The walls were a tired blue, the air damp and unpleasant. I could always smell murkiness in the air. The ceiling was unfinished, revealing the electrical wires snaking across the wood above. It gave me a headache every time I went down there. The wooden planks—allegedly stairs—were all half painted. The paint went from the left side to the middle and then stopped abruptly. I always wondered why my parents never finished them, but not enough to actually ask. The stairs were the same stale blue as the walls. They creaked loudly whenever someone would descend them. Each step warning me that the further down I went, the more clouded my head would begin to feel. My parents would say, “One day we’ll finish the basement,” and other days, “That basement is never going to get finished.” It was the sort of place where loneliness hung low and heavily throughout the air. Which is why I only went down there when necessary. What was down in that basement was a treasure trove of completely mundane, outdated items of the classic working-class family. Nothing rare, nothing expensive, nothing to be proud of. Just a peeling wooden cabinet, a dusty abandoned treadmill, and a ridiculous number of totes filled with an amalgam of Lego pieces, forsaken stuffed animals, and a plastic toy crocodile that chomps down on your hand if you push the wrong tooth in its mouth. I was terrified of that crocodile.

One night, in the sixth grade, Connor was coming over for a sleepover. We had an Art project to finish where we were to present a brief biography of a famous artist. We were assigned the German artist, Max Ernst. He painted the most colourful and abstract pieces full of outrageous looking characters with both human and animal-like characteristics. Connor thought his paintings were strange and meaningless, I thought they were unique. Though I would never admit that. Boys like us don’t like art, boys like us don’t care about uniqueness.

We always slept in the basement because I only had a single bed in my room. Also, the PlayStation was in the basement. When we wouldn’t have any more school work to do, we would play Call of Duty until ungodly hours. Back then, honing my skills in a violent video game to increase my popularity among my friends was infinitely more crucial than allowing my body to get the rest it needed. The fact that sleep and playing video games were indirectly proportional was not my fault, nor of my concern.

We slept on the ridiculously big yellow mattress-like piece of sponge that we always used for sleepovers. The sponge’s coming-to-be in our basement was almost ethereal to me. As though if I were to discover where it came from, it would become just another part of the blue sadness that the basement walls gave off. Yet, I found it to be comforting, like a keeper of many memories. It wasn’t a particularly comfortable material to sleep on, but when you placed it in front of a TV at the age I was at, it became the most wonderful place to relax and float within a blend of teenage confusion and lack of apprehension.

Connor was a kind friend. He had short, shimmering blonde hair, and enviously tanned skin. His eyes were dark, and his arms were smooth. We’d known each other since kindergarten, our mothers were very close friends, and Connor and I followed suit. It wasn’t until ten or so years into our friendship I began to look at him differently. I began to see what all the girls were seeing in him. I knew I could never expand on these feelings. He was for the girls, that’s how it went. However, some impulses are harder to keep hold of. You can grasp at them, but they somehow always slip right through your fingers.

After the school work had been completed, the video games had been played, and the rush of staying up late had been overpowered by fatigue, it was time to sleep for what little time was left of the night. Connor had taken off his shirt, revealing even more of his soft, bronze skin, and I struggled to keep my eyes off him. If he had caught me, I wouldn’t have had an excuse. I could hardly think of an excuse to tell myself for the glances I was taking. Was I jealous of his glowing skin? Was I envious of his toned body? I now realise that at that time, somewhere, in the most repressed part of myself, I knew what it really was, but I would never have allowed that thought to come forward.

After half an hour, I was still awake, listening to the slow, peaceful breaths beside me. There was nothing I wanted more at that moment than to touch his skin. I didn’t care where, I didn’t know where. But his skin is what I wanted to be feeling. A rush, equal parts excitement and anxiety, was making its way through my whole body. Despite everything telling me not to, I carefully laid my hand on the side of his chest; I could feel his ribs beneath my hands. I could also feel warmth. My heart raced, as if I were touching a bear that could have woken up at any second to tear me apart, not physically but mentally and emotionally. In those few seconds of touching another boy’s skin, I was the most vulnerable I had ever been.

