Unashamed (3 page)

As much as I would like to write about passionate lovemaking in a poetry-perfect world, here are the facts of the clench in my sphincter muscle. When we kissed for the first time after the question was asked, it was the butt-hole pucker that caused me to heave forward, clicking our teeth together. Ah yes, pre-pimp days.

After managing to ruin the most important move in a first-time lesbian experience, things began to flow naturally. Transitions from one touch to the next seemed effortless after the initial bumbling-idiot phase. We did not make love; we simply gave our bodies to each other and trusted in the moment. Innocence was lost and freedom found as it ended with passionate kisses before we fell to sleep. We fought our internal battle against traditional Adam and Eve.

Despite the mighty triumph for me, a black cloud of confusion reared its ugly head for her, and the next morning Angel did everything she could to avoid eye contact. She made sure there was no physical touch as she sat uncomfortably in a front room chair. Straddling the footstool in front of her was my only opportunity to ask if she was okay. She secretly wanted to smack my hand away and probably felt sick to her stomach, but these were all clues I pulled from her body language.

In my head she wanted me to leave so she could shower and scrub the sin from her body. Visuals of how she gagged herself as she brushed her teeth in the mirror and cried for redemption plagued me. It would be no surprise to me now if someone told me that she was some Bible-thumping evangelist because of our unholy “sexcapade,” and it was I who turned an angel to temporary insanity and physical lust. Oh, how she would preach to her congregation on the story of Sodom and Gomorrah, bearing witness to her own testimony of salvation. I would hope that, as she fans away the sweat of the Holy Spirit, the pulse in her loins reminds her of the way she licked her fingers free of my cum. In Jesus’s name she prays, Amen.

For her I was a temptress, the devil incarnate. She was only too relieved when my car drove away from her street to head home. We did not speak until the next afternoon. On my third attempt to call, she finally answered, so my first question was how she was doing. Her response was very abrupt, followed by silence. It’s unclear, but she may have been rebuking me in that moment, so, with a deep breath, I switched the handset to my other sweaty palm.

“Look,” I said with careful hesitation, “I had a lot of fun yesterday and maybe we could watch a movie or something tomorrow, you know. I’d really like to see you again.” I anxiously twitched and repeatedly rolled the cord in my fingers as my eyes frantically jolted around the room.

Every word fatigued me; the end of the sentences exhausted all of my energy. In the seconds of waiting for an answer, my ears burned while my body became stiff and motionless. My breathing paused, my heart stopped, everything froze. It’s a time warp oddity, but that was me, stuck in time, waiting with hot, throbbing ears, hoping for an equally deep response to words uttered with huge, underlying meaning.

She said my name and sighed deeply with a hint of sad apprehension. It sounded like she almost gave up when she discreetly said she didn’t want to hang out with me anymore.

She said “hang out” to describe what we did, and that was almost as hurtful as the rejection that was about to happen.

Instantly, I knew what she was trying to say and interrupted her in a futile attempt to block her from uttering the words she probably perfected in the shower. “Can I just call you tomorrow?”

Her brash answer was no. She was beginning to sound agitated and impatient, as if she were constantly scanning her room for unexpected family members. It was obvious the more I talked, the more she wanted the call to end.

I chose my words carefully as I twisted and twisted at the cord until my fingers turned purple at the tips. “But, we had such a good time and I thought…”

“I’m not gay,” she said calmly with an attempt to muffle her words from possible prying ears.

My heart burst into a million little pieces. I expected some hostility after she sulked in a guilt trip for twenty-four hours, but I hoped for the Angel who was intimate with me the previous evening. It felt like the person on the phone was the evil twin of a familiar songbird. In reality she was pushing me away faster than a kid dodges medicine.

In desperation I begged as if I was only asking a friend for a good day to catch a movie. “What about Thursday? Can I call then?”

She snapped at me with her hands over her mouth to the phone, which only made the whisper sound very loud. “Don’t call me again. I’m
not
gay!” and
click
, hung up the phone. That was it for her, pushed over the edge with Thursday. Maybe the request should have been for Friday or Saturday; that’s usually when straight girls go wild. Either way, my mouth stayed open in shock until the receiver beeped. The handset pressed into my hot ear until the beeping fell silent to the lost call. Dramatically I spoke to the nothing on the other end, “Okay, I guess I’ll call you some other time.” Then slowly I hung up the phone.

Escorting oneself through a second heartbreak is not easy.

