Facing His Past (True Story) Pt 1

As I matured and grew into my sexuality. I trended away from the masculine image I’d grown up aspiring to be, and toward a more effeminate style and way of life.


Oh. Hell. No. I had inconsistently spent the last two days looking through boxes in my garage, boxes in the back of my closet, old duffel bags, and every dark corner that I normally try to avoid. Somehow I just knew that damn box was sitting on its pretty little ass in the attic. Why the attic? Because that’s where things go to be forgotten. That is, until my ex-boss decided to be a bitch and dredge up the past that like a nasty hairnado that’d been secretly hiding in the shower drain, somethings are better left untouched.

After putting on enough layers to feel adequately protected against anything that might jump me once I breach the security of the attic door, I began what I assumed would be a suicide mission— to the attic. My heart was racing as I pushed the two foot by two foot death trap up, and out of the way. I cinched the drawstring on my hoodie as tight as possible until my field of vision was no bigger than a nickel, which still left me feeling too vulnerable, then pulled my sleeve cuffs over my hands and gripped them tightly in my palms. I was as prepared as I was ever going to be to enter a space in which I wished didn’t exist. It had all the qualities I hated; dark, dirty, and spiders. The fucking spiders. I willed my heart to slow as I slowly ascended into the darkness of doom. I had decided against the head lamp for fear that shining light would do more harm than good, I didn’t want to attract more attention to myself then needed. I also knew for a fact I didn’t want to see what was up there.

Luckily for me there was only one tote and it wasn’t far from the entrance, so I was able to grab it quickly and get the hell out of there. As soon as the tote was on the floor and the attic door was safely secured I did the only thing my body would let me do; I shook it like a polaroid picture. In my mind of minds I just knew I was covered in spiders and that fear lead me into a five minute shake down that was neither eloquent, smooth, graceful, sexy, or coordinated. My whole body was flailing around the spare room, down the hall, and toward the bathroom as I made hideous sounds that bared a strong resemblance to a dying animal or the most un-erotic mating call you’ve ever heard. I jumped into the shower fully clothed as a last ditch way of ridding the world, and my body, of any eight legged creatures.

I laid in the tub with a solid seventy pounds of wet clothes stuck to my body. As the water rained down on my heaving chest all I could think about was how fucking manly I was. This of course, made me laugh because I, Donovan Allerton, was a lot of things, but a typical stereotype wasn’t one, at least according to others. I spent too much of my life trying to appease others, to fill their definition of a man at the cost of my own happiness. So I’m afraid of spider, fuck em, bitches.

I peeled off the clothes, wrapped a towel around my waist and went to retrieve my tote. Correction, the contaminated attic tote would forever be quarantined in the spare room until it was banished back to the attic when this whole nightmare is over. I’d only retrieve what I absolutely needed from the inside.

I ran my thumb down the smooth thick leather and across the course seams. I closed my eyes and buried my face into the palm of the leather mitt as I inhaled a scent that could only be described as my childhood, adolescence, and early adulthood all wrapped together.


My earliest memories involved baseball and almost every subsequent memory thereafter. T-ball (3y-5y), Farm league (6y-8y), Minors (9y-10y), Majors (11y-12y), then I was on a traveling team from age twelve until my freshman year of High School, in which I was placed on Varsity. This alone was a big feat considering we were an 8A school and freshman never made Varsity, except me. Not only did I make the team but I actually played my freshman year, started four games my sophomore year, and led the team to dominate the Championships my Junior and Senior year.

Overall it was a good experience, not perfect, but how can I complain when so many kids have it worse than I did when they come out? I always knew I was gay and there was really never any question, even my parents figured it out before I said anything. I didn’t come out overnight with a big and exciting announcement but I didn’t hide it either. People put the pieces together themselves. It didn’t affect baseball because I was such a solid player that in their eyes, the reward outweighed the risk.

As I matured and grew into my sexuality I trended away from the masculine image I’d grown up aspiring to be, and toward a more effeminate style and way of life. This was a difficult concept for peers, players, coaches, parents, and supporters to grasp. My ‘gayness’ was never a problem but my ‘level of gayness’ was. It was something that infuriated me to no end, and still does.

