The word BLOG!was left on my Facebook wall. Jewel, you asked for it…
I’ve been quiet lately or should I say my mouth has been more still. My mind has been active, screaming words, reflections.
This time last year I was trying to absorb an carve everything about Mama so my memories would always be fresh. I was trying to cope with her last days and prepare myself for the future. I realize now that you just can’t prepare yourself for a life without a parent. You just completely underestimate how much you need them, even after you think you’re all grown up.
Her death makes all of the good things that have happened this year bittersweet… Although there is a part of me that I was motivated by her passing and her stubborn spirit keeps me moving forward.
There are people that used to be a big part of my life that I’m no longer close to. I miss them… And I’m tired of missing them.
2011 has taught me that there just is never enough time to enjoy the people that really mean something to me, so why do I continue to waste minutes that I can never get back? Why?
With this year, I’m saying goodbye to my fear of reaching out and letting go and hello to familiar faces…
Be sure to check out the first part of this story, Beans & Rice.
August 12, 2000 marked one month to the day I moved out of my parents’ home. It also marked on month to the last time I had spoken to Daddy. By now, every one on both sides of my family knew that I had moved out, but no one knew exactly why. When asked, I told people that it was just time. In that month, Jerry and I settled very quickly into our customized domestication. We added my name to the lease, I changed my address and when Momma told me I could have my old bedroom furniture, I was able to get “my room” set up. We took turns cooking for each other, we argued, we invited friends over for drinks and movies, we shared the bills, we ran together, we cuddled on the couch watching our shows and we alternated sleeping in “his room” and “my room”. We even went back to school together, keeping each other motivated to study and get to classes on time. I was able to afford it because I was promoted to Assistant Manager at Timberland shortly after I moved. So things were going kinda good. Oddly, through all that, the impact of every thing that happened one month before had yet to really sink in. I wouldn’t say I ignored it or couldn’t get my mind around it. It just didn’t seem real in a lot of ways. That kind of drama was so foreign to our branch of the Banks family, so nothing we had ever been through prepared any of us for it. So it just kinda sat there on the side of my mind until I could figure out what to do with it.
On that morning, August 12th, I called my aunt Gloria and left a Happy Birthday message for my cousin Jeremie, got dressed and drove around the corner to the barber shop. As it was the only black barber shop in a 15 mile radius, it was usually packed, and that day was no different. The barbers were never concerned with speedy service presumably because they took pride in giving each customer a great hair cut (and not because they knew our only options were to wait or leave nappy). I walked in, sat down and was about to dive into a wonderful string of reverie when my eyes caught sight of that iconic Kappa Alpha Psi bumper sticker and shiny brick red truck. It was ten year old, but you would have sworn it was just driven off the lot. Daddy always took pride in how well he was able to maintain things he bought. Before I could look away from the bumper sticker, the door swung open and he stepped in, removing his hat as his eyes fell right on mine. Continue Reading →
George Michael’s album, Faith, was released in 1987. I remember listening to it in the summer time. My youngest aunt owned the tape. That was when the tapes would come with they lyrics, so you can only imagine how much time I spent putting on my own concerts. His music was grown. I have no idea why the adults in my life allowed me to listen to his music, but they did. My mom went as far as buying me my own copy. It was the first tape I ever owned.
This album was the first album by a Caucasian artist to hit the top spot on the R & B charts. If you remember the other songs on this album also included “One More Try,” “I Want Your Sex,” “Kissing a Fool,” “Monkey” and “Father Figure”. George Michael said to Rolling Stone Magazine: “I was much happier with Faith being No.1 black album than I was [when] it became No.1 pop album.” To put his success in context, this was out at the same time as Michael Jackson’s Bad.
My first real boyfriend said to me once, Sex is only important if you’re having it. Like the virgin he knew I was, I ate it up. I made him wait six months for my booty, but I was the only one making him wait. He had other booty available to make up for what he wasn’t getting from me.
After I lost my virginity, I had a natural curiosity and hunger for sex. This curiosity and hunger increased after I had my first orgasm ever– kudos to my first girlfriend. Up until a few years ago, I never went longer than six weeks without sex. Then I started being a bit more selective and twice I approached a year of celibacy.
