THE VERY young girls cry a lot.
Like it is their nature.
But I hate it when I make young boys cry.
Young like teenagers.
Because it makes me feel like a dirty old man.
***
Young boys like me because I can talk their age, and more.
Because I know exactly what they’re going through — having been there, done that.
We can talk about the frustrations of love.
The impossibility of crushes.
The devastations of a breakup.
***
I talk straight to teenage boys.
Look them in the eyes, and address their sexuality, their issues, their confusion.
I accept them young boys even in their confusion.
Or, especially in their confusion.
Because acceptance is a great gift I can give.
***
Young boys love me.
I mean, what are their choices?
They love my brilliant mind, my rightful words.
They love my jokes, even if a little offensive.
They listen to my advices, even if a little dated.
But most of all, they love how I challenge the system.
***
I don’t encourage teenage boys to sleep in my bed.
Though I am a saint, I do not trust public perception.
I am, after all, a gay widower of 52.
But if a boy has a choice to sleep with a 25-year-old gay man or with me, I’d pull the boy to my side…
Just because I trust myself more.
***
And so, it can happen that I wake up with a teenage boy beside me.
Even hugging me with a choke hold in his sleep.
And at those moments, I know how it is to be a good father.
***
Teenage boys prefer me to their fathers.
Who are often absent, or cruel, or distant.
I am a perfect father to teenage boys.
I am crazy like them.
I am playful like them.
I am sensitive like them.
And I am matured to think for both, and all, of us.
***
When I first moved to the US, I stayed as a bedspacer in a complicated family.
Half-Filipino boy (full American, haha), his naturalized American Filipina mom, stepdad, and younger stepbrother.
I think he feels neglected by the stepdad.
So, I played the good father figure.
Or maybe, I was just a friend.
***
But the boy loves and adores me.
We shared the room.
And he would jump unto my bed, and we would talk until he fell asleep.
And so, I would end up sleeping on his bed.
***
And when he wakes up before me in the morning, he would climb unto his bed.
And harass me.
Sometimes, I would be so scared, because I wonder about pedophilia.
And then, I would have a mental debate about Love versus Lust.
Because I love the boy, but don’t lust after him.
***
And still, I question myself.
Because this is a teenager, waking up to his sexuality.
And who knows if he loves me, or desires me, in the manner that I don’t want?
***
In the end, I left the family.
In fact, I changed jobs.
Just to get away from living with them.
I still visited them often, but I hardly stayed the night.
***
One day, a few years later, I asked the boy, a young man now, if he hated me?
I mean, there was the coldness.
The communication gap.
The silent treatment even if I occasionally checked on them.
And all he said was, “I love you, Tito Peter!”
***
And even now, I love the boy.
The last time we talked, just before the pandemic, he was on his 12th girlfriend.
Twelve!
What has he been looking for?
***
Some day, I will sit down again with this young man.
I’ll take him for a night on the beach.
With a thousand stars.
I’ll tell him why I left when he was 13.
I’ll tell him I didn’t leave like his father.
And maybe, I’ll attend his wedding./PN
