Tuesday, October 09, 2012

My Secret Is That I Have A Secret

If I told you, what would you think of me? Would you call me a pervert or disgusting? Would you tell me I needed serious help? Would you say that you know exactly what I am talking about? Maybe you would tell me I was normal. Maybe you would tell me that sometimes you do that too. Or maybe you wouldn’t. 

This thing I hold onto is dark. It won’t hurt anyone but me. It doesn’t see the light. Ever. It’s just in my head. It just festers there. It makes me feel good, then it makes me feel very bad. Without it, some things would be impossible, or I think they would be, because it’s been there since my memory began. 

What little memory I have of times before recent, I hold onto tightly. I don’t know where the other times are. There must be other times. I can’t remember when my secret started. I can’t remember the first time it made me feel good, then it made me feel bad. I can only remember that it has been forever. I can only remember it being inside of me. 

Today I can’t tell you. I can’t tell anyone. Today I will bottle it up again for another day. Today I don’t have the courage to tell. I have tried. Only bits come out here and pieces come out there. But the real stuff is stuck behind my teeth, on the roof of my mouth, like peanut butter. I push it forward and out with my tongue, but only a little comes. 

Eventually I give up trying to tell someone. I am ashamed. I am bad. I am afraid. I don’t want you to think less of me. I don’t want you to feel sorry for me. I don’t want you to look at me with disgust hidden in your eyes. I want you to love me like you always have, oblivious to my darkness and shame and fear and secret. 

I can imagine once it is out, it won’t be a big deal. I can imagine that you will understand. I can imagine that you will empathize. I can imagine a day that I am free of it. But I still can’t tell you. My mouth opens to tell you, then I pretend to yawn. My brain says go ahead, it will only bring you closer, not having any secrets between you. 

Don’t try to guess. The answer is no to all you are thinking. This thing, this secret, is dark. And nobody should know it. Not even me. If I tell you, will it leave me alone? 

Wednesday, October 03, 2012

Coming Out: My story in full


Junior high. In the locker room, I looked at boobs like any other teenage girl. Sounds like a line from But I’m a Cheerleader, doesn’t it. In this case, it’s not. Audra Valaro had the biggest, perkiest boobs, with the sweetest little nipples, and her locker was right next to mine. And she wasn’t afraid to take her bra off, or get totally naked for that matter. Every day. God bless her liberal parents! 

I was 16, masturbated to the painting of the Virgin Mary outside my bedroom door, and thought about Allison Whitter. What it would be like to play soccer with her, run my fingers through her long brown hair, smell her close-like. Never had a boyfriend. Never really cared, except I thought something was wrong with me. I was ugly or lumpy or smelly or something. I mean, by this time, I should have at least been kissed, right? 

The girls in the ads, I was just looking at them a long time so I could see why people, me included, looked at them to define beauty. And because they were girls, in short skirts, tight shirts, no skirts, no shirts, flat stomachs, curvy hips, lovely breasts, round butts, that line that follows the hips, you know the one that gives you goose bumps when she follows it with her finger tips.

I told my mom. She said it can’t be. I’d never even had a boyfriend. How could I possibly know? My mom, I don’t often think she knows me well, appealed to my logical side, that’s to say I’m 99% logical side, got me thinking. There was this one guy. I actually only saw him a few times. He wouldn’t go for me anyway. Why not? 

A year and a half together, I was 17 and 364 days old before I had sex with him. It hurt. But it always does the first time. Although I did get over the initial pain, there was never anything right about sex with him. I would fantasize, lose myself, disassociate. I remember only a few times that we actually did it, but I also know it was many more than I remember. I don’t even remember the first time, just when it was and that it hurt. 

We were together for three years. After him, I thought about Joylynn, my co-worker. I thought, this is my chance, but what do I do? I thought I’m finally free! I thought, well God, if I don’t have a husband by the time I am 21, I will be gay. I worked at a record store. I went to college. There was no reason I should be afraid anymore, yet I was terrified. 

In walks Ryan. Not particularly attractive, very short. Nasty disposition. Negative from day one. Six weeks later, I have a baby growing in me. God answered me, didn’t He? My mom went apeshit and pretty much disowned me for making a baby before I was married. She insisted we marry, I refused. When Ash was 8 months old, I finally married Ryan. Then came Aiden soon after. I don’t remember but a handful of times that I had sex with Ryan. Sometimes I am amazed that it was enough times to have three kids with him. 