Waiting was never by choice. I was in a series of long distance relationships that forced me to curb my sexual appetite. While the want is still there, it no longer feels like a need.
That’s the thing about long distance relationships, you learn each other without the distraction of physical chemistry. Sugar and I took ten months to meet. Ridiculous I know, but we’ve reached a point in our relationship that I’ve never reached before…
I’ve been with women that called me stingy in reference to sex. I don’t like feeling like a piece of meat. If I ever feel that way, you’ll need the jaws of life to pry my legs apart.
I learned that some people have problems expressing deep emotion in ways outside of sex. When I would withdraw sexually, they lost their ability to communicate love…
Being so far away from Sugar initially has given us the ability to show and communicate love without sex, even without words. This is completely new for me and it feels so good.
A great sex life should be the icing on the cake. After all, a cake without icing is still a cake. All you get from icing is a temporary sugar high… It’s not fulfilling.
Please excuse me, while I go ice my cake and get high off my Sugar… *wink
Question: If for some reason you couldn’t have a sexual relationship with your partner, meaning it was physically impossible due to some kind of health issue, would your relationship last?
Y’all know I like a good story. I especially like it when the stories can benefit someone else, so here’s introducing the first part of Aris’ story…
On July 12, 2000, after a major and dramatic disagreement with Daddy over my sexuality, I was led to leave my parents’ home. He had confronted me with a stack of emails to and from me and Jerry four days prior and we agreed that none of such conduct would take place in his house. However, he approached me a few days later reasoning that as long as I was in the house, “IT” too was in the house, so I had to decide right then and there to change or leave. I left (duh!). Up to that point, he’d kept this discovery of his away from Momma and offered to spare me the shame of having to tell her, but in my anger and 21 year-old pride, I insisted that I would tell her myself.
Maybe she knew all along or maybe she didn’t. Either way, it wasn’t easy to actually form those words in my head and then verbalize them to her. It wasn’t until later that night when I was sitting in the cushy recliner next to her side of the bed that I realized I had never actually said those words to any one. I’d never said “I’m gay.” Even to this day, I can count the times I’ve said it since then. Interesting.
Anyway, I told her. She frowned and shifted uncomfortably in the bed several times before getting up to come and catch the tears that were clouding my frightened eyes. I had kind of imagined she would be sorta okay with it, but at the last minute I was scared she would reject and not want anything to do with me. I swallowed hard and told her I was sorry.
She said “That’s okay. Momma still love you. Nothin you ever tell me can make me not love you or love you any less than I do. I still look at you like I did the day you were born.”
Daddy was laying on his side of the bed visibly angry, but I tried to pretend I didn’t notice it.
I told him “Daddy I know you’re mad and you don’t understand it, but I’m sorry.”
It was becoming difficult to talk while restraining the sobs piling up in my chest. I felt like I was waiting for some dramatic and cathartic climax so I could yell and cry and scream “WHY?! WHY?! WHY?!” Daddy came through for me.
He looked over and said “Son, why don’t you just try to change?”
to which I replied “Cause Daddy, I ca-”
Before I could complete the last syllable, he sat straight up in the bed like a reverse lightening bolt, pointed at the front door and yelled “GET THE HELL OUT OF MY HOUSE!”
My sadness morphed into a dark pentagram of defiance, despair, rage, confusion and frightening uncertainty as I smacked my teeth and said “PEACE OUT!!”
There were no thoughts for a minute. I was walking, talking, yelling, looking around, seeing, hearing, breathing…but not thinking. No thoughts at all. Not a single one. My mind was completely blank, likely making room to take in this scene that was so completely out of place in the Banks’ Family house hold. As I came out of their bedroom, I heard the thud of Daddy’s foot steps behind me. They only sounded like that when he was coming to give me a whoopin. Then I heard Momma yell “…Bob! Come back here! Wait a minute! He didn’t mean to say that! Metrice!”
I turned around to see Daddy pulling himself out of Momma’s arms and say to me “I want my car keys buddy!”
Daddy had co-signed on my new car about a month and a half earlier and made the down payment.
As he reached me and tried to wrestle the keys out of my clinched fists, I yelled, “I ain’t givin you nothing until I get the seven hundred and ten dollars I’ve paid on this car already! When I get my money, I’ll give you your keys!”
