Foreword: This story is a real account of one of the most important times of my life. Ever since it ended, I've felt incomplete. I have felt as if I will never love another boy this much again. It was brief, but I would give the world to see that face or kiss those lips one more time.
I am writing this to get it off of my chest and out of head. I want to share with others the reality of closeness, the value of those memories we've left behind. I want you, the reader, to think about this as if it were your life, your memories. I want you to see what I've seen, to feel what I've felt. This story will by no means be more painful than many real accounts that I'm sure you have read, or perhaps experiences you yourself have endured. However, the point of my story is to illustrate that, even in the most fleeting times of your life, that special person can reach out to you and give you a reason to search for more.
Every name with the exception of mine has been changed for the sake of those who may not wish to have their identities revealed, including the subject himself. The true value of what I have to share, I hope, goes beyond names in meaning.
And I want everyone who reads this, regardless of age... gender... whatever other variables there are, to think and reflect on their own lives. I want you all to find that someone in your heart that has touched you in ways nobody else ever has. I want you to write a letter to that person, and whether or not you actually send it, I want you to thank them, praise them, insult them, cry to them, whatever you feel you must do.
Why? Because our hearts live on only when we let them. When we cherish the most wonderful, or unforgettable, or even painful events in our past, when we allow ourselves to really appreciate how somebody has reached out to us, we are sure never to have missed the beautiful things our lives have to offer.
So, please keep your own lives in mind as you read. You won't find a tragedy here, nor a comedy. You won't find an untimely death, nor will you find a splendidly happy conclusion. You will find only my past, and the tears I have shed long since.
I thank you for taking the time to read my story.
My name is Kyle.
My story begins at Improv Camp 2004. I live in Ontario, not far from Toronto. The campground is in the Capel Valley, near Regina, Saskatchewan. For those of you who are more familiar with American geography, I'll provide the equivalent; where I live in Ontario is approximately as far east as Niagara Falls, and the campground is in the prairies, north of Montana.
The camp itself is funded by the Canadian Improv Games, which also runs a tournament across Canada, where secondary school teams compete with each other performing improvised scenes. The camp was designed to hone the improvisation skill, involving workshops related to the events used in the tournament.
In August of 2004, I was sixteen years old, a number that strikes the middle of adolescence, wherein hormones naturally run high. Those of you who are still proceeding through the teen years I've so recently reached the end of will understand exactly what I mean when I say I was interested in only one thing: sex.
It seemed to be an all-encompassing subject in my mind... it still is, to some extent. So aboard the plane, while a large portion of my excitement was devoted to the prospect of camp, the other portion was focused either on the genitalia of passing males, or on my own.
I arrived at camp in the afternoon on Sunday. The camp was to last until the following Monday morning at approximately 10:30, when the buses would arrive to take us back to the airport and, consequently, back to our homes across the country.
The scenery, I feel compelled to point out, was as gorgeous and breathtaking as it could possibly have been. The campground was situated on a large lake, which was surrounded on all sides by rolling green hills, quaint little homes and seemingly endless, cloudless blue skies.
It was a pity that for the first day or so, I didn't enjoy myself very much
Nearly alone in friends but for two companions I didn't see very often, and plagued as I was by my sexual frustrations, it took me some time to get adjusted to life at Improv Camp. The temperature was chilly, dropping to below freezing at night, a factor I hadn't been prepared for; I was most uncomfortable, fully dressed, in a sleeping bag that provided about as much warmth as a paper bag and a pillow that felt as if it had been stuffed with bricks. Both had been chosen because of their convenient travel size, without attention paid to comfort or protection.
That first day, however, was the day I met Sarah, a friend I still hold dear to this day, despite our three-year age difference. That day, she was sitting on the stairs to the cafeteria, alone, and I earned myself a very close friend by feeling particularly friendly and introducing myself.
She was a wonderful friend to me that week. She lived in Manitoba, which is north of Minnesota, but would be moving to my province of Ontario a few days after the end of camp. This, it seems, is proof that fate exists.
And so it was with her help that I began to enjoy myself. I made friends readily and helped Sarah, who was a very introverted girl by nature, to reach out and make friends of her own. Monday was a day of much laughter, chatter, and frolic.
The week of camp to follow was just as enjoyable. I managed to sooth my libido on the Tuesday through a fling with another boy from my cabin. The fling didn't repeat itself, but I was free from the sexual tension for the days to come, and I couldn't have been more satisfied.
Consequently, I was in a state of complete unawareness as what would be the more important half of the week approached.
