Good evening! Or if you’re in other parts of the world, good morning, or good afternoon. Please take whichever greeting applies and acknowledge my sincerest greeting.
It’s time for a long awaited post of Coming Clean and Closet Cases!!
This is going to be number 17. Wow can you believe that? Shit, I can’t really believe it myself lol
But before we get into that, I thought I might grant you some insight as to why I found this article so relevant.
For those of you who don’t know, I actually used to be part of NJROTC. Naval Junior Reserve Officer Training Corps. Back in high school, I was enrolled for four years. I gotta tell you, I was really enthralled by the whole thing.
In the Philippines back in the day, all students had to participate in some time of military training. For men, they went into ROTC programs. For women, they were sent to WAC’s, or women’s auxiliary camps. So when I came across this opportunity in high school, my parents totally want me to join. Plus, my uncle is a paratrooper for the Phillipine Army, and my grandfather served in the military during World War II. Luckily, my grandfather only came out with a gunshot wound that wasn’t critical.
I loved my time in NJROTC. Ok I admit, I kinda didn’t want to talk P.E. in high school, but it was cool. We learned drill formations, and had academic classes on naval history and orienteering. I even got the chance to be a part of a department and help head it while I was a senior.
I made Lieutenant Junior Grade by my senior year, the fourth highest ranking position in the program. I wasn’t dedicated enough to be one of the Chief Officers, but they were my classmates, and I knew they were the right fit for the jobs.
I was an assistant department head, and I helped with uniforms, ribbons, ranks, and supplies, hence the department name, Supply haha (original I know…)
Now, I’m not gonna lie, there was some really hot guys in my NJROTC program. Since we didn’t have a locker room like in P.E., we had to just run to the bathroom and change into our uniforms for our P.F.T training days, or rather, the Physical Fitness Training. When I was a freshman, I always came across the older, more seasoned cadets that had taken the physical aspect to the next level.
Tall, muscular, lean, every color, every height
Believe you me, I loved Fridays haha
When you’re a closeted pre hormonal gay teenager, surrounded by various muscular teens that are older and taller and whatnot, you tend to forget sometimes that you’re changing…
So, why is this relevant?
I was reading different websites, I came across this really interesting article from Gay Pop Buzz.
To summarize, it’s about this guy who was sent to a military school. And strangely enough, the person he explored himself with, happened to be one of the guys who caused him the post problems.
Take a gander everyone. What do you think?
I always wondered what it was like to be with another guy. I found out at a military academy boarding school.
“When was your first time?” my friend recently asked. It’s one of those “rites of passage” questions we all get when recalling our first gay experience.
Haven’t you ever been asked?
So I’ll tell you the answer to my bud’s question. But first, it’s probably a good idea that I share a little background so that you know how things went down (figuratively speaking).
When I was 15-years old, I was sent to a military boarding school. In fact, my brother and I both ended up getting sent away.
There were numerous reasons for this, including the reality that we came from a “broken home”. That’s a polite way of saying that our parents ended up getting divorced. Today, it’s not as big of a deal but back in the 80’s, it still was frowned upon.
Anyway, once our p’s split, we ended up going with our mom; a woman who could barely take care of herself, let alone teenage boys. But it was better to live with her than dad because he had his own issues with alcohol and drugs.
Without going into it, I’ll share with you that we were a handful. If we weren’t causing problems in the neighborhood, we were getting into trouble at public school. The tipping point happened when my brother and I got busted joyriding in a hotwired car.
So after that happened, my mom’s side of the family held a pow-wow and decided it was best we went to “Bryson Academy”.
It’s a military boarding school that has been around for over 100 years. When it was originally founded, it was called Bryson Reform School. But as the years went on and times changed, it morphed into an “academy”; a place that boys from broken homes were sent to.
In case you are wondering, Bryson offered a sliding scale fee so that any family could afford it. The bulk of the money that allowed the place to operate (and still does) came from private donations and charitable gifts.
I think my family thought Bryson would be a good place for us because the school offered three things that were sorely missing at home: Responsibility, Respect and Self-Discipline.
What my family didn’t know when they shipped me off was that I was gay. At 15, I knew deep inside I liked guys and probably younger than that. I was still a “virgin” but I didn’t need a sexual experience as confirmation – I knew what I liked.
And so being sent to an all-male school was almost a dream come true. Oh sure, I was scared shitless. And I threw a fit when they broke the news. My brother did too.