(Angry enough to actually talk back to him, but not quite dumb enough to curse at him. How ya like me?)
Daddy said “I will go and write you a check right now!” and went into his study to pull out his check book. Momma took the car keys from me and I walked through the living room and out the front door.
Just started walking. Stepped in a puddle at the edge of the drive way and realized that I wasn’t wearing shoes. I fell down on my knees buried my face in my hands. What the hell was going on?!
Momma, her voice quivering, called out to me, “You need a ride somewhere Sweetheart?”
“No, I’ll just walk the gas station on the corner and call Jerry.”
“You sure you don’t want me to give you a ride? Just wait right here, I’m gonna talk to your daddy. The only reason why he tryina take your car is because you said ‘peace out’ and he felt disrespected. If you just apologize to him, he’ll let you keep the car…” She spoke with the kinda uncertain certainty that falls on a mother as she tries to explain things to her child that she hasn’t begun to understand for herself. It made me think about the period in my life where all I had to do was trust momma. A period the aroma of which still hung in the air around me as it had just slipped away about seven minutes before. “I’ma tell your daddy to come out and talk to you, so just apologize to him, okay? Please, do that for momma?”
Are we really having this conversation? And if we really are, why is she offering me a ride and not inviting me back in the house? Do my parents actually know I’m gay now? I actually said that out loud to somebody? Them, of all people? Is this supposed to happen to me at 21? Are they gonna let me go back to school? Can they let me do anything now? Am I on my own? Am I out of the house? Am I an adult? Have I eaten today?
“Okay…”
About a minute later, Daddy came out and I apologized. Momma handed me my car keys.
The three of us stood outside in the driveway for about two hours quoting Bible verses. Believe it or not, I had found an article on the web two weeks prior about homosexuality and the Bible and had been studying it intensely. For every verse they threw at me, I threw back two plus a factoid.
Fukkin gays. We thorough with our shit when we wanna be. Crafty btches, we are, CRAFTY BTCHES…
After we had each exhausted our respective wealths of Scriptural interpretation, Daddy sighed, shook his head in frustration and went inside to his study. I had been bugging Momma for weeks to make red beans and rice and as it happens, she had made it for me that day.
“Now you better get back in here and eat my beans and rice I made for you.”
You kinda gotta know my Momma to really appreciate that part.
I forced a half smile and told her that I just needed some time outside. She stood with me for a minute and we talked some more about the Bible and my feelings and she tried again to explain Daddy’s angle, which I already understood. He was a military man. Raised in the deeply Baptist, deeply homophobic south. To boot, I was his only son, I carried his name, and as the rest of my male cousins were from his sisters, I also carried the family name and was the end of the bloodline. So I could understand what he was going through (even when during our heated conversation he interjected that he hoped Jerry and I were using condoms…God, I wanted to just evaporate at that moment!!). I explained to momma that I’d known this about myself for as long as I could remember and it wasn’t like I could just change it like talking about it. She said she understood. I guess there was really nothing else she could say.
I heard Daddy call me from the house. I stepped inside the front door and he was sitting at his desk. He presented me with an ultimatum. I could either be straight in the house or be gay somewhere else. He told me that it just didn’t make sense to him and that he didn’t even want to try to understand it.
“But Daddy, I don’t understand it myself, its just…its just part of me. It always has been for as long as I’ve known myself…”
“Son, I’ll tell you something your grammamma once told me: Wrong don’t last.”
I stood there for a minute imagining how my granny sounded saying that. I mean, its the perfect thing to hear from an old person, ya know?
He continued, “Now that door you just walked through, you see that its open now. It won’t be for very long. You think good and hard about the decision you make because once you make it, that’s it…”
After staring at the floor for what felt like an hour, I looked up at my Daddy and told him that I was gonna sit outside and think for a minute. I remember sitting in my car, opening the moon roof, and looking up at the stars. I can still remember what each one looked like and where they sat in the sky. You’re gonna think I did this on purpose or that I’m making this part up, but I promise you; it was completely random. I turned on the cd player and The Velvet Rope cd was on deck. The first thing I heard was Janet singing the chorus to her cover of “Tonight’s The Night”. “…Tonight’s the night…it’s gonna be alright…cause I’ll love ya, girl, ain’t nobody gonna stop us now…”
Yeah, Janet said “girl”. How bout that sht?