It was on Wednesday that I met the subject of this account: Donny. A boy my height, my age, with thick, dark, curly hair as I'd never seen before, and a smile that could leave a lesser man weak in the knees. Not classically attractive by conventional means, however; I had scarcely taken notice of him until that day, although I had seen him before.
He and two other campers, on this particular day, were playing cards on the picnic table between the only two unused cabins on the campground. I decided to join in. The game went as well as could have been expected, although I lost, as I always seem to do playing that sort of game.
The game itself, however, wasn't as interesting as the conversation that took place over its course.
Up to this point, I had told very few people in my life that I was bisexual. I am gay now, and as out of the closet as is possible to be, but I was a much more reserved boy back then. It was thus a very bold move to make when, as the subject of sexuality came up, I told these three my secret.
The reactions were mixed.
Joseph, to my right, who was also my bunkmate that week, was somewhat astonished. It took him several attempts to sort out the myth from the fact, amid remarks akin to: "You mean, you're a he-she or something?"
Matt, across the table, rolled his eyes at Joseph's reaction and shrugged in answer to what I had said. "Doesn't really matter to me," he said.
Donny was the only one who didn't comment, and I didn't think much of it at the time. I naturally assumed that it didn't matter and focused once more on the game we were playing. I eventually lost again, and promptly the lunch bell rang. Our game, which had been cut short, was decidedly won by Matt, and we headed off.
On our way, though, I caught Donny's eye for a few seconds. It was a very brief few seconds, but he was thinking about something, I could tell that much. It was at that point that I started to think a little differently about him.
Thursday passed as a Thursday normally would. The afternoon found us playing cards again, this time inside one of the empty cabins. Matt was winning, yet again, when the bell rang. Not for lunch this time, but for workshops, for which Joseph and Matt left. Neither Donny nor I had any workshops to be concerned with, so we were left in the cabin to talk.
We didn't mention anything of real importance for a long time. We talked about the camp, our favourite counsellors. We talked about our friends. We told each other about our homes; he lived on the west coast, in British Columbia. He told me that he was artistic, and that he wanted to travel outside of B.C. to other places in Canada, and other places in the world. He was a boy after my own mind.
I, in turn, told him about my writing goals, about my own music, about the new club I was starting at my school. I had been inspired that year to begin an improv club at my high school, and it was in its fledgling stages when the school year ended. I had decided to come to Improv Camp to further my own skills so that I could be a more effective leader.
We began to talk about our personal lives, which led to talking about our relationships. For his part, he had no girlfriend to speak of back in British Columbia. I, likewise, had nobody back home. I didn't mention the fling I'd had earlier that week, for obvious reasons, but whether I had or not, I doubt I would have expected what was coming.
He was quiet for a few seconds before he asked me what it was like to be bisexual.
I explained the experience to him as best I could, but it was a difficult question to answer. After a few minutes of waffling around for an accurate way to describe it, I told him, "it's fun, but it's frustrating."
"Why?" he said. "You could have anyone you wanted."
"Not really," I told him honestly. "Girls are as easy to come by as ever, I guess, if you're like that. Guys are harder. All the best ones tend to be..."
I stopped there for a moment. That was the first moment I really thought about what I was saying to him. Or, more to the point, it was the first moment I really thought about him.
He filled in the last blank for me. "Straight?"
I nodded. We talked some more about camp. He asked me if he thought anyone else was gay, and I said I didn't know. I asked him about the girls he liked, and he mentioned a few that I didn't know of. Throughout all this talk, though, he looked increasingly odd. It felt like something I'd said was bothering him, but I couldn't have guessed what it was.
It was a while before the subject came back up, and his question was, "how do you know you're bisexual?"
I told him it was something that I just... knew. It was another hard question. I told him it was a matter of attraction, the ones to whom you felt romantically attracted to, for lack of a less scientific way of putting it. And then I inquired as to what made him ask.
He waffled around for a while before he was able to answer that question. It was in a very quiet voice that he responded. "I've been thinking about it... myself, I mean, and guys. I think I might like them."
I have no need to say that this comment surprised me greatly. All I could do was tentatively put my arm around his shoulders. I received no complaint. We spent the rest of our talk that afternoon like that, sitting on the lower bunk in the cabin with my arm around him. He was beginning to see more of himself, to understand himself and what he was starting to think.
When I tell people what happened, I often am asked if I converted him. I tell them no, I did not. All I did was to help Donny understand a part of himself that he hadn't realized was there. That realization began on that day, as he sat there with my arm around his shoulder.