My happiness with undefined sexuality was satisfying until she came along and disrupted everything. She ran from me, so I ran back to men and lost my “true” virginity to a boy I’d barely known longer than a month. It was easier to be straight; and, to be honest, boys are far easier to please.

My first love came back into my life through his pregnant girlfriend. She heard through the high school grapevine that we were secretly confessing love while I was dating some idiot from automotive science class, who was, in fact, mildly retarded. Part of it was true; Robert and I talked, but he initiated phone calls and confessed things to me about our love. His words were warm and true. She may have been his girlfriend, but I held his heart.

Hormones must have driven her insane because she confronted me at the top of a set of stairs in school. She stood so close to me that her belly linked the space between us as she threatened to beat me up. My inner butch, needing an excuse to escape, didn’t utter a single curse word, but each calculated sentence flew like daggers. Friends were shocked with how eerily calm I was versus my usual vibrancy. When a girl isn’t afraid to fight a pregnant woman, it’s best to walk away. And she did. There is power in confidence, but no matter how strong you are, someone always wants to test it.

She tested it a second time weeks later when she drove to my house after a heated phone call. A shouting match ensued just as my parents came home from work. In their infinite wisdom, they thought it best to bring everyone into the house to clear the air in a civilized manner. Of course my preference was to kick her pregnant lily-white ass.

As everyone seated themselves, my gaze fixated on her sitting beside Robert; I sat crossed legged on the floor, a weakened version of myself. My dad and stepmom were there to mediate our little powwow.

The bottom line was, if Robert said it was over, it was true. Anything else was an obsolete spilling of useless ramblings.

She tried to speak for Robert, but I barked before she could say another word. “You. SHUT. UP. I refuse to hear it from you.” My finger pointed between the two of them as her eyes grew to the size of quarters with my unexpected outburst. “I want to hear it from him. I want it to come from HIS mouth; otherwise it means SHIT to me! Don’t you speak for him again!” With quiet defiance she grabbed his hand and held it in hers. Timidly she spoke, “Tell her, Robert. Tell her you don’t love her anymore.” Her passive-aggressive tactics were pushing my emotional buttons, and had my parents not been sitting there, I would have exploded into a rage that wouldn’t have ended well.

Robert sat quietly for a moment; he never was much on words. He looked down at their intertwined fingers in contemplation, over to her belly, then to me waiting in a controlled fury on the floor. Everyone fell silent, listening to the beat of their own heart with bated breath as he collected his thoughts. My dad and my stepmom watched the young love drama unfold before their very eyes. Even they were in disbelief at the amount of tension in the living room.

Eventually he looked me dead in the eye, gently and quietly cleared his throat, and said he didn’t love me anymore. My parents’ devastation added to my own because they truly liked him. They even went so far as to pick him up, put a red bow on him, and surprise me for my sixteenth birthday. They knew it would crush me, but they didn’t expect it would hurt them too. I could hear their sighs of disappointment as my hands instantly cradled my face in pain and embarrassment. The intent was to bury my tears, but, when the flood came, there was no way to hide them. Yours truly cried the most horrific, gut-wrenching, heart-breaking cry on the planet. Not because he said the words that destroyed my world, but because he was lying.

Deep in the canvas of his soul he painted a picture of unconditional love for me but hid his work of art for the sake of an unborn child. My pain poured so hard and long that I didn’t hear them leave, and I collapsed an hour later from exhaustion. My dad picked me up from the floor and carried me to my room. He excused me from school as my face was so swollen it affected my vision. I became a zombie of an emotional death, completely lifeless on the inside.

That year the heartbreak from Robert and Angel brought minor isolation issues and rebellion. There was no violence to small animals or other radical mischief; rather, fashion was my outlet. My hair was styled in outlandish ways, and Goodwill dresses became my staple for two weeks. Yes, I was a real insurgent trying to rise up against tradition. It’s so clever to use fashion as an understatement.

Amber, my best friend, could not be tempted into these ways, no matter how convincing my monologue was. Her passive, bubbly personality wouldn’t allow my rebellion to begin. She accepted me any way presented, therefore calming my internal uprising. She was my peacemaker, my confidant. Amber soothed my troubled waters and was a bridge back to normalcy. Recalling her nonchalant reaction after pulling a
Penthouse
from my mattress was relieving and refreshing and a wonderful surprise, considering my struggle and attempts to hide it. Without flinching, she sat down to browse the pages on my bed. She flipped her long blonde hair behind her shoulder and opened the magazine, exposing the photos inside.

“Why do you have this? This is a guy’s magazine.”

