I'm half-Greek (on my mom's side). As a kid, I spent every summer in Zante, a small island surrounded by the sparkling Ionian Sea. It was there that I had my first crush, on a beautiful local named Yiorgos. We grew up together, and it was because of him that I learned I was gay.
We struggled to communicate in words, but the passion we felt for each other said everything. Whenever we could, Yiorgos and I snuck away from my parents and his big-bellied father and... explored.
He was my first, and I was pretty sure I was his. Every year, he'd wait for me on the dock, the water reflecting off his tan, shirtless body. On the ferry ride to Zante, I was always brimming with excitement. I couldn't wait to see him.
And each summer, he got a little older. A little hairier. A little more muscled. The last time I saw him, we were both 19. I was pudgy and average, but Yiorgos had seriously bulked up. He looked nothing like his fat brothers and massive father. He was perfect.
Too perfect, actually. Just seeing him on that dock filled me with self-doubt.
But when we greeted each other with hugs and cheek-kisses, all my doubts went away. He was still interested.
That night, he took me into a secluded section of beach and showed me how interested he was. Multiple times. My pudgy belly wasn't a dealbreaker. In fact, he kept touching it. Squeezing it. Playing with my rolls.
In his broken English, he called me a "big man." If I didn't know better, I'd say he was jealous of my chub.
That summer sped by in a flurry of food, sex, and strolls on the beach. We declared our love (he went first), and when it was finally time for me to return to America, he couldn't hold back his tears. He was going to miss his "big man," and I was definitely going to miss my beautiful beach boy.
I had every intention of seeing him the next year, but I got an internship through my college and couldn't go. I told Yiorgos the bad news via text (his English was getting better), and it took him days to respond.
I'm pretty sure he was mad at me. I kept promising that I'd see him next year. He just had to wait.
Turns out, next year came and went, and we still didn't see each other. And the year after that, same thing. I was busy with school and work, and since I was an adult now, my parents decided that we didn't need family trips anymore.
I had to accept that Yiorgos would forever be a memory. My first love.
Well, I'm 24 now. I got my degree and settled into adult life in Seattle. I finally learned Greek. (I'm not fluent or anything, but I can communicate okay.) And thanks to that skill, I was able to get a job on Zante!
Yiorgos and I kept in touch (mostly in Greek). He still called me his "big man" (megalos antras), and over the phone, we flirted like two men who treasured our time together but knew that we'd never see each other again.
When I told him I was moving to the island, he literally squealed. It was adorable. He couldn't wait to see me.
Of course, I'd changed a lot since I was 19. I lost my baby fat and grew into a lean, hard-muscled guy. Even though I knew he liked my former pudge, I was confident that he'd be happy with my new look. I was finally as hot as him.
Right now, I'm on the ferry to Zante with all my stuff packed into two suitcases. I'm brimming with excitement. I keep picturing my beautiful beach boy waiting for me on the docks.
I wonder if he's changed at all since the last time I saw him...
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