I was doing everything right. I was married. I had two kids. I worked at an office and put my kids in daycare. We rented a house in an okay neighborhood. Something was missing. It must have been another baby because I decided another was just what we needed to make this thing work. Because we were falling apart, if one could say we were ever together. I was mean. I was sad. I was missing something still. My beautiful blonde headed, blue eyed Kieran stole my heart. Three happy, healthy, amazing children and still not fulfilled. What could it be? A house? Yes! So we bought one. Not a house. Need to be at home with the kids full time? Yes! But no. I was so alone. With everyone around me, I was desperate to tear out of skin and shout SEE ME! I’m here! But I didn’t know where I was really. 

Things I tried to save my marriage:
  1. Being a subservient wife. That lasted about a week.
  2. Church. He hated it and I felt mad having to drag him.
  3. Medication. Nice, but no. 
  4. Fuck Fridays. The worst of my ideas. Pretend I wanted sex. Seduce him home for lunch and lay there under him while I let him mercy fuck me. That’s the shittiest thing I could have done; though, at the time, I was sure it was the nicest thing I could give him. I hurt him badly.

Then came Erin. Short, dark hair, smelled good, obviously gay, though weirdly she always tried to hide it. I thought, this is it. She can answer all of my questions. She can see me for who i really am, if indeed that’s who I am. I fell in love with her. I let her tell me how to transition from marriage to separation, even though she really didn’t know the first thing about it. I made the guest room mine, asked him to move upstairs, watched every episode of the L-Word until I was caught up, horny as fuck, and fairly sure that when it came to sex, I’d know what I was doing. Then it came to sex. Gulp. I was so fucking scared. I didn’t touch her at all. 

Six months. I was drunk or high for six months. I went out every night. I went on trips to San Diego Pride and made out with girls. I drove to and from Palm Springs. I pretended to be a mom still. I lost friends. I gained friends. A few friends stuck by me, mainly my Tribe. I was a crappy parent. I was lost and floundering in this new world. The only sure thing was that I did belong here. I knew it. I felt it. I just wasn’t sure where my place was in it. 

I met Tara, who is now Trey, at the bar. We hit it off and had the sex a few days after we met. In Lesbanese, that means we were insta-girlfriends. Here came my first boost. The first time we slept together, I went down on her. She came. Like actually came. Like I made a girl cum. Me. And I came just doing it. I was inside her, outside her, on top of her, under her. Many weeks later, I told her that was my first time and she didn’t believe me. Can you say ego boost? Damn. I was a full-fledged, hot-shit, girls want me, I can make them cum with a look, LESBIAN! But don’t call me that. I still hate to be called a lesbian. 

We broke up. Tara and I. Then there was Jen, for just a night. Then the golfer who would prefer to remain anonymous. I can still remember the sex with her. It was good, Especially because I got to do so much of the work. That didn’t last either. There were many tears and swears and why not me’s. There were thoughts of giving up and going back to men. They were easy. Sex gets you what you want and to get through that you only had to close your eyes and pretend it was a strap-on. In the end though, I chose me. And I finally chose my kids. 

I met T on Christmas in 2008. I never knew what love at first sight was until then. My heart knew. My soul remembered hers from months, years, decades, centuries of lives we lived together. I couldn’t look at her. If she saw me, she’d know. When I saw her, I knew she knew too. I was still with the golfer for another week (unbeknownst to me) and T was with our friend, Missy. We spoke on and off. After my break-up with the golfer, she rode her motorcycle to the coffee shop. I asked her take it all away [my pain]. She whispered in my ear, in a sexy, raspy voice, that she could, but it’d only be for one night. I still make her say that to me. 

Months later, it was time. The first time she was in my arms, it was familiar and right and safe and perfect. The first time we came together was like so many times before that we can’t remember. Her lips fit mine. Her body held mine in perfect shape. Her arms are my safety. We are not perfect. We have many issues to sort through. Three short years in this lifetime together and we are just now truly falling in love. That deep love that will bind two people forever, no matter what. We are a family with the boys. We work together to make our dreams come true. This is what I was missing. This is why I hung onto the life I wanted to throw away all those years. This is what living feels like.