Introducing Chicken Boy

 
I worked the Renaissance Faire in bright, bright red tights, royal blue puffy shorts, a peasant shirt, and a purple velour cape all mad by my granny. Chicken Boy they called me because the tights accentuated my bowed legs, my voice cracked and garbled, and I was full of nervous energy. Buses pulled in filled with tourists, and we'd hop on telling them what to expect in our best, which were really horrible, British accents. At some point, one of my fellow actors would scream "Chicken Boy", and I'd cluck and flap my arms up and down the aisle in an old school Chicken Dance sort of way.

Chicken Boy was my role for two falls. I made it, and it made me. He's still somewhere inside me, and he comes out when I'm smashed. It's how I ended up in the middle of the street at 1am drunk off 12 glasses of red wine refusing to listen to anyone.

Share |

Chicken Boy and Chicken Hawk

  
I wandered the Faire, on break from my tour bus duties, when I saw them. They were the first gay couple I could identify. It was something about the way they touched that did it. I followed them.

One of the men caught me and approached. He leaned in close, whispered "We know. It's okay. You're cute," and handed me his number. I was 15. They were in their 30s.

I held on to his number as a security blanket underneath my pillow each night. Sometimes, I'd pick up the phone and dial his number. I never spoke. I was too afraid that even saying hello made me a fag, so I hung up. I wasn't concerned that him handing me his number possibly made him a pedophile. In fact, it turned me on.

I jacked off to this thought until I came out.

Share |