I was literally in my closet pulling out clothes when she brought it to my attention. By that time she had already flipped through a few pages. In a panic I tried to grab it from her hands, but she was too quick. She laughed at my attempt. I was extremely embarrassed but glad to be exposed by my best friend and not anyone else. I stood five feet away with my arms crossed in a defensive manner, scared of where this might go, but I explained because there was something accepting in her blue eyes.

“Because I like girls?” I made the statement a question, unintentionally showing her how vulnerable I was.

Amber flipped her blonde hair again as she turned another page, never looking up from the naked women in the pictures. “Are you gay?” she said frankly as she scanned the glossy pages and made a comment about one of the model’s beautiful heels.

“I think so. No, I’m bi,” I corrected and plopped my ass on the bed next to her. We sat together, skimming its pages and taking note of a few exceptional models that really did something for me. As I pointed to the girls I liked, it dawned on her that I wasn’t kidding and I really had a thing for the same sex.

“Wait, you don’t like
me
, do you?” she asked and laughed like she already knew the answer.

“No, you jackass. You’re not my type.” I pushed her shoulder unexpectedly and scrunched my face at her as if she disgusted me. Her leg lifted from the floor to balance her weight and prevent a fall off of the bed.

Her eyebrows hit the ceiling as we turned red with laughter. Amber tried to shout through her amusement, “That’s fucked up!” but she couldn’t quite catch her breath and choked on her spit. That only sent us into a hysterical giggling fit. When she finally got control of herself after coughing into her fist, she genuinely said, “I don’t care what you are, you’re just Emma to me.” She was sincere; she was direct and held eye contact with me as she said it to let me know that whoever I turned out to be, she was supportive.

That being established, her curiosity reared its head, and she asked if I had ever physically been with a girl.

That’s when my confession of Angel and the details of our night together occurred for the first time, including the phone call the next day. When my eyes became misty, I diverted her attention to a story about a girl in our class who was also our mutual friend. Amber was jealous of this girl, so when her name was mentioned, she listened intently.

The girl’s best friend recently confessed years of love for her, so she was considering a lesbian relationship. The juicy part was that I was interested and wanted to be more than friends. It was shocking, but Amber was so fascinated by the drama she didn’t care about the dynamics of being gay or bisexual. It was the sensational details she wanted to know more about. I indulged her with answers to any questions that followed, none of which ever became an issue again.

Once Amber knew about Robert and Angel’s rejection, and the love triangle, she completely understood why it was important to get the hell out of Ohio. She knew the quickest way out was to join the military.

Chapter 3

It was difficult holding back my sexuality after coming to realize who I was. It’s like trying to announce the cure for cancer in a whisper. Typically, when gay people come out of the closet, they become flamboyant with their newly discovered or accepted identity. Some own all the rainbow trinkets and make it obvious that they fought to be themselves. It’s a rite of passage in the community.

My inner confidence was gained by owning the title of true bisexual. I use the word
true
to establish credibility for the label. It sets apart the stereotypical girls in college who finger their best friends on a drunken horny rampage from the bisexuals who struggle early on. Inner confidence, however, did not earn me sexual freedom. Inhibiting myself was essential to enter the realm of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” so I could be all I could be. Definitely some irony to be noted here.

In basic training there was a very good-looking girl bathing directly across from me in the community showers, claiming to hate gays. “Olive Oil,” dubbed so by the drill sergeants for her thin frame and slicked black hair. She was just the girl next door until the bubble thong incident. She became my living entertainment after she doubled up in a shower, giggling loudly that, not to worry, she was straight. Immediately my eyes scanned the area, scouting for the girl who made the comment. I never would have looked twice until she unknowingly challenged me with those words.

After that, my gaze intentionally lingered over her smooth perfection as my way to counterbalance her hatred for that which she claimed to have knowledge. Olive babbled about how she would
know
if a girl in the bay was a lesbian. On and on she spewed as she scrubbed the shampoo through her hair, causing her perfect size Cs to bounce in rhythm.

While “listening,” I wondered what she would do if she knew I was lustfully looking at her body. A giggle pulled me out of my trance in just enough time to hear her say, “I’d kick her ass,” before she trailed off again into
blah blah blahs
. My smile was timed with everyone else’s, but secretly she transitioned into my personal porn.

