Hello. I’m not posting so much here anymore. Things have been pretty much the same: same patterns, same old shit. Only, I feel more detached. A few days ago, I was going to post about a nightmare I had, of my rapist. It chilled me, woke me up with a start. It didn’t leave me the next day. I crumbled at work when I wasn’t busy, wishing he was dead, fantasizing of slitting his throat. But the turmoil faded. All feelings fade.
Yesterday, I went out to a bar. I spent the night talking to a guy, K., who I’ve known for about a year. I suspect he may have been abused. He wears a jacket constantly, even in the summer, to cover his body. He has a fascination with women. He’s absentminded. He’s weird. He disappears at random. He makes out with guys all the time. As far as I can tell, he sleeps with no one. His conversations inevitably degrade into gibberish. He’s a mess. I like him. Everyone likes him. One of my friends sarcastically refers to him as “God’s child,” because, though he’s intelligent and handsome, he’s impossible to dislike like a retard.
We’re similar, with minor differences. I’m the opposite of a slut. I’ve thrown in the towel in that realm, like an old spinster. I can behave normally if I try. Though, yesterday I was pretty erratic. After two drinks, I became mysteriously hammered, slurring my speech, wobbling.
“Why doesn’t he kiss me?” I thought, always think. He kisses everyone else. We get along splendidly, two peas in a pod, two lunatics in an asylum.
It’s my fault. He touches my hand. My flesh becomes cold and dead, marble. He rails about vaginas; I grow intrigued, more inclined to bisexuality than he is. My eye wonders to women, men, knowing nothing will happen, but wistful, melancholy.
I like someone else at the bar, C. He’s had a boyfriend for years. His boyfriend was with him. While I was talking to K., I noticed C. My face lit up. I have less in common with C., but he’s nurturing and stable. We kissed on the lips once. We flirt with each other. I think, a few times, he considered taking our relationship to another level. Or, maybe he’s just flattered by the attention I give him.
I kissed C. on the cheek, with his boyfriend beside him. I probably should have said hello to his boyfriend too, but I despised him and was overcome with jealousy. I felt my skin burn red. I think my face gave away my feelings. C’s friend grimaced, as if he could read my mind. C’s boyfriend looked confused. C. seemed content. He’s always been hard to read. I felt as if I was C’s pawn, as if C. wanted me to feel exactly as I did, and react exactly as I did.
Regardless, it faded. I returned to K., who’s nothing if not diverting. Given his track record at the bar, I think he forgave my unrequited feelings for C., if he sensed them.
At the end of night, I ruined any chance I had of making out with K. I felt the way I had with girls who suspected I was gay when I didn’t make a move. I felt impotent, embarrassed. My heart wasn’t in it and K. could tell. One comment was a deal breaker. Somehow, our haphazard conversation led us to the topic of lesbians.
“I want an Anne Heche type lesbian, soft, damaged.” I muttered, very, very drunk by this point. He literally backed away. I was humiliated. I couldn’t deny it. I was an imposter. I didn’t want him. I only pretended to, because I thought I was supposed to.
“You’re such a nice guy.” He kissed me on the cheek. He left to make a phone call, and never returned.
I don’t know what I feel, really. I don’t know who I am. For years, I repressed my sexuality. I systematically eliminated any sexual thoughts. I cut myself off from physical desire. Now, homosexuality feels unnatural to me. I can’t even look at an attractive man on the street. I turn away, by instinct. It’s my survival instinct. It's not due to societal pressure. Sex means death to me. It means hell. I had one boyfriend, a year and a half ago. That experience confirmed my suspicions. It WAS hell, sex and every minute I spent with him.
When I express attraction to a man, it feels as if I’m acting. It sounds false. It sounds like Tom Cruise gushing about Katie Holmes on Oprah. When I talk about women, it’s different. Even if there isn’t so much lust as, “she won’t hurt me,” I glow, I become alive. It’s genuine. That’s what K. sensed, I think.
If C. is using me, I’m using him too. It’s safe to want him. He wants me too, but resists, and pats himself on the back for it. We feel warmth and fondness without the danger of sex. I transferred to a new site at work; I’ve developed a parallel relationship with a girl there, Z. Z. smothers me with maternal affection. I love her voice, her face. And of course, she has a boyfriend. She’s unavailable, her most irresistible quality.
My first post on male survivor was about a crush on a lesbian, “Sexually Confused New Member.” I’ve reread it to try to glean my progress. Some things have changed. I haven’t found older men appealing in quite awhile. As for that lesbian...Well, at least if I became smitten with one again, I’d handle it better. My girl-crushes have given me more experience. I wouldn’t be as obsessive, or paralyzed by anxiety. So, things have improved, kind of, even though this post could have easily been titled, “Sexually Confused Old Member.” And, in a way, this one’s also about a lesbian, who simultaneously fills me with hope and ruins everything.
Sorry I’ve gone on for so long. I thought I had nothing to write about, but I’ve written a lot. So, do you think things have changed? Have I become complacent, or does progress always come this slowly? If someone knows a less agonizing route to happiness and clarity, I’d really like to hear it.
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