I told him, before we left that day, to think carefully about what he was going through, to reflect. I was nervous for him. I was nearly afraid for him. I didn't want this boy to stumble into something he didn't want. We separated that day and I felt somewhat confused myself. I'd gotten my sexual frustration out of my system, so what was this that I was feeling?
For me, that was the beginning of the week.
Friday found the two of us back in the cabin once more. Neither Matt nor Joseph wanted to play cards on that particular day, so Donny and I went alone to the cabin to play. The game didn't last long. We were soon bored of cards and longing for each other... or at least I was. I wasn't sure what he was thinking.
Sure enough, though, he moved closer to me, and I put my hand on his shoulder. "Have you done any thinking?" I asked him.
He nodded. "It's strange," he told me. "I really don't know what to think. I never really thought I might be, you know, different... until yesterday, anyway. I guess I'm just confused."
Of course he was confused. I would have expected nothing else from someone with a newly discovered perception of their own sexuality. However, I didn't say anything. I just put my arm around him again, and we were quiet for a long time.
It was after several minutes that he looked up at me, and then leaned in toward me to kiss me. I drew back, ever so slightly. "Are you sure?" was all I said. I was afraid. I was afraid for him and I was afraid for me. I did not want him to make a mistake he'd regret later, and I most certainly did not want to be the cause of that mistake.
So I asked him if he was sure. And he looked into my eyes. "No," he said, "but I'm as sure as I'll ever be, and I know what I want."
To this day I have never heard a more logical answer to that question.
Finally, achingly slowly, his lips touched mine. So gently, we pressed our lips together, He smelled nice, I remember that. He smelled like some of the flowers on the hills. He smelled like the trees around our cabins. He smelled like a camper with whom I had just fallen in love.
We eventually broke apart and held each other tightly. We would spend countless minutes that would seem like hours just like that, holding our bodies close, each just appreciating the other's presence, his warmth. I stroked his hair with one hand as he breathed heavily, shuddering, into my shoulder. I wished I could have known what he was going through. I wished I could have been sure that I was doing the right thing.
But I wasn't. At that moment, I was filled with as much uncertainty as he was. It was a different kind of uncertainty, though. It was the kind of uncertainty one tends to feel when someone in his life goes through a major change. It was the kind of uncertainty that asked repeatedly if this was right, if it wasn't an unforgettable mistake in the making.
And then he drew away, and kissed me again. And this time, all the uncertainty drifted away. All that was left was two pounding hearts and two sets of lips, both pressed against each other and never wanting to be apart. I held him as tightly as he held me, neither of us saying a word.
We spent another hour in that cabin that day, enjoying the state of being together. We talked, we kissed... several minutes later, Donny would be the one to slip the first hint of tongue. I always said that he was a wonderful kisser, but he was far too modest. He always used to say that we just had compatible mouths. But I know from experience that no such thing exists.
We opened our hearts to each other that day. I told him some of my secrets, he told me some of his. I told him about the fling I'd had earlier in the week, and all he did was giggle and kiss me again.
He asked me if he was mine. I said no, because truth be told, I was irreversibly his.
Saturday passed much like Friday had, wherein we found another time to steal away to that old cabin and be together. That was all it was for us... just being together, appreciating each other, and loving each other. I felt something with him that I'd never felt before. I had been with boys before, but only on a level that involved sex, a very disappointing place to be in a rut. Donny and I were on a level much higher than that, a level upon which we didn't even need to talk about sex, much less participate in the act. All we wanted was each other, and I have never in my life felt more complete, or in love. If I ever reach that level with anyone else, I will consider myself to be the luckiest man on the planet.
I know there are most likely those of you reading this now who are sceptical. You will be thinking by now either that this story is not true, or that feelings of such depth are not possible after such a short period of time. I fear that all I can do is assure you that this story is nothing but truth and feeling, and that the love I felt for Donny during those days was greater than anything else I have ever experienced.
It was on that Saturday that we learned of the events to come on Sunday night. There was to be a camp sleepover in the large building we used as a theatre. Every camper would bring his or her mattress to the field outside, whereupon there would be a dance, and then the sleepover would begin.
Sunday night arrived, and as planned, we all brought our mattresses to the field outside. I spent a few minutes in the dance, but I wasn't much of a dancer back then, and since both Donny and I were closeted, we couldn't dance together without giving ourselves away. I left the dance, and Sarah and I spent our time outside, in our sleeping bags on the mattresses that were soaking wet with the dew of the night. A mutual friend of ours, Cameron, was with us briefly, but he opted to go and dance. I remember asking him to send Donny out; he and Sarah were the only two that knew about our relationship at this point.