On graduation night, in the eighth grade, I was assigned to walk down the aisle next to Becky. She was lanky with dry hair and would get red in the face whenever the attention was on her. I had no feelings towards her. She was sweet, I considered her a friend, but I had decided I liked Vanessa. We were best friends, and she was very pretty. That night, she was wearing a vibrant, light blue dress covered with sparkling stones that ended in a poof of fabric around her waist and thighs. Perfectly teased, thick, brown hair reluctantly dropping to her shoulders. She had deep eyes and smooth, tanned skin. Looking back now, her and Connor could have been mistaken for siblings.

As my last name is higher in the alphabet, I was already on stage when Connor walked towards the stage alongside Myra. She was wide-eyed and petite; the kind of girl Connor would go after. He once told me, at the lunch table, that he didn’t think her tits were ever going to grow out as big as some of the other girls. I pretended like I was focusing on the remark he was making, of which I had no opinion, nor interest in, and not on the way he clenches his jaw between sentences, making his face look structured and mature. He then went on to tell me that Avery has the biggest ass in our grade, but I wasn’t listening.

My friends were pressuring me to dance with Vanessa after the graduation ceremony ended. They told me Vanessa had a crush on me and would really love it if I asked her to dance; I now realize that made me want to dance with her less. I knew full well that I had Vanessa’s attention. I knew she cared deeply about me. I knew that she would make an amazing girlfriend. So, why didn’t I go for it? Why did I not dance with her that night? Why did I so desperately want to tell Connor how much I liked his ridiculous lime green dress shirt and purple bowtie? More specifically, how much I liked him in his ridiculous lime green dress shirt and purple bowtie.

Later that week, Connor went on to tell me how he danced with Molly and Tricia, and how he later slow danced with Avery and kept his hand on her butt for most of the dance. He said it felt great and that she probably would have let him grab her tit too, but he didn’t want to get caught. I thought it was kind of rude, the way he was talking. If he wanted the girls to like him, he just had to be nice. Girls like it when you are nice, when you are friendly with them. I wanted to tell him that he shouldn’t be so focused on touching girls, but that would be hypocritical because of how much I wanted to touch him.

I noticed, as we started to transition into high school, that Connor would sometimes treat me differently. When it was just the two of us, he would act like the nice guy I knew he was. He was kind and thoughtful. He would be interested in what I had to say, and I would want to hear what he had to say. What I didn’t know about him is how weak his integrity is. Suddenly, I could feel it happening all at once. He was getting suspicious. The other boys were getting into his head, and I knew that I would never be one of those boys.

In the 10^thgrade, while doing work in the library, Connor was at another table with a group of guys. They were laughing with each other over something on Zach’s computer, and I was beginning to assume it was something I wouldn’t have found funny. I was finding it harder, as time went on, to be able to feel comfortable around the boys in my class. By this time, I knew it was because they talk a lot about girls. I knew it wasn’t normal, but I realised I had no interest in talking about girls or their asses or their lips or their tits like Connor now did. I didn’t fully accept why, I didn’t fully know why, but I didn’t care to find out. I stole quick glances at the group as they smiled at what one another were saying. They all had such perfect smiles with teeth like you would see on those infomercials about a new electronic toothbrush.  At one point, Connor called my name and motioned me over to the table to show me something on his computer. I tensed up but was also happy to fulfill his request. I noticed the other boys watching me as I rounded the table and turned towards the screen. As soon as I saw the topless girl, I realised what they had been laughing about before. She had big breasts and was wearing black leggings; her dark brown hair was wavy and dipped towards the ground as her head was tilted to the side. I controlled my reaction to the picture, as I had taught myself to do in many situations so far. I’d taught myself how to keep up a façade; it was my art. I could craft any mask within seconds and slip it on absolutely inconspicuously. It was exhausting to have to constantly keep it going, but I didn’t see any other way. Connor asked me what I thought, and I can’t seem to recall what I replied; most likely something about how cool it was that he got her to send that picture even though I thought it was awful he was showing everyone. I was panicked. He caught me off guard and my mask was cracking. What I do remember is that I did not say enough to convince them I was attracted to her because, as I walked back to my table, my ears rang with the sound of Connor and his friends snickering.

Connor and I went on to grow further apart. However, I was never truly sad about it. Throughout the rest of high school, I saw myself discover a part of me that I couldn’t live without today. As for Connor, I saw him lose the part of himself that gave me such comfort within the cold walls of my basement. Whether that was for the best, I don’t know.

I do know that the moment I touched my hand to Connor’s skin, I was trapped in that lonely basement for a long time.