I prayed so hard sittin in that car. I kept thinking about having sex with Jerry and trying to make myself not want it ever again. I even tried closing my eyes really tight and opening them expecting to be suddenly straight. Of all nights, I actually saw a shooting star on that one. I didn’t wish on it though.
I started my car and sat for a minute before slowly backing out of the driveway. This was it! I was gonna go be gay! Out in the world! I thought it would be easier to just leave versus going back to actually tell them what I decided to do. Wrong about that! Just as I was about to drive off, I stopped to look at the light coming out of the house. We had had about 9 different addresses over our lives together but the light coming out of each one always looked the same at night. It wasn’t like he light coming from the neighbor’s house, or even the light that comes from my grannies’ houses. It was our light. It was my home. It was punctuated by my mom’s silhouette standing in the doorway with her hands near her face as she watched my car. I knew she was crying.
“I’m sorry momma…”
And I drove off.
When I went back the next day to get the rest of my stuff, the locks had been changed.
Part two next Tuesday…
I was thinking about how certain songs bring back so many memories for me. Songs make me want to tell stories, so here’s Volume One of Music Memories Monday.
Mama gave birth to me at nineteen. She was the second oldest of seven kids, so there were a lot of teenagers in the house growing up around me when I was a kid. This was the late seventies and early eighties, so funk was in full effect.
One of my aunt’s was a cheerleader. My uncles had a musical group that performed during the football games. Everything was full of soul, pride about their color. It was ridiculously soulful, so lighthearted, so fun.
Anyone remember this song? Sing with me…
Alligator woman, you don’t care!
You ignore my desires, it ain’t fair!
You just want to tease me, and turn me on.
I wish you would leave but I don’t want to be alone, No!
Whenever my blog gets real quiet, it is usually because I’m stressed and I can’t calm my mind long enough to put together a well executed sentence.
My life in general isn’t stressful…
My stress comes from work. I still love my job and the company, but my work ethic is so strong, I often find myself giving so much that I have nothing left for myself. The company puts emphasis on having a good balance, but the real office superstars are the ones that put the company high on their list of priorities.
I don’t want to do that. I still want my shine, but I want to have something left to do the things I really want to do, like write.
I can’t help but to think how much I could get accomplished if I could shift all of my time an energy to my other projects…Then I wonder how motivated I’d be to do it.
What motivated you to do the things you love? How do you find the time?
If you’ve already seen this, feel free to start the discussion. If you haven’t, here’s a brief introduction of what you’ll be getting yourself into (courtesy of IMDb).
The Johnsons are an attractive, well-to-do, upper-middle class family. Sidney, husband and father, is a famous poet, known and adored for his kindness and sensitivity. Joan, wife and mother, is a dutiful housewife, an obsessive homemaker and the life of every party. Their son, Isaiah, is a charismatic young man who has just gotten married to an equally appealing young woman. In fact, there is only one thing that separates the Johnsons from their charming friends and neighbors: Isaiah, the son, has been molesting Sidney, the father, since he was twelve years old.
With that being said, this is sick, this is disturbing, this is unexpected, bold and in your face. Don’t say I didn’t warn you…
Rob is the type of person I rarely run into. A openly bisexual black man. He’s got a way with words too, so check out his blog after you read his story…
Alix wrote to me and asked if I do this guest blog and say a few things about being a bisexual man – and it’s my honor and privilege to share this with her readers. The best place to start is at the beginning, so sit back, get comfortable, and let me tell you how I got to be bi.
I had my first piece of pussy when I was eight – it was a birthday present from a 16-year-old and happened during my birthday party, in a big closet of the apartment we lived in. She was the first person to suck my (then) little dick and showed me how to put it in her and how to move up and down. I wasn’t sure what the hell was going on… but it felt good and it was nice and since it was a very naughty thing to be doing, well, that made it better. But that day seemed to put me on a path and I found myself asking the neighborhood girls if I could do “it” to them and if they said yes – and a lot of them did – it was on.