Donny never did come outside; I later learned that Cameron hadn't even told him we were there.
However, the dance eventually settled down, and the mattresses were moved in. Sarah, Cameron, Donny and I chose a spot against a wall, where the stage had been set up for the performances of the week. The spotlights were directly above us, the filters rendering their normally harsh light gentle and dim.
Donny and I set up our beds side by side, sharing two sleeping bags, one to use as a bottom sheet and the other as a blanket. Sarah was on my other side and Cameron on hers. We all knew that we wouldn't be sleeping that night if we could help it.
The building was full, naturally, but we still had space; the nearest group of people was several feet away. We were thus free to talk about whatever we wanted. We talked for a while about camp, about the counsellors. None of us were ready for camp to end the following morning, least of all Donny and I. Every time the topic came up, he held my hand tightly under the sleeping bag, and I held his back.
It wasn't long before he and I got a little more daring. We held hands outside the protective cover of the sleeping bag after a while, and nobody seemed to care. This was something of a revelation to me. I had been closeted for as long as I had been bisexual, and for the first time I'd begun to realize how little I had to be ashamed of.
As the night wore on, at around two in the morning, we were no longer sitting in a group but lying down and talking. Cameron was the first to fall asleep, but Sarah, Donny and I were still wide awake. Soon, Donny decided to be brave and put his arm around me, using my chest as his pillow. I likewise put mine around him, and we stayed that way for a while, still talking and laughing.
The topic of our imminent departure from camp came up again after half an hour, and finally, Donny decided to throw caution to the wind. He glanced up at me, with a look in his eye I had become all too familiar with over the previous few days. I didn't even have to respond before he inched up and pressed his lips against mine once more, much to Sarah's amazement. We drew apart and I glanced around, aware that we had just kissed in front of a large number of campers. But as I glanced around to gauge the reaction, there were none that seemed to care.
The night was open to us.
I cannot describe to you the wondrousness of that night. There we were, on the brink of our departure, free to be the loving couple we had grown into. That night was... I can think of no other word besides "heaven" to describe it. It was as if we were back in the cabin, but this time we had all the time in the world, with no need to be careful or to worry every time we heard footsteps. For as long as we were awake that night, we were in each other's arms, kissing, holding each other, while still talking to Sarah, who didn't mind in the least. I was free to exhibit my abject adoration of the boy in my arms, who did the very same.
I remember, though, that at one point, Donny drew away with a tear on his face. It wasn't until then that it really struck me that we would never see each other again after we went our separate ways later that morning. I wiped the tear off of his face, and I tried to reassure him that we would see each other again, but it is very difficult to be reassuring if one is uncertain himself.
I thus threw every ounce of passion and love I had into every kiss, every hug, and every word we shared that night, as if each was our last. I wanted him to know how strongly I felt. I wanted to be a part of him forever, just as I knew he would be a part of me.
It was this time I shared with him that inspired me to name my story "The Forever Moment." I know I am not the only one who has lived that moment that seemed to last a lifetime, yet was over in the blink of an eye. We take these moments for granted on their occurrence, and then discover how terrible a mistake that is when we realize the moment has ended.
We eventually did fall asleep. I'm not sure when. I woke up that morning around seven thirty, my arm around Donny, who slept on his side with his back towards me. I awoke him with a kiss on the cheek, and when he drifted into consciousness, I saw yet another tear in his eye. I knew there were tears in mine.
We parted ways temporarily as we dragged our mattresses and sleeping bags back to our respective cabins. I packed in nearly complete silence. I shared the odd word with my cabin mates, but the majority of my time was spent dreading the hour when the buses would arrive.
I finally finished filling my suitcase, including the rock-hard pillow and the paper-thin sleeping bag. There was still another hour or so before the buses would pull away from the camp; another half-hour before we needed to be on the main field. I decided that I would spend that time in the cabin, our cabin, where everything had begun.
I was somewhat surprised to find Donny there when I arrived. He sat on the bottom bunk, looking at the floor. I sat next to him. We were very quiet for a while, holding hands. He was trembling. So was I.
"There's always next year," he said quietly.
I nodded. "I'll be here. It was..." I laughed. "Camp was too much fun not to go back."
He smiled. "Yeah. The pool party was awesome, wasn't it?"
