Teen Gay Sex In Foster Home Pt 1

I’m going to tell you a secrete. I’m gay, and this has nothing to do with me being in foster care. I knew I was different from straight guys in high school.
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“James, please pick your jacket up off the floor and put it in your bedroom, that’s a good boy.”
The quiet words, spoken as much to not provoke an argument as to convey a request, came from my foster father, Randy Simmons, as he took a few careful steps over my prone body lying in front of the television watching cartoons. I had arrived home from school two hours before with a half-completed term paper on John Keats, the English poet, due the following day for my senior literature class. My assignments also included all the odd-numbered algebra equations from page 250 in my textbook and an art project on the use of shading. But I needed to take the edge off my increasingly stressed out life and had neglected both homework and chores in favor of a few mindless hours of Scooby Doo and Spongebob Squarepants. I don’t even like Spongebob.
My name isn’t James. It’s Devlin. Devlin James Royce. But the foster home I lived in, probably my last since I was close to turning eighteen and would be exiting the system once I graduated from high school, was headed up by a Christian, God-fearing couple with four kids of their own. They saw the devil in me, or rather my given name, and decided they just couldn’t in good conscience call me by it. However, one of Jesus’ brothers, an author of a New Testament book in the Bible, was named James, as well as two of his disciples, so they figured they were good with my middle name.
Ugh, Devlin… James… whatever! Hell, most days I didn’t care...