Max was 16, I happened to get in line behind him for something at school. I began talking to him, trying to be nice, like I did with just about everybody. At first he was cold, but after a few minutes he started loosening. And then the ice broke. I was clowning around, and I said or did something that he found funny - I don't know exactly what it was to this day. But it struck him, and he started laughing, and I laughed. It was an enormous relief. I wasn't naive enough to think he was going to be my friend, but at least we were on a better footing.

Then Max surprised me. Maybe he'd been waiting for me to break that ice. But for whatever private reason, at that moment he said, out of the blue, "I'm sorry I hit you that time." It's hard to truly shock me, but that left-field statement almost blew me away. I recovered quickly, fortunately, and said, "I'm sorry about all of it." I was at this point in denial that I liked boys, and I added, "I wouldn't have done that, except I was, you know, carried away. I wasn't like that, really." Max said, simply: "I know."

And that was the end of the conversation about the incident. We exchanged some more conversation. It was still strained, but I felt somewhat better that he didn't hate me so much. Then he got to the head of the line, bought his ticket, and left without a word. We never became friends, but I felt better at least knowing the hate was gone.

I regret this very much. I learned a lesson, and it was a lesson I needed to learn - that No means NO. I learned how to listen or look for a No from boys. Girls, too. My girlfriend with whom I had sex the first time also hated me afterward; although in that case it was her own second-thoughts and regrets, more than anything I did - she was very willing to do it at the time. Even so, I acted like a 14 year-old jerk with her, and that didn't help at all.

I wish I could say that I learned my lesson immediately, and never pushed too hard again after Max. But that's not true. I had to learn again, and again. Max was the most visibly affected, in terms of his reaction, and in terms of never wanting to be friends again. But there were other boys who cried, afterwards.

It hurt at the time, each time it happened. And I still hurt when I think about it.

I'll have more to say about those thoughts in the concluding section of the website.