‘Level of gayness’, seriously? Like, what the fuck does that mean? The thought that I could dress like a runway model, style my hair like a professional, add glitter to any ensemble, move like a go go dancer, AND play baseball like a boss was a riddle that no one could solve. I managed it, but only barely, and at a great cost. Everything came to head in College after I co-led Oregon State University to a Championship victory, not once, but two consecutive years. After my sophomore year things came to head and I decided that self love was more important than everything else. They never made it back to the championships and I never played another game again.


“Help me DONNAS, help, help me DONNAS!”

Nick and Nelly sang (in unison) the Beach Boys tune of Help Me Rhonda as they barged through the front door with the rest of the gang shuffling behind.

We were the DONNAS.

It’s crazy how we all met, not crazy like ‘omg let me tell you this insane story that you’ll never believe’, more like, in a world of six and a half billion people, we somehow found our perfect niche group of acceptance. I personally struggled trying to find my step on the ladder of conformity. According to others I’m too gay to be a ‘dude’, too dude to be effeminate, too feminine to be dominate, too tall to be a twink, and too whateva to be whatever. It was exhausting. It’s also surprising how the gay community screams and cries for acceptance while casting the harshest judgment on their own. It’s no matter, I found my people and within them: my happiness.

Nick and Nelly are identical twins, literally cut from the same cloth, and whereas most twins spend their whole lives trying to find their own identity, Nick and Nelly continued to grow closer. I’ve much speculated that they were never meant to split and that one day they will spontaneously morph back into one person. In preparation for that day, we call them Nilly, but only when they’re being particularly twinny. They’re cute-ish, I suppose. Five foot six inches and bright red hair that lack the fiery personality that people come to expect.

Oliver, Olie, Olive, or Livi, depending on what personality he’s embracing at any given moment. It’s not that he has split personalities (not diagnosed anyways), I’m only kidding. He is who he is and he’ll be who he wants to be, when he wants to be them. He claims his different characters (he says that saying ‘characters’ makes him sound less crazy than saying ‘personalities’. Okay, sure. You do you, dude) are based on the fact he’s clearly mixed ethnicity. He’s pretty sure he’s largely Asian but the way he can roll his r’s has him convinced there’s a bit of sexy Spanish mixed in, and then there’s his obscenely-large-for-his-size cock, so definitely a little African American, at least according to him. He’ll never know for sure since he was abandoned as infant, and that fact alone means we’ll never argue with him about it. I think there’s a part of him that loves the fact he can be anyone he wants to be and I have to admit that it’s kind of cool, too. Oliver’s way short, like five foot five inches when he’s wearing shoes. but he’s ten goddamn inches long and he’s a shower not a grower, so it’s always just ‘hangin around’. It’s the weirdest and most unproportioned thing I’ve ever seen. Seriously, you should see him in his tiny swimsuit, it’s unnatural.

Sammy, otherwise known as Salami (he loves meat more than anyone I know, and yes, that’s a double entendre). He’s roughly as tall as the twins but that’s where the similarities end. Salami’s love of food has stretched him out a bit. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s a good fifty pounds over the highest recommended weight for his BMI and it’s not because he’s big boned. I’ve offered myself as a workout partner but he doesn’t care, he says you only live once and he’s gonna be happy and full. Amen brotha.

Then there’s Allen, the only one of us who’s not gay and ironically, the first one people assume is. Firstly, he goes by Allé, which is pronounced Allie; not Ale or Al. He’s six foot and so flaming that I feel the need to strap a fire extinguisher to his thigh. He swears (and we have questioned him extensively on the matter) that he’s not gay. I’m not one to judge, but c’mon Allén. Personally, I think he’s asexual. He’s straight, but seems to identify somewhere in the middle I’ve never, not once, seen him interested in anyone, male or female. As far as we know, he’s still happily a virgin. He doesn’t care enough to be labeled one way or the other, so it’s become a non-issue.

Then there’s me, Donovan. Five-ten, lithe with long legs and torso. I’m not as muscular as I once was but still freakishly strong, definitely stronger than I look. I’m a RN in the pediatric Oncology ward. I don’t consider myself overly effeminate but I look the part more often than not. If I was straight I’d definitely be considered a metrosexual but I’m not straight, so once again, another title I can’t have.

