Sixth grade. A warm spring day. Robin, a tall, thin girl with dark hair and pale skin had my entire physical attention as no other person had ever had in my entire 11 year old life. She sat in the middle of the class second row from the back. There was only a hint of bosom, an intention to grow there, but I was very much of aware of that intention!

It was a time of cute spring skirts, light blue in her case. The memories linger. I didn’t know what I ultimately wanted. What I did know was that I wanted to be in her presence wherever she wanted to be. I tried to be social, but I suppose my attention, and the driving forces behind it, were pretty damn obvious, particularly to any protective mother or father.

So, like so many other potentialities in life, nothing happened. I had the learned social graces to get through a church service or a night at the opera, but I was still very self-conscious. Worse, my other social skills, particularly the art of flirtation and a reasonably subtle expression of romantic desire were based on my readings of Ian Fleming, a host of science-fiction authors and classic literature. In other words, I really had none at all.

But my hormones were still driving me and they needed an outlet. And, much to my delight, I discovered a number of other kids my age in the neighborhood, mostly male, who had the same drives. I really didn’t have any notion at all of either gay or straight, all I was thinking of was, sex is fun. A cooperative partner, one who is willing to try to please you as much as you’re trying to please them, is damn spanking good fun! And, no offense, gender be damned! It sure as hell wasn’t on my radar back then.

And so, a year later I was rather enamoured with a close friend and his rather lovely and burgeoning young manhood. We were friends with with rather thrilling benefits! it was an innocent time, sex without preconceived notions of what it should or shouldn’t be. God, I miss a good tickle fight!

These were halcyon days when I really didn’t consider my sexuality, gender or what exactly I identified as or with. Sex was great as long as both of us went into it with eyes wide open and quite willing to try to please the other person.

Still, a certain type of woman, a bit more masculine than many, attract me. And I find I want to satisfy them sexually while encouraging them in how to satisfy me. This does not necessarily include a desire to frequently copulate with them. Every once in a while is just fine, thank you. I am more about the mutual experience. I rather enjoy helping another in a try for intense, mutual release, male or female. And, luckily for me, I happen to enjoy talented and enthusiastic partners regardless of my lover’s presented orientation or gender or whether it was considered culturally appropriate. I realized this at an early age that the gender of my partners didn’t matter. What was important was whether I cared for them.

The variations of fiddly bits between their legs or upon their chests was interesting, but not as important as it is for those driven by obsession for specifically preferred sexual organs. True, I generally prefered male thrills, given a choice. After all, they came with generally the same equipment, knew what I knew, brought something to the table or, best of fun, just wanted to play and brought an open mind!

Being straight never occurred to me, because that was considered the norm. Outwardly straight was the default. But the concept of straight wasn’t actually thought about or discussed. It was simply everywhere in society.

There was, however, this rather lurid conception called the Homosexual. It probably didn’t help that I read a few 1890s and 1920s vintage porn novels, thanks to the convenient Rexall drugstore soda fountain on the corner of Bissonet and Ashby! 007, Man from U.N.C.L.E. and Dark Shadows tie-ins and, thanks be to whatever gods there are, vintage Edwardian porn! And served with a vanilla float Coke with a little whipped cream on top. At a store the parents didn’t shop at, yet a quick bike ride away in a good neighborhood. I suppose you could call this part of a fortunate childhood.

It was in many ways, an innocent childhood. Acting on innocent impulses while being gentle and kind, never doing anything your partner didn’t want to do. This didn’t mean, however, I might not try to talk my way into trying something different. I didn’t hear about the concept of safe words until much later in life. But my friends and I always knew when to say that one thing that ended things, or at least slow them down, just in case it got a little too weird.

And that’s it for now, I think I’ll go ahead and publish this and add to something the next day. I am not really sure that this is going to be a discrete blog, with discrete stories. I am thinking that ongoing stories and vignettes that fit the current discussion are going to be more the mean.