CONFESSIONS OF A COMPULSIVE OVEREATER
The day after my first sexual experience, I woke up, hungover. I was 18, on the scene, and had done the thing I was most scared of: actually had sex – well, at least given a blow job. While my best friend Tommy had settled into a relationship complete with hearts and flowers, and the other guys from our gay youth group fooled around with each other, I remained single. I was short and fat – 18 stone to be exact. I wouldn’t have wanted to have sex with me. But now, finally, someone had. Okay, so it happened in a dark corner of a club with someone old enough to be my grandfather whom, if I’d been sober I wouldn’t have gone near, but for those few minutes before he came and went, he wanted me. He made me feel normal. He hadn’t rejected me like everyone else had. It was something to be proud of. An achievement. Why then, did I feel so awful?
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