Together we’re the DONNAS. Donovan, Oliver, Nick & Nelly, Allen, and Sammy. Yes, it’s an acronym. No, we didn’t come up with it. Yes, we love it. Yes, it’s feminine as fuck. No, we’re not all twinks (what does that imply anyway?) Yes, we tend to draw attention everywhere we go. No, we don’t fucking care what anyone thinks. We have two things in common. We’re gay (saves Allé) and we all love baseball. We met a few years before when our favorite bar held special baseball event during the finals and the rest was history.

“I cannot tell you how excited I am to wear baseball pants again. The great American pastime? More like the great American pASS-time! There’s gonna be so much delicious booty to feast on.”

Sam was practically drooling as his mind drifted to what I imagined was a field of ripped shirtless men with tight baseball pants, likely fawning over his every move. Nelly slapped him upside the head with a laugh and quickly brought him back down to earth.

“Boi, you know this isn’t a fantasy porno scene, right? In less than an hour we’ll be walking into heterofest twenty-seventeen. Look, but you can’t touch. You know how straight boys be, all insecure and uptight around anything that might threaten their precious masculinity—or the color pink.”

Allé smiled while magically producing a box of gear for the big game and started excitedly shaking it back and forth.

“Speaking of—”

He pulled out our team shirts. Standard baseball shirts; white with salmon pink sleeves. I know what you’re thinking, pink baseball shirts? Is the whole team gay? The answer would be no. I made the mistake of telling Mr. Fresh, my ex boss (his name is Dougie Fresh, I tease you not), about my baseball past and the mutual love the DONNAS shared over the game. He managed to rope us into playing for the companies men’s league team. They never had a decent team before and he was desperate for some new talent to liven morale. We went rounds about it. I told him it was a terrible idea, there was no way anyone wanted to be on a team with us because as a whole, we’re relatively low on the masculinity scale and wildly high on the freak scale, then there was Allé, and no one knew what to think about Allé. He insisted that there’d be no backlash and that his employees were better people than that. That’s easy to say as a upper class white man that didn’t know what discrimination was actually like. After a week of constant badgering I told him we’d give him one practice to feel things out.

No one knew what to do with us when we showed up. I think that Dougie Fresh had left out some minor details, only focusing on the highlights which involved my winning two consecutive Championship games, Nilly’s three time state championship back in high school, Oliver’s short-stop accolades, Allen’s first baseman skills, and Sammy’s catching history, although I doubt he can move with the same speed and agility he did when he played. There were a lot of wide eyes when the glam squad rolled up, granted we purposely went above and beyond, you know, for shits and giggles. It didn’t take long for them to see that you truly cannot judge a book by it’s cover.

Minus Sammy, who, as a general rule of thumb needed to increase his overall level of physical activity, we wiped the floor. By the end of practice we could have asked for anything we wanted and they’ve given it to us just to have us on the team. So it didn’t take much to get six other guys to agree to pink baseball shirts. The general consensus was that between the pink shirts and half the team appearing one hundred percent ‘un-baseball’ we’d have the element of surprise.

Turns out that men’s league summer ball was quite competitive and Dougie’s team had been on the shit end of the trash talk for years. They were more than a little anxious for retribution and the fact they could potentially kick some men’s league butt with a team of queeny fairies was going to make the victory that much sweeter.

“Hot damn! This will be quite the surprise, I have a feeling the guys are gonna love it. More camouflage for our surprise attack.”

Sammy was referring to the pink sparkling letters that spelled our last names on the back of the shirts. It was an unexpected, yet beautiful, addition. Although mine didn’t say Allerton, it said Gordy, which I wasn’t thrilled about. We all took a moment to ohhh and awww before moving on to the light grey baseball pants that Allé had ordered for everyone. He was digging through the box and distributing according to sizes when he started laughing.

“Olie! There is no friggin way—”

He held up a tiny pair of pants, turns out Oliver had ordered himself a pair of extra small pants. Oliver quickly grabbed the pants and held them to his waist. I don’t know what he saw but they looked a little small to me.

“What? You don’t think they’ll fit me?”

“Sure, if it was just you. But you and that monstrosity between your legs? Not a chance in hell.”

