My name is Tommy and I have something to say. I’m twenty-one, and I’m in love for the very first time in my life. I want to tell you about it. I want to tell the world about it!
My parents were killed in an automobile accident when I was five. Having no other family, I was placed in foster care. I went through many families. Some cared and some did not. Some were in it for the money, some thought they were doing good, but they all had one thing in common. Not one of them ever made me feel loved.
Two weeks before my eighteenth birthday, I walked away from my last foster family. They weren’t so bad, but still there was no love. I put out my thumb. I was heading for Montana. Maybe I could get a job on a ranch and become a modern-day cowboy.
Outside of Kansas City, Kansas, with the sun sinking fast and turning the western sky a rich pink, I contemplated God. At least He got His sunsets and sunrises right. But He still has some work to do as far as I’m concerned, were my thoughts as I waited for my next ride.
A lemon-yellow, 1973 Ford Thunderbird screeched to a halt. I opened the door and the driver said, “I’m heading to San Francisco, that do you any good?” I nodded and climbed in.
The driver introduced himself as Bryant. He was a few years older than I was. He said that he made his living working with computers. Within minutes of being picked up, the sun fell below the horizon and the stars were starting to make their nightly appearance. We did not speak as we sped across the prairie. Well, not at first, but then Bryant started a conversation that lasted until we hit Colorado. We talked about everything under the sun: Religion, politics, women, sports, death and taxes. By the time we hit the state line, I had decided to continue on with Bryant all the way to San Francisco. Forget Montana!
We hit Boulder well after midnight. He pulled into the parking lot of a cheap motel and said, “I’m getting a room and you are welcome to share it. If not, I’ll be leaving at first light. If see you on the road, I’ll pick you up.”
Halfway out of the car, he stopped and sat back down. “How stupid of me. You must be hungry. Let’s rustle us up some food, then you can do what you want.”
He was right, I was hungry. I had not eaten all day. We found a diner still open and ordered a couple of hamburgers.
Now this next part is kind of dicey … kind of private, but it is germane to the story, so here goes. At school, and in my life, I had never been attracted to girls. They were just there, part of the landscape. I was never aroused by a well-rounded ass in tight jeans. Tits did nothing for me; a smile from a pretty girl did not start my heart a-racing. However, at gym class and in the showers, I found myself thinking that the male body was so much more beautiful than a female’s. But I did not dwell on it. I wasn’t no fucking faggot!
After we had our greasy hamburgers and fries, we went back to the motel and Bryant got himself a room. As I was getting my bag out of his car, he said, “Up to you, kid. You want to sleep outside or inside?”
I chose inside.
There was only one bed, so I figured I’d sleep on the floor.
After the lights were out, Bryant said, “There is plenty of room over here. If you want, we can share the bed.”
I wanted to share the bed with him. I was attracted to him, but I was no faggot. Or was I?
I got myself up, slid beneath the covers, and felt his warm body. He did not make a move toward me. He did not touch me. I found myself getting hard, and I reached out and touched his face. He took my face in his hands and drew me to him. We kissed; it was my first kiss ever. His tongue probed—he was gentle.
Today, I am with the most loving man in the world. Bryant does his computer thing and I take care of the house.
I give love.
I get love.
I got love.