These slings and arrows
Let me start off by saying that I don't usually post about my personal life and thoughts in such great detail. This space is usually reserved for my ramblings about writing, publishing and bad television. When I first posted this is my private blog, I received such a positive response, from people on every end of the spectrum. I thought I could share it here. Maybe my wandering thoughts could do somebody else some good, too.
I'm at this very strange point in terms of sexuality. It's kind of hard to explain, but I think I've got my finger on it.
I've spent most of my life dodging identifiers because A) I don't have time for that, B) I didn't want anybody in my pants much of the time, and C) my world view, though fairly well-informed for a dipshit young person, was still hindered by my surroundings. To be more specific, I lived and worked in a somewhat backwards city, in a somewhat backwards state, in a somewhat backwards country, on a somewhat backwards planet. Every time I attempted to express thoughts or feelings that didn't end with me on my back having children for some as-of-yet faceless and nameless (but unavoidable) husband, I received a gentle pat on the head and a casual "Oh, you'll grow out of it." I was never outright ostracized or discriminated against, but people literally just didn't believe me. I was too young. I was confused. I would figure it out eventually.
So for most of my turbulent adolescence, I took my lumps, shut my mouth, and just accepted that someday, somewhere, at some point in time, I would have to be in a relationship with a man. But I really, really didn't want to. As not to say that men aren't lovely, and funny, and rational, and generally useful and productive members of society. And a lot of them, god help me, are really sexy. (Do I need to write an essay on my current favorites, Misha Collins, Norman Reedus and Mark A. Sheppard? No? Would you like me to anyway?) But as sexy as they can be, I didn't want one anywhere near me without his pants on. In fact, the only time a naked men in my presence would be a Good Thing would be if he had a friend with him. Especially if they were naked together, and doing fun things to each other. That is the beginning and the end of my interest in men. The older I got, going into college and working life, I came to understand that. I wasn't interested in having sex with much of anybody, but I knew I didn't want to have sex with men.
The reality was, I couldn't bear the thought of being in a relationship with a man. Or trying to, or just even coming close to it. I tried, because I felt I had to. I felt compelled, like it was a requirement in order to move through society with any level of credibility. After all, dating was the one thing I had not conquered, this last mountain I had yet to climb. Everybody followed me around in a chorus of sad sounds and eyes hemorrhaging empathy for poor little Magen. Poor single Magen. Magen the Loner. Magen the Virgin, like I was some kind of patron saint of virtue. I would find him one day, they kept saying. Then it would be even more special, all these slings and arrows I had endured for so long, because I had waited.
And isn't that the worst conversation in the world to be having? Huddled around the hostess stand in a crowded restaurant on a Saturday night, with the entire waitstaff giving you the shiny eyes because of your bright romantic heterosexual future. I couldn't bear to tell them the idea of kissing a guy made me gag. I didn't want to have to explain myself anymore. So I just nodded and said, Sure. Of course. Romantic. And so I plowed ahead in my unfortunate heterosexual misadventures, like a dog chasing a car. I didn't know what I wanted, or what I would do if I ever got it. This brought me a lot of fear and pain. I had (and still have) social anxiety, never quite having sure footing in most situations with other people, and those close to me often preyed upon that.
They foisted me onto strangers at bars, and chased me out into the dating scene. I was often sneered at by other women who thought me stupid or melodramatic for reacting badly to men's advances, even when they were horribly inappropriate and threatening. I was once brought unwittingly into a threesome by a friend in order to impress this redneck loser she liked. (I obviously didn't go along with it, and sat in the corner with full-on Bitch-Face until I got a ride home. Not a good time was had by anyone that night.) I even had a coworker try to auction my number off to her table in order to get a better tip. She was so shocked that I didn't want my number sold off to strange men so she can get an extra $10. I should've been cool with it. I should've been cool with all of this shit that people put me through. Because, hey, I was heavy. Any attention from a man, even an intimidating man, or a strange man, or a drunk man, should have been met with reverence. I was lucky I could get any man to stoop so low, right?
Ultimately, men made me feel cheap. Used. Every encounter, no matter how brief and PG-rated, left me feeling like I had handed over a part of myself to them. I was unfaithful to myself, but I had no choice. This was my part to play. This was what I had to endure to get the looks and the sneers and the head-patting to stop. I was a woman, I was told. This is what is expected of me. Men have rights to me, I just have to accept that. Accept what they want from me, and what they want to do to me, and how they choose to treat me, and be grateful for it. I was never attacked, or groped, or stalked, but I still felt under fire.
Every time a man asked for my number or tried to chat me up, I felt threatened. I felt angry. I felt trapped. So I told everybody I didn't want sex, and didn't want companionship, and I didn't want anybody. I just wanted to be left alone. So I told everybody I was asexual. That's a cheap-shot to anybody who is asexual, and I understand that now. But it was either that or be forced into situations where I felt threatened, so I chose to hide. I hid so long, and felt so angry, so used, so afraid, that I started to believe it. I would die alone, and that was okay. It had to be. Even when I wanted companionship, and I felt like I was finally in a place where sex could be an option, I told myself no. You don't get to have that. There's something broken inside you that makes you the way you are, hateful and afraid. So it just has to be this way.
It never even really occurred to me that I just wanted to date women.
It wasn't an option, really, in my mind. I liked women. I was attracted to them. I even felt safe with the notion of having a relationship with one. Sex, my greatest enemy, seemed less scary and more natural, more honest, more real when I thought of having it with another woman. But with my family and my friends, and my lot in life, it never seemed like I had a choice. Eventually I stopped telling people I was asexual and just told them I was bisexual. Again, not really an appropriate use of the term in my case, but it just seemed easier. It meant I had options, at least. After a while, I was just queer. No identification card needed. It worked well enough.
Somewhere along the way, in my early 20s when I was avoiding relationships and trying to get through my life without exploding, a lot of stupid things happened. A friend of mine decided I was her girlfriend and we were dating without, you know, consulting me of her intentions. That was probably the most awkward thing I've experienced, to be honest. To this day she swears we're no longer friends because I rejected her for being a lesbian. Go figure that one out. I later began a relationship with my first girlfriend, who had been my best friend for a number of years. That, too, ended in a bright flash of pain and stupidity. If I was a raw nerve, screwed up by bad friends and betrayals, she was an open wound, using me as an emotional crutch and isolating me from others to keep me close and make her feel better. She and I are no longer friends either. Again, I decided I was going to die alone and left it at that.
In October 2010, I ended up with Melissa, through a series of events, most of which involved a lot of stumbling and me talking out of my ass. We're still together. And I mean, together-together. I love her, so much that it actually kind of perplexes me sometimes. I feel safe with her, and I don't feel safe with anyone. Just being close to her, and hearing her voice, and sleeping next to her, makes me happy. The idea of developing the sexual component in our relationship (which is difficult to achieve right now, given our living arrangements for the time being) feels natural and welcomed and right, when in my life before nothing about sex ever seemed like it could ever be okay. A lot of things surrounding our relationship make it difficult right now, from family to geography to financial problems, but it isn't work. It just is.
It must sound completely lame to be 25, finally have your first real relationship, and figure out that you're a lesbian. But, hey, that's me. Always the last one to get the memo. At least I got it this time.
