Author's Note: This idea wouldn't leave me alone. So I started writing it. I don't know how it's going to work, but hopefully it will be alright.

Warnings: language, homosexual relationships (slash), violence, domestic abuse, self abuse

Summary: When Cameron's parents walk in on him passed out on the floor with booze in hand for the seventeenth time, they decide enough is enough. They ship him off to live with his 23-year-old openly gay brother Keoni in New York. Things are about to get very hectic indeed.


CLICK

Keoni

When I was in fifth grade or so, I always used to hear about soul mates. About how God had created a boy for every girl and a girl for every boy. To be honest, I found the idea a bit jacked up, even then. I wondered where I'd fit in and I thought that if the idea of soul mates did exist, there had to be room for another boy in the world who liked other boys, right? A soul mate for me?

I mean, even back then I thought girls were alright, for friends and all. I didn't mind even kissing one if I had to. It wasn't that bad.

But sixth grade rolled by and girls started getting these things called boobs on their chests. And I really didn't see how they were attractive at all. In fact, I got embarrassed a lot when a girl's shirt rode to low; I didn't purposely look for the crease between her breasts like the other girls did. And I never dreamt of a sultry goddess with dark shadowed eyes and long lashes.

Instead I thought about guys. Guys with black hair and ocean blue eyes, guys with blonde hair and hazel eyes, guys with chestnut-colored hair with brown eyes to match. It's funny, because when I started realizing I actually was attracted to males in sixth grade, I also learned in sixth grade, that there was a word for what I had.

The word was gay.

And so at first, I really didn't mind it. I mean, "gay" was in Little House in the Big Woods and it meant happy, so I thought, Well, hey! I can be happy with another boy.

But then other words started popping up.

Like queer.

Homo.

Fag.

Pillow-Biter.

Fudge Packer.

Weirdo.

Cock Sucker.

And somehow, those other words didn't seem as nice. (Except for fudge packer, which I will always be convinced sounds like a chocolate Popsicle). And I learned that "gay" was wrong.

So I pretended to like girls. I laughed at perverted jokes even though they made my heart hurt. I smacked asses. I came up with sleazy pick-up lines. All the way up through sophomore year, I think. I even had a few girlfriends.

I hoped things would change. I even prayed things would change. But God was too busy blow drying His hair or something. Either that, or He just liked torturing me and making absolutely gorgeous male specimens walk by me on a regular basis.

But I stopped pretending in February—sophomore year. Because that was when Jeremy Cassello kissed me in the boys' bathroom. And that was when I kissed him back.

And that was also when Matt Tetzel walked in, dropped his backpack on the floor, and ran out of the bathroom to tell the rest of the school. By the next week I had derogatory terms for gay people scrawled all over the front of my locker in Sharpie.

My parents probably would have looked happier if the news had been that I had contracted some flesh-eating disorder. I couldn't believe I had shocked them so much with my "choice," as my dad so craftily put it.

My dad went on to ramble about how I was confused, and how this was just a stage. He thought that maybe I was having problems because in the boys' locker room, there were males so much more sculpted than me (well, he didn't hae to tell me that), and there were boys so much more developed (that either). Fortunately, he didn't get physically violent and threaten to beat the gay out of me or anything. He was just… genuinely disappointed that one of his sons had to end up queer.

While my dad ranted, my mom started to cry.

My younger brother started crying because my mom was crying.

While my mom cried, my two older brothers tried to stand around and act as masculine as they possibly could, as if my sexual preference was contagious and my "gayness" could spread to them. My brothers thought I was absolutely stupid, passing up hot girls. They couldn't see what was so attractive about penises. They even took it upon themselves to try and use my dad's credit card to buy me a lifetime supply of porn, but my mom caught them. That was also when my mom started family therapy. It didn't do any of us any good but I think it helped her. So eventually only she went.

Anyways, my family's decision was to send me to gay camp. It was called Safe Haven (I know) and from the brochures, I couldn't tell much about it except I was going to be stuck with a bunch of other gay or "sexually confused/frustrated" kids.

I arrived, holding a suitcase with all of my supplies. I was there for about six months, stuck with a bunch of miserable gay kids just like me. We ran through activities such as "football" to increase our testosterone (I know, what the heck?), but which only resulted in more turned on boys (I mean, we had to tackle each other and roll around in the grass. And those football tights are tight!) We had group counseling sections where we talked about our dreams and how to purify our minds. We were repeatedly shown pictures of pretty women and asked if we found them attractive. Nothing helped. My life was utter hell.

But I stopped feeling sorry for myself, and decided to use camp to make friends. Well some were friends, and some were more. When Robert Brussing and I started publicly holding hands, the camp decided I was hopeless and shipped me back home, apologizing for their "failure" to my family.

I waited for two years for my family to get over it. I'm still waiting for just normal people to get over it.

School was alright. I was definitely pushed around a few times, but I was never beaten up—that bad. I got punched one day after school, but I really didn't make my homosexuality that obvious. I was subtler about it. Calm and collected. If people found out, hey, that was cool, but my gayness did not define me.

Well my parents and brothers and assorted cousins and other relatives got over it. So did some prior friends I had had. When I graduated as a senior, I moved to New York and into a small apartment. I am now living there; I work odd jobs to pay for my college tuition at a small, local school.

My parents and I are now on very good terms. My father still gets a little uncomfortable every time I bring a boy home, but I'm still a virgin and I plan on staying one until I find a boy I am willing to marry, so I am STD free. I'll cross the marriage bridge when it comes. My mom always points out boys on the streets she thinks are cute and that I should talk to, much to my dismay and at the same time, adoration. My older brothers have taken it upon themselves to take me to bars everytime they see me. There are always a good number of gays at the bars they head to, even though they're not the gay bars I personally prefer.

Well, the reason why my whole story is important is this. My parents thought I was the royal screw-up in my family. They thought I was the biggest problem they'd have to deal with. I was the one weirdo. My brothers didn't really think I was that big of a deal, but that's because they had other problems coming up, with their wives and kids and jobs and other things.

I feel a bit bad for all of them, because they hadn't yet met the teenage version of my little brother. My "homosexuality" bump was a problem as miniscule as a grain of sand on the beach compared to him.

And so last week, my parents walked into their house to find my fifteen-year-old younger brother passed out cold on the floor, a beer in one hand. They made one of their not-so-planned mutual decisions (which hopefully will work out better for them than their gay camp decision) and decided to send him to live with me.


review, please :)