I shrugged. "I didn't go into the pool, remember? I was too cold."
"Oh, yeah."
Neither of us wanted to talk about what was coming, and understandably so. We had each other's e-mails. We were optimistic. But that didn't change the inevitability of our separation.
Another tear ran down his cheek. "I don't want to leave," he said.
Neither did I, but I could barely talk. I wrapped my arms around him, and he did the same. We kissed, for what seemed like the hundredth time, but it was arguably the most passionate, desperate kiss we ever shared. I held on to him more tightly than I ever had. We stood in the corner of the cabin in a tight embrace for the longest time, making promises to each other about the future.
Reality has a funny way of seeming unimportant, doesn't it? It isn't until the very hour of a tragedy that the reality really sinks in. We never realize what's coming until we face it head-on. My only reality was the moment I lived in his arms, more moments that seem endless but pass by in less than an instant. All I wanted to feel was his body against mine, the gentleness and tenderness that I had come to love.
The bell rang soon, shattering our hopes that we would be able to stay like that forever. We grudgingly parted, but not before he planted one more kiss - our very last kiss - onto my waiting lips.
The buses began to arrive, and the campers all began to say their goodbyes. I said many of my own that day before Donny's bus was ready. I think I was avoiding the time when I'd have to say goodbye for real. It inevitably came, and he held each other tightly once more. One last time, the last time I would ever feel his arms around me, or his pounding heart against mine.
My last words to him were, "we will see each other again. I promise."
He boarded his bus, and as it pulled away, I was standing there watching. It faded into the distance, leaving only memories in its wake. I have arguably never felt more incomplete in my life. It felt as if I was being ripped in two, and half of me had been stolen away with him.
My own bus was ready shortly, and Sarah and I said our goodbyes as well, amid promises to keep in touch once she moved to Ontario. She was the last one at camp that day; her mother came later on to pick her up and take her to her grandmother's house. I watched her fade away as well. But it was different. I knew I'd see her again. I wasn't so sure about Donny.
I became intimately acquainted that day with the word "melancholy." I've always thought of it as a great word to describe a perfect sense of absolute depression. I hadn't yet known what it felt like. Now I had. And I found myself wishing I hadn't.
I never saw Donny again. We e-dated for a while. At that time he'd been an aspiring rapper; he sent me a very cheesy but sweet song that he'd made for me. In return I wrote him a story, the only thing I could do for him. It had been a fictional one about his feelings and inner conflict during the initial stages of our relationship. He told me I'd captured them exactly.
But eventually the vast distance became too much for either of us to bear. I found myself becoming less and less attached to him, and our conversations became less and less frequent. I found someone else. He supposedly found Christianity, or so he said when we broke up; I later learned that he was dating another boy in British Columbia. It seemed to end peacefully enough.
But I've lost him now, and I realize what a true horror that is. I cannot now imagine having lost my feelings of love for him. To this day, I think about him all the time. And there came a time when I asked myself why I still thought about him. And I realized that he was the only boy to ever reach that level beyond the physical, and reach deep into the emotional, of all the boys I'd ever been with. He helped me to realize what I really want from my life. He showed me that such a connection is possible.
I did go back to camp the next year, but he didn't. It wasn't until this year that I started talking to him again, and our conversations have been friendly, but fragmented. To talk to someone whom you have loved, whom you still love, and be unable to express how you feel is no less than torture.
But I do not regret a single thing that happened at Improv Camp that summer. It was brief, and had we lived closer together, we may have lasted longer... but I still firmly believe, with all my heart, that I have never had a more successful relationship than the one I shared with Donny, or a more meaningful one.
So if you are reading this, and you remember someone in your life who has given you a special memory, someone with whom you shared a moment that lasted forever, write to them now. Thank them. Tell them whatever you want to tell them. And if they ask why, tell them about the moments, the memories, that they have given you.
You know my story. My heart held on to it for these past years as tightly as I used to hold on to him. Thank you for reading, for allowing me to set my memories free, and I am open to your stories, or memories, as you have been to mine.
And if he's reading this right now, he knows. The names have been changed, but he will still know. And so I say to him:
You will never be forgotten. You and I may talk, or we may not, and we'll live our lives anyway. You may see parts of this story that didn't actually happen in the way I say they did. You may wonder how I can still feel as I feel, or how I ever did. But that doesn't matter. You were that special someone to me, the one who opened my heart to the greatest ideal, and I will always love you. And so, this is my letter to you.
Thank you.