During the summer of my ninth birthday, I had my life changed forever. I was at home, my father was watching me and him and one of his drinking buddies were just sitting around talking about shit and drinking up a storm as I played. At one point, they ran out of booze and my father volunteered to go get more and asked his friend to keep an eye on me; he agreed and my dad left.
A moment or two later, the man asked me if I’d like to make some money and, well, what kid wouldn’t? He said he’d give me $20 for doing something; he reached in his wallet, pulled out a crisp $20 bill and, with dreams of all the candy I could buy, I took it. He then dropped his pants and I got my first look at an adult boner and, wow, it was impressive-looking. He leaned forward and gently pressed his cock against my lips and gently said, ”Open for me…”
Okay, bells started going off in my head because I had heard that boys weren’t supposed to do this with other boys… but I had $20 in my hand and I opened my mouth out of sheer curiosity; his knob slipped into my mouth and I was immediately caught up in the taste and feel of a man’s dick as he gently fucked my mouth. Of course, I had a lot of saliva in my mouth so I swallowed and my tongue just automatically played against his prick – he liked this and probably said something about doing that again – but I wasn’t really paying attention because this was a wonderfully weird feeling.
A few moments later, he came in my mouth and I swallowed his stuff more out of self-defense than a desire to do so – but, damn, it tasted weird but good and, later on in my life, I knew I was hooked at that moment. He then paid me another $30 to put his dick in my butt cheeks and, holy shit, that’s $50! I was rich! I’ll say that he fucked me in the ass even though he didn’t really try to enter me – and now there’s some new and delicious feelings happening. He busted his nut, helped me clean up, and by the time my father came back with the booze, it was as if nothing had happened.
From there, well, I went insane with this new thing! It turned out that I wasn’t the only kid in the hood with a taste for doing this and it wasn’t all that unusual for our little “gang” of guys and girls to hang out in our “clubhouse” – an abandoned apartment building – and spend time having sex with each other and in every way we could do it. It wasn’t unusual for us guys to get together and play doctor and sticking our “thermometers” into each other’s mouths and asses – and with penetration. No one was busting a nut yet so we’d just do each other until we got tired, stop for a breather, and do it some more. A week or so after I got introduced to dick, I was fucking my first “girlfriend” and it was all going good when all of a sudden, I didn’t feel good; the room was kinda spinning, my heart was racing and my mind was all over the place. Something slammed into me… and I knew I was dying because I was being assaulted by feelings I’d never had before.
But, just as fast as it happened, it went away; I pulled out of the girl and she was really happy. She kissed me and pointed down between her legs and said, “Look at what you can do now!” I looked… and saw a whole lot of some yellow-white… stuff coming out of her and I somehow just knew that this was the “baby making stuff” I’d been hearing about.
Because I was the first of us to be able to do this – and I hadn’t turned 10 yet – it made me popular with the kids – and especially the girls – and all this did was add an extra dimension of fun to all the fucking we were doing with each other.
I guess it was a week or so after my tenth birthday when my father unknowingly added the final piece of the puzzle for me by telling me to never put my mouth on a girl’s pussy. Bad thing to say to a kid as curious about sex as I was– and one who’d been fucking and busting nuts like there was no tomorrow – and then he never said why I should never do this – so, ten minutes later, I went and found a girl and put my mouth on her pussy – and it was fucking wonderful… and she thought so, too.
It wasn’t hard for me to figure out that I liked pussy and dick but the word “bisexual” wasn’t in my vocabulary although I did know what a fairy and a queer was, two things I didn’t equate to what me and the boys would do a lot of because, duh, I wasn’t going around acting like a girl like some guys I saw!
My whole life to that point was about sex – and I didn’t care about who I was doing it with. Sure, I knew I wasn’t supposed to be having sex at all, which all that did was make the danger of getting busted very thrilling. I had no real concept of sexuality like I do now; all I cared about was that it was fun and it didn’t make a difference if it was a boy or a girl – to me, everyone was fair game. Between the ages of 9 and 14, I had had more sex and in more ways than most adults – and I took the things I was learning with deadly seriousness, too.
What I instinctively knew was that there was a part of me I shouldn’t let a whole lot of people know, something that popped into my head when I started junior high school. It didn’t stop me from getting dick or pussy but now that I knew what a faggot was – and how they’d get beat up in school – yeah, better to keep quiet about it, huh? None of this was a problem for me, although I kinda struggled with that right and wrong thing – but not terribly so – but.