The shampoo slid down her sun-kissed curves. It began at the nape of her neck, over her shoulders, and through the center of her chest. It split into two foamy lines at her navel. One fell straight through her pubic hair; the other followed the contours of her hips to the back. I stared too long and became red-faced with embarrassment, but no one was watching me to notice my reaction. The girls were far too enthralled in Olive’s story on being anti-gay to see just how simply erotic she looked in that bubble belt. When she turned to wipe the soap from her eyes, the shampoo followed her spine directly through the crack of her perfect eighteen-year-old ass.

The bubble thong incident let my inner confidence on bisexuality grow into that cure-for-cancer whisper. A rainbow began to appear over my heart, but there were no pride parades for me that year.

After boot camp, I trained to learn the job I would eventually perform in the military. At that point my sexuality was set in bisexual stone. However, my attention was gravitated toward the only known lesbian within the first three days of being at the school. My bisexual proclamation was mentioned freely so the “rumor” would get to her.

This passive aggressive way to show interest was worse than sending a message by carrier pigeon. Only God knows if she heard any of it at all. If she did, she was absolutely, one hundred percent indifferent. She was blinded by lust and doted over her roommate, aka “lover.” She remained infatuated and called it love.

My first time meeting her was after overhearing girls chatter in the hall. Initially my intent was to shut them up, but the lesbian was sitting, crying in the doorway of a room with five nosey girls surrounding her. Anyone with a curiosity bone would have investigated the scene as quickly as I did. The snot was oozing from her nose, but she was too upset to care and never bothered to wipe it away. Slurs through her beer breath had all of us standing close enough to comfort her, yet far enough to inhale fresh air.

Between sobs, the lesbian managed, “I mean why? That bitch, I did everything for her. Gave her anything she wanted!”

Her head fell back in desperation or exhaustion and hit the doorjamb. She didn’t seem to care about this either. With a sudden burst of anger she yelled, “Fucking dick! She went for a dick!”

The six of us listened to the obvious pain she was going through. A few paid attention with curiosity rather than compassion until she mumbled, “I love her.” Then they tilted their heads to the side and swooned as if they really understood. She cried with her head between her knees as we all hovered without a shred of advice to give.

Rachel, a short black-haired beauty, was the first to say anything at all and the first to help this girl to her feet. She spoke with a smooth, even tone as she looked to me, silently asking for a hand in guiding the lesbian down the hall. My place at that moment was under the arm of the broken hearted as we carried the lesbian and the weight of her burden successfully to her room.

We asked if there was anything she wanted before turning out the light. She never said a word. The lesbian walked to her bed, sat for a second, walked to the other bed, and lay in the scent of her lover’s empty sheets. We shut the door on her torment and exhaled in relief.

“This is too intense for me. I need a smoke,” I said as I tucked my hair behind my ears and turned to walk away.

To my surprise, Rachel followed me to the doorway of my room down the hall. She was excited to accompany me on a forbidden smoke break in the wood line, where someone had cleared an area and created seating out of fallen trees. After we grabbed our coats, we walked to it in the dark, stopping at the edge where a street lamp burned bright to light our cigarettes before pushing on into the trees where the glow didn’t reach. We walked onward to the strategically placed clearing as we talked about simple things like how she loved smoking in the dark because she enjoyed seeing the fire burn brighter when she inhaled. Her black contrasting hair over pale white skin captivated me as we discussed the lesbian’s issues and my bisexuality. She listened intently with widespread brown eyes as I explained my first love’s and Angel’s rejection.

It was awkward to recognize my growing attraction to Rachel, but she was comfortable with flirtation. Before my finished cigarette became the reason to end our conversation, another one miraculously appeared between my lips while her head was turned. I patted every pocket, searching for the lighter that must have fallen out through a hole.

Rather than hand me her lighter, Rachel held it to my smoke with the flame ready. She lit my cigarette in the dim getaway while possessing me with her sparkling chocolate eyes. The night chill took over our bodies. We joked how each drag of the cigarette temporarily stopped our shivering. We giggled and shook as the air grew colder.

Because I became comfortable, I was compelled to tell Rachel of my interest in her. She listened to my compliments without flinching or disgust. She was patient and nonjudgmental as I expressed my admiration. Her smile simply broadened before she clarified her preference for men with a coy head turn to the side that was somewhat contradicting.

I didn’t feel ashamed or embarrassed or even rejected. I felt accomplishment for my first real expression of interested in someone of the same sex. Then I became a little cocky. “Well, that’s a shame. You are too pretty and sexy to reserve yourself for a man,” I said, assuming that would be the end of it. I wanted to leave her something to think about later.

