We awoke the following morning, half-expecting that uncomfortable, ‘wow, we had sex last night’ feeling. But it was actually kind of average. He was a nice guy and I didn’t regret spending the evening with him. I noticed something, though. He walked more upright, had a strong smile instead of a goofy grin, a relaxed but aggressive demeanor: he had a newfound swagger. And the confidence to go along with it. So much so, that I hoped that round two (prompted by him) would be much more satisfying for me. Alas, all the confidence in the world won’t grow a penis overnight. We did it in the hallway, right on the floor, which would have been hot if not for his lack of ????? I gave myself a hand – I owed myself something. I begged for him to hold on for me just a few seconds more. Nope, he was done. And so was I. I tried.
He jumped in the shower, calling for me to join him. Once in there, he had that smile again. He was so proud of himself. This is the moment when a woman should really tell a man that there is much to be improved. That he could take a few pointers and become a much better lover. That he could perhaps work on satisfying a woman, who’d be more apt to satisfy him even more despite his tiny penis. I kept smiling, silent, knowing that he was just doomed. And when he tried to get me to give him a bj in the shower, I laughed. He really thought he had done something to earn that! Plus, that’s just not something I could stomach. I mean: penises aren’t really my thing and what would that even feel like? It’d be like sucking on a straw.
I politely declined. We finished our shower and said our goodbyes. Once he was gone, I took inventory of myself. Why did I do that? Aren’t I gay? Gay women don’t have sex with men; that’s the whole point. Why do I migrate back into the arms of a man once every year or so? I knew why. It’s the same issue I still deal with today. Sometimes I wish I were straight. It’s the same idea behind young black kids who get picked on so much, that it would just be easier to blend in…to be white. After all, I’m multi-racial, a woman and gay. Who needs all that crap? And there’s only one of the three that I could possibly force into normality. But it didn’t work then and it hasn’t worked since. I still stare longingly at people who seem to have the “right” life. Married, white, two cute drooling kids, an SUV and a husband who makes a good living. It’s so easy for them. I’m sure they have some of the same issues I do sometimes, but the added stress of being different, of fighting to be who you are against the status quo is just exhausting. It’d be one less headache. Well, in my case, three fewer headaches.
Why me? Maybe I’ve asked this before, but it’s an issue that keeps running through my mind. I love being a woman. I’m pretty, thank goodness and I love all of the little things about being a woman: style, soft features, wardrobe, the uncanny ability to manipulate when necessary. I’ve accepted it. I love being a racial minority. As a kid, I would’ve answered this differently, but I’ve come to embrace my exotic features and my history. I don’t even mind anymore when strangers ask me about my background. It’s much better than those days on the playground when black kids would shove me asking, “what is you?” And the white kids would just look at me funny, finally electing a ‘representative’ to step forward and ask the pressing questions: ‘why are your eyes that color? how did you get freckles? why is your skin so light, but not quite white?‘ I still love the looks I get from white people – they have no idea how to categorize me, which is perfect.
But the gay question. Do I love it? Yes and no. I like having the little secret in my mind that makes me even more mysterious. I’m not out at work, so jumping back into the pronoun game is not much fun but I like having the privacy. Back in the club game, everyone was in your business and it was just annoying sometimes. I love women – everything about them. They turn me on. Isn’t that what separates the gays from the straights? Would you rather put your penis into a vagina or into a man’s ass? Would you like the finger inside of you to be soft, pretty and well-manicured or gnarly, thick and chaffed?
I choose the well-manicured, but could I deal with a gnarled one if it means one aspect of my life is normal?
There’s another part of my brain that thinks if I can just get involved with a man, I can still be the girl. The roles are as they should be and no one has to think about it. I can lean on him and he won’t crumble into hysterics, jealousy or turn hormonally psychotic. I can be vulnerable and he can save the day: take out the garbage, fix stuff, handle the finances, make things better. I’ll cook, clean, birth some spawn, shop and look pretty. Then my Facebook statuses will look like everyone else’s and I’ll fit in better. My life would look perfect. Wouldn’t that be easier?
Yes. I’d die a little on the inside, but it might be a little easier. Because I’m scared. I’m scared that I’ll never rekindle that desire to brave the seas of dating another beautiful woman. The emotions and the baggage and the uncertainty. Everyday I have a hard time seeing how the two can be compatible. I’ve become such a loner now that I can’t even comprehend another person in my space; having to edit my behaviors and bothersome habits. Most like the idea of snuggling and canoodling with another. I cringe.
Would it be so wrong to live this lie? People do it everyday. Wake up every morning to a man or a woman who is pleasant and means well, but doesn’t satisfy them entirely. But the bills are paid and there is guaranteed to be a person in your corner who accepts all of your faults – or at least deals with them. It’s the American dream.
Have I given up? Perhaps. Is she out there? No clue. But there are a lot of men in Atlanta who’d be willing to step into her place. Sigh – that would be so much easier.