During my first year in high school, I did a dumb thing: I let a man talk me into going home with him; he drugged me and raped me and he was really having his way with me… but he didn’t account for whatever he doped me with wearing off – and I have a terribly nasty and vicious temper and, oh, yeah, I was learning judo and karate and I used these deadly skills to whip his ass like no one has ever got beaten before. I bloodied him, broke bones and fractured others – then tied him to his bed and left him to die – yeah, it was like that, trust me.
I didn’t tell my mother about this, mostly because she might not have believed me and, well, it was something I really didn’t want to say to her because of the humiliation I felt. Oddly, I didn’t blame the man for victimizing me – I blamed myself for being stupid and setting myself up for it. It did put my activities with men on hold for a while, except for a couple of instances… but it made me very aware that this duality about me wasn’t all peaches and cream.
I got over my rape; I had bit the bullet and analyzed every aspect of it and despite he took me against my will, I also had to admit that the sex was off the hook, from sucking him off to being fucked by him; to him sucking me off and having my dick in his ass and that I wasn’t exactly in control of myself fucked with me – that and my abject stupidity – well, I learned something.
Didn’t put an end to my sex with men thing and when I could do it – and safely – I did… but now I’m really thinking about what the hell I’d become. By the time I got out of high school and into the service, not a whole lot had changed except I was being more careful about what guys I played with. Having a gay roommate in the service was like gravy; we were lovers but I was still getting my fair share of pussy and it was acceptable and my philosophy about my sexuality was beginning to take shape.
Now, my girlfriend through all of this, who I met and fell in love with when I was 15, knew this about me but didn’t really agree or disagree about it. We got married as planned and life went on. For quite a while, I went without having sex with a man, not because she forbid it – I was too into my job as husband and father although there were times when I’d manage to run across a guy and we’d do it and on about our business. It wasn’t until I fell in love with a gay man who (1) was on the prowl for me and (2) wound up living with us ‘cause he was a friend and homeless that I actually and officially asked myself, “Am I gay?”
My “affair” with this guy changed everything for me about my sexuality and, one night after making love with him, I confessed it to my wife – I came out, so to speak – and waited for her to lose her mind, take the kids and leave me. But, she surprised me; after I spilled my guts, she said that she suspected that me and him were having sex… and she thought it was cute – her exact words.
I spent the next two years hashing out this shit with my sexuality; some of it I looked at didn’t make me feel good about myself but, eventually, I finally decided that I wasn’t gay, didn’t like guys like that and a lot of that was because I’d happy bang the old lady as if I never touched a dick.
Because we later decided to have an open marriage – her idea – it opened the doors to a lot of things, allowing me to get all the dick and pussy I could handle as long as I obeyed the rules we had in place and, well, my sex life got really interesting after that – but now, my philosophy about sex and sexuality had been formed and I’ve spent the ensuing years fine tuning it and refining it until I got to where I am today: I am bisexual and I have no reason to hide or be ashamed of what I am.
November 11, 2004 started as a normal day. I kissed my girlfriend before I left for work. Made the ten minute drive to work. It was normal.
Around 11am, I got an email from my girl. The subject line was Smile Baby, but there wasn’t anything to smile about. She was wanted by the law and she was leaving me to go into hiding. My heart was broken. I didn’t know such pain existed…
Then 12 hours later, my aunt called to tell me that my granddaddy had lost his battle with lung cancer and leukemia. He had passed on.
That’s when the real pain set in.
We buried him on November 16. Seven years ago today. The day before his 74th birthday.
I feel the pain of his absence everyday and this year… With Mama gone…
It was this time last year, we found out she was terminal. It’s like someone pulled a scab off an old wound.
J at Up 4 Discussion asked: I’ve always wondered how some people could tell someones sexual orientation just by looking at them. I understand that some people make it obvious, but others don’t. I’m curious, do you have any signs that you look for or notice that tell you certain things about a persons sexual orientation? If so, what are some of those things?
Everyone isn’t going to walk around with their sexuality visible to the world. When you can’t simply observe the dude in really tight jeans, or the girl sagging hers, you have to look a little closer.