Watching Oliver try to pull on what could easily be described as youth apparel was the most amusing thing I’d seen all week. I didn’t waste the chance for a good Instagram Story. After several minutes of fighting himself he managed to get them on and even buttoned, although he looked a little worse for wear. He looked himself over in the full length mirror in my room and turned side to side and nodded his approval.


Sam walked up and slapped Oliver’s dick, doubling the poor guy over.

“Now try to get it zipped with your cup on, you dumbass.”

He dug through his bag until he pulled out his cup but before he had a chance to do anything with it, Nick snatched it from his hand in fascination and held it up to the light like it was the holy grail.

“Holy Shit. I’ve never seen one this size. I think I could wear this as a batting helmet. Un-fucking-real.”

We all groaned when he set Olivers cup on his head. Who puts another mans genital cup on their head, it’s to protect the gentleman’s sausage, not to wear as a hat.

“That’s my dick cup, not a kippah you moron.”

“It’s the Jewish hat, not Mormon.”

“I didn’t say Mormon. I said MORON, you moron.”

After we lost all respect for Nick we finished getting ready. Oliver was able to manage the cup installation, just barely. I took one look at him and lost my shit.

“Olie, darling, you’re gonna scare the the guys on our team, the ones we’re playing against, and the poor wives and kids watching. Hell, you’re scaring me. It looks like Toucan Sam is trying to break free from your pants.”

I wasn’t lying, it was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever seen, aside from him in swimwear. There was no way anyone was going to believe he’s for real. I’ve seen the damn thing with my own eyes and I still question it’s validity.

We didn’t have a lot of time to goof off so we finished getting ready. Nilly and Allé got dolled up with full face and some serious application of temporary pink highlights, the chalky stuff that you ‘wipe on, wipe off’. It was barely noticable on the twins short red hair but it showed nicely on Allé’s longer blonde hair. Oliver and I opted for a little highlighter on our faces and one pink streak each, which really looked great against our darker hair. Oliver has jet black hair that’s layered in a shaggy style, barely long enough to tie back if he’s desperate, but not long enough to actually stay put (say, during a game of baseball) so he opted for an a pink elastic headband to keep the hair out of his face. I cut my hair every other wednesday. I prefer the super fresh look, short on the side and long on the top, I usually wear it styled back with a bit of a poof on top and my part-line is buzzed to the scalp; sharp and clean.

“Can we all agree that the pants run a little small?”

Sammy asked as he uncomfortably adjusted the waistband that did nothing to hide his overly plump belly. The rest of us followed suit by adjusting our unreasonably tight pants and nodded in agreeance before simultaneously looking at Oliver and his Toucan Sam which inevitably had us all doubled over laughing. Not a great combo when you’re pants are already too tight. Everyone loaded up their stuff and headed out to Allé’s minivan, before locking up and I grabbed my mitt, taking a moment to look at it with a mixture of nostalgia and resentment. By the time I was outside everyone was waiting in the back, leaving me with the front seat. As I approached the van they let out a stream of catcalls and wolf whistles, making me smile and shake my head at the same time.

“Sometimes, it’s not even fair to hang around you. You make the rest of us look like street trash.”

“That’s because we ARE street trash compared to Gordy over here.”

Allé quickly responded and pointed his thumb towards me in a playfully-annoyed fashion. The group often teased that I was too handsome to be pretty but too pretty to be handsome and at some point they settled on gorgeous, which they shortened to Gordy, which is what they call me most of the time. I never understood this because gorgeous was not the word I’d use as a mid level description between pretty and handsome. I could hear Nelly whining before he even continued with his rant.

“I know but it’s not fair, he’s like, a freaking model. Look at him with his perfect hair, perfect face, perfect cheekbones, pouty lips, perfect body, tan skin. Ugh, he’s such a bitch.”

Nelly does this alot, he barely talks most of the time, normally opting to let Nick be the spokesperson, but when he does speak it’s usually to complain about me or to put himself down, or both. Usually both. I held the bitch bar and adjusted myself in the seat, smiling at Nelly’s self-deprecating compliments.

“OMG! I can’t even see you yet I can feel your smile, that’s how fucking perfect it is. It lights up a fucking room! And fuck your hair! Sitting over there with your perfectly placed pink stripe while my hair looks like the inside of a goddamn grapefruit.”

“I never woulda put two and two together but now that you mention it, it totally reminds me of a grapefruit!”

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