But secretly, I knew that going to Bryson would be way better than running the streets of a large city. Plus, it would be my first time being around nothing but guys.
My first few years at the academy were difficult. Like me, most of the guys came from difficult homes. But unlike me, a few of the boys could be classified as “at-risk”.
Here, I’m talking about young men who were on the knife’s edge of becoming criminals. In fact, several of the guys I went school with moved firmly in that direction.
Some are in jail right now, others are dead – no joke.
So at Bryson you learned to keep your mouth shut and do as you were told. And even then, trouble had a way of finding you. If I had a dime for all of the fights I got into, I’d be rich.
You see when you go to an all-male school, it’s all about appearing tough and not showing any fear – not even a little. The minute someone smells it, it’s game over. I knew guys who were relentlessly bullied for showing just the slightest hint of weakness.
One of the cadets I would constantly get into fights with was named Martin. He was basically my age, maybe a year older? The both of us were active in intramural sports and played on competing teams.
At Bryson, he ran with the “Latin Boys”.
I guess I forgot to mention that. There were cliques at the school which were mostly split along racial lines. If you were black, you hung out with the black kids. White? That was your group. And Latin guys had their own gang.
The reason Martin and I fought so much was I never gave into his crap. A lot of the other guys did because they feared him. Word was that at home, he (and his three brothers) belonged to the Avenidas, a notorious street gang in LA.
There was no way I was going to become anyone’s punching bag or endure non-stop harassment for being a “pussy”.
So every time he picked on me, I’d give it to him right back. When we’d get into brawls, he won just about every time. But see it wasn’t about who “won” but instead, manning up and not wimping out.
If you did that, you could trade your scars to gain the respect of others. Yes, I know that sounds like something out of the toxic masculinity handbook but I’m just telling you how it was.
In any event, all of us were assigned to “cottages” at Bryson; a term that was a carryover from reform school days.
I was assigned to River Cottage and my brother to one called Sky. Out of the ten units on campus, “River” was considered the best because the house parents who ran it were the most lenient.
I stayed at River from the time I was 15 until I would graduate and went to college.
So why am I telling you this?
Well, because it was during my senior that the guy I told you about earlier, Martin, was transferred to River.
In an effort to create greater diversity among the student population, Bryson leadership decided to mix things up. This meant guys who had all white roomies were now paired with blacks. Latin guys, who almost always shared the same dorms, were made to split rooms with white and black guys.
At the time, I didn’t understand what was going on. But looking back, it made a lot of sense. I mean it was bad enough there were so many racial cliques among the cadets, you know?
In any event, guess who got placed in my room? Yep, Martin. One of my roomies was sent to his old cottage and he came to ours. I tried to tell my house parents that they shouldn’t put us together. But they said it was out of their hands.
And honestly, it probably was.
There’s something about having to live with someone in a dorm that forces you to get along. The first few days were hard and we were constantly at each other’s throats. But that faded away pretty fast.
Plus, the third guy in our room, Nathan, was bigger than both of us told us both to keep our shit shut.
At Bryson, you were either on the “7-Day Plan” or the “5-Day Plan”. The difference? If you were on the “7”, you stayed on campus Monday-Sunday. If you were a “5”, you went home on weekends.
I was a 7, thanks to my family. You see at Bryson, your parents made the choice or not if they wanted you home on weekends. I was always jealous of the 5’s because by 4pm on Friday, they were being picked up by their mom or dad.
There was one way, however, a 5 could be temporarily made a 7. It was called “restriction” and you were placed on this status if you got into trouble. Think of it as being grounded, military school style.
So you probably know where this is going.
Martin mouthed off to our platoon leader during morning formation and got written up. That resulted in a two-week restriction, which meant he was forced to stay in the cottage, with the exception of going to school or the dining hall.
Up until that point, I had enjoyed having the dorm all to myself on weekends. You could be alone, think, read and like most guys who are 18, sexually fantasize and beat off.
So the weekend Martin found himself tethered to the brick and mortar of River, I was none too happy. But what could I do?
I don’t know how it happened but it just did. Around 9 pm at night on a Friday, when it was dead silent at River, Martin started about talking about his girlfriends back home.
Like a lot of guys, he bragged about his conquests. I rarely talked that way unless it was necessary to keep my cover. I’m not proud of it but back then, it was better to lie and make up “girlfriends back home” as opposed to getting my ass kicked.
Marting had dark skin with an athletic build.
As he sat in his bed with no shirt on, I could see that his tone had changed from being the tough street guy to something else – something more vulnerable.