When my gay worker first started, he played the pronoun game. “I used to date someone and they…” He never referred to past or current dates using the words he, his, or him until he realized I was gay too…
The saying birds of a feather is true. Typically, a really feminine girl isn’t going to hang out with a group of studs if she isn’t gay. People tend to flock towards those with common interests. This applies even more to men. The average straight man will not surround himself with feminine men if he can’t relate to their lifestyle.
A former friend of mine, a straight girl, used to mistaken for gay on a regular basis. She’s a tall, broad woman with a strong personality. She liked to touch. Anybody. Male or female. It made no difference. She would make comments like, “Shawty had ass for days!” The only way you could really tell what sex she was attracted to was to watch her watch a room. She might see the big asses, but her eyes didn’t linger there. Her eyes would linger on the tall skinny man standing in the corner.
If someone were to see me alone, they would never guess my sexuality. I have been out at gay clubs and been asked if I was straight or bisexual. *shrugs I carry a men’s messenger bag. I rock a low cut. I have short nails. My everyday jewelry is minimal, no dangles. My style isn’t real frilly. I’ve worn dresses/skirts maybe 5 times this year. I’m typically in flats. My face is usually make up free.
I sound like a lesbian to me. What do you think?
When you’re trying to figure out if someone is gay, what do you look for?
The first time I saw her she came out of the train station and walked by me down the street. I noticed the Chucks she wore with pin-striped trousers, a button down blue shirt with a white collar, and a messenger bag. Her long straight, blonde hair was pulled into a ponytail hanging down her back.
I took one look at her and categorized her as gay. She didn’t have an extra switch in her hip. In fact, she sauntered more than sashay. There was something masculine about how she handled herself, even though she didn’t look like a stud/butch. You ever seen women that just scream gay? It’s almost as if they have it written across their foreheads in bright blinking lights.
I’ve seen her quite a few times since then, but she wasn’t alone. The first time I saw her with him, they were in identical outfits. I was sitting on the train with them. The way they interacted they looked like friends or family. When our stop came, they were walking in front of me. He leaned down to give her a kiss, then they went about their separate ways. It shocked me. My first thought was, “She’s not gay?” Then I thought maybe she is and doesn’t know it.
I checked myself this morning when I saw them. I hate people making assumptions about who or what I am based off of my physical appearance and here I was doing the same thing. How many times have I heard, “You don’t look gay.” “You’re too pretty to be gay.” You see where I’m going with this? When people say things like that to me, I always ask them, what gay looks like…
…Yet, in my mind, I have a stereotype of how gay looks to me. How can I get mad when someone categorizes me, but here I am doing the same thing.
Besides, how does gay look?
I was having this conversation with a co-worker about her life. She described what her life was like growing up in India and having her marriage arranged. She joked that her biggest sticking point with her parents was that her future husband needed to be someone that would not stay in India. She was adamant that she would never return there to live. When I asked why, she said she didn’t fit in. She described an Indian woman as being submissive and this woman is anything, but submissive. She’s a firecracker! I find it quite funny that she refers to 2 other employees as her girlfriend and boyfriend. The funny part is that they are a male and female respectively.
At our last company gathering, she and I found ourselves isolated from the other girls while they discussed things like wedding dresses and celebrity wedding and such. We laughed at how we were both more comfortable being around men versus women. She remarked that the hormone level in the company was now off since a lot of the new hires have been women. Then she says, “If I’m ever reincarnated, I want to come back as a lesbian.”
I didn’t ask her why. You know there are women that adapt the lesbian title for reasons that have nothing to do with their attraction to women. Sometimes it has more to do with their distaste of men.
I’m a lesbian because penis, balls don’t do it for me. That’s the obvious, right? More importantly, I have found it very difficult to form emotional ties to men. I might enjoy hanging out with one, but I’m not going to bond with them in a serious way. I find it very difficult to care about a man’s feelings…Hence my past of cheating on every boyfriend I’ve ever had. I’ve never cheated on a woman simply because I care way too much about how my actions may effect them. Their emotions are directly tied to mine. It never happened that way when I dated men.
So I’m curious, why do you call yourself a lesbian?