I am surprised that crying is the most difficult matter for me to write about. If you’ve read any of my entries, you know that writing about death, sex, and love are pretty easy for me. When you’re wounded as a kid, you become very careful about crying.
When I was fifteen, Tyler cried once when we were together after an afternoon of instructing each other on the finer points of fellatio. His tears, I learned, weren't the result of the lessons. Tyler was fifteen and overwhelmed by confusion about love and sex. I wasn't confused about sex, but had my own issues to cry about. I was stunned and pleased that he trusted me that much.
He was embarrassed and worried that he had given me power because he thought that, in crying with me, he appeared weak. When much younger, I had learned a lesson that I have fortunately replaced, that I should avoid tears altogether. I think I was worried that if I started, I could never stop.