And his stick was tenting up in his fatigues. I’ll never forget his dark, smooth skin or how his biceps flexed as he adjusted himself in full view.
I continued to lie and talk about women. The conversation started heating up.
At some point, it just happened. He started to beat off.
He kept looking at me with his wide brown-eyes that urged me to join in. And so that’s what I did. I’d never done anything like this before. I was excited and freaked out all at the same time.
He briefly got up and blocked the door with a chair, just in case someone walked in.
Then, he walked back to his bed and continued doing his thing. We watched each other and then released. The whole thing lasted no more than ten minutes.
When we were done, we used a boot polishing cloth to wipe up; standard gear all Bryson cadets were issued.
The next evening, Saturday, was just as dead as Friday. I had plans to go off campus on a pass and check out a movie. Yep, being on the 7-day plan didn’t mean you couldn’t leave. But if you were on restriction, you had to stay.
And that meant Martin was stuck.
Long story short, he asked me if I wanted blow off the movie and stay in for a game of Monopoly. Given what we did the night before, I kind of knew he was looking for more than just companionship.
I agreed to hang.
Somewhere between my winning Water Works and him winning St. Charles Station, the topic once again turned to girls. But this time, he started asking curious questions like, “Why do girls like sucking dick” and stuff like that.
The game ended and we took our respective beds. But the conversation about women and “why they liked it dick” continued. It was probably around 2 a.m.
We were both stroking it and talking – watching each other.
I remember him getting up to once again prop a chair against the door. But instead of heading back to his bunk, he swung over to mine.
He started going down on me. He didn’t ask me – he just did it. No other way to explain it other than that.
We took turns reciprocating back and forth. It was crazy dangerous since a house parent could have tried to come in as part of “the rounds”. But I guess that’s what made it fun too.
That first time, my inexperience showed. Martin was bigger than me by a lot down there. I remember struggling to open my mouth wide enough to take it in. Not huge like this guy but he was very large – and cut.
We never kissed or anything like that – “too gay” I suppose. But I do remember that just before I was about to release, he swallowed me – and then quickly spit it out.
“Hey, the only way to know what chicks like is to try it,” he said.”
During my last six months at Bryson, Martin would find himself on restriction at least three more times. And on each occasion, during the weekend, we’d “talk about girls.”
Nothing more. No anal, no making out. No cuddling. It wasn’t like that. But it was a way for us to explore our sexuality. And for me, it was confirmation of what I had always known – I liked men.
All of this went down decades ago. I haven’t seen Martin in years, although I do see posts from him on Facebook. He’s married now with kids and lives in a different state.
Was (is) Martin bi-curious? Probably. It’s hard to believe I was the first guy he messed around with. After all, it was an all male military school.
And my brother? He’s straight. He never shared with me anything from Bryson that made me wonder. But then again, I never told him what Ive told you here. Who knows?
Anyway, that’s my story. My first gay experience happened at military boarding school. Ever since then, I’ve been into getting serviced from other guys.
Standard stuff, huh?
Thanks for reading!
Thank you, Connor, for sharing that story with us.
When I was in high school, it was one of the most enlightening experiences that I ever had. It was the first time I started really paying attention to who I was, and who I liked being with. Like Connor in his story, I didn’t need a sexual experience to confirm anything about who I wanted to be around. I knew whose company I loved keeping, and like Connor, I didn’t like admitting it. Deep down I knew, but after that? I wouldn’t openly admit anything.
I had a crush on a fellow NJROTC cadet. He was someone I knew since middle school. It didn’t end well…
If you’re curious:
But, sometimes you know before you even have the experience.
Sometimes, you figure it out when you have our first experience.
Either way, you’re gonna figure it out. And you know what? There are going to be people out there who’ll judge, but screw them. If you’re happy with who you are, and who you become, and you’re not hurting anyone, then there is nothing wrong. You’re doing nothing wrong.
It’s very unlikely that I’ll ever come across the various people who put me down in my life, nor do I ever want the experience of sharing a sexual awakening with any of them. But the epiphanies we come across as individuals help us progress into the people we’re meant to become.
Thanks for reading everyone. Don’t forget, give the Facebook page a like if you like keeping up with the blog and the entries ^_^ Same domain, Hey It’s That One Asian Guy. Drop me a like 🙂 And if you’d like to be a part of the CCCC, send me a message on the Facebook page.
Cheers everyone. And good night!