But she threw me for a loop and stared me down with conviction. “I’ve wondered.” She inhaled a long drag from her smoke as she peered into my eyes. The crickets and mosquitos were few as the temperatures began to drop with seasonal changes. The bitter wind rushed through what was left of the leaves that seemed to hush the moment into an unexplainable stillness. Returning her glare the best I could through the darkness, sparks of hope burst in my heart and crotch. I leaned into her next words as the wind pushed my hair into my face. “But I try to lead a Christian life and just wouldn’t do something like that.” I pulled my upper body away from hers as the smoke billowed from her mouth with each word. It shut my excitement down like a switch.

She cocked her lips sideways and blew out the last bit from her lungs before inhaling fresh, crisp air again. What a vixen.

Each move she made reminded me of the legendary pinup, Betty Paige, a woman taboo for her time because of her attitude on sex. Not only did Rachel look like her, but she also shared a similar faith in Jesus Christ our Savior. Not many people know about Betty’s strong foundation in the church because of her overshadowing modeling career. To be honest, most don’t even know that she began as a legitimate fashion model.

Average Americans know Betty Paige from kinky leather-clad photo shoots where she was depicted spanking other girls with catlike prowess. Her perceived sexuality came from within as she smiled and had fun with her portrayal of a dominatrix. Her swimsuit modeling career was dominated by the risky photos she posed for in the days when men could get arrested for buying filth like that. The taboo photo opportunities were short-lived, but no one seems to remember the beginning of her career or how she tried to go back to acceptable modeling after it.

Betty actually ended her modeling career to be a preacher of the word of God. She claimed the photos simulating sadomasochistic acts were lighthearted and never understood why it was wrong if she was covered with clothing. After all, Adam and Eve were nude in the Garden of Eden, and no one had damned and judged them but God himself.

Everything about Rachel reminded me of Miss Betty in those old pinup calendars. Rachel had the same bubbly smile and a whimsical sense of humor with an undeniable sexuality, just like Betty Paige. She was a vixen with a cross around her neck, a twisted beautiful mess of good versus evil. It made her more alluring, yet more unobtainable at the same time. After Rachel explained how she was set in her religious beliefs and wouldn’t be with a woman, she reached out to gently touch my face. The smell of her peach hand lotion hit me, and I was surprised I hadn’t smelled it before then. Her touch was soft as she stroked my cheek with the back of her bent fingers. It seemed as if she was lingering in contemplation. “Thanks anyway. You are beautiful.” She dismissed me verbally but added a wink.

It was the teasing nature of Betty Paige’s pictures that made her famous, but that was also the crap Rachel used to manipulate me with. It was like man versus dog. She was the owner teasing me, the dog, with a toy until there was a pool of drool at my paws. She squeaked the toy excitedly and gave it a long throw, commanding me to fetch, at which I obediently ran, sniffed, and twirled around the area. Meanwhile, there was Rachel, coaxing me to find the toy when it was still in her hand behind her back. She laughed at how cute it was to watch me sniffing for a toy she never let go. The wink and the compliment was Rachel teasing and laughing at her lovable, dumb dog for falling into such an obvious trick.

Rachel puffed on her smoke with a glorious smile and a strange, confident ease after complimenting me. Her black hair fluttered across her white moonlit cheek. That wonderful moment will always be captured in my mind.

She seemed so unfazed by my attraction to her yet welcomed my advances with what felt like advances of her own. It felt right to shoot her a smooth, silent head shake and the most perfect wink and smile combination. James Dean himself couldn’t have done it better. The actor would have been proud of my single-handed flick of the cigarette into the darkness. Shit, all I needed was a leather jacket, another cigarette in my mouth, a tree to lean against with one leg up, and she would have been at my feet, begging me to change her mind. It was legendary.

Replacing being gay with confident assurance in bisexuality worked for me around the time of Rachel and the lesbian. They didn’t want me, and I didn’t fit their established roles. I was attracted to guys, the boyish ones with hairless faces and big eyes. I liked the flirtation and ran with it, becoming promiscuous. It was fun to have so much power as a woman in a man’s world. Girls were attractive but not as sexy as Rachel, straight or otherwise. Every opportunity to make her blush was taken, then retracted, only when it seemed to make her uncomfortable. After awhile it became expected of me to flirt. We both understood it was genuine yet subdued out of respect.

It started during our smoke breaks, and eventually smoking became our tradition, our common ground and excuse to bat eyes at each other. While I endlessly patted my pockets down for a lighter that always seemed to be missing, we spent the time talking about various things.

Eventually the months grew colder, and even with jackets it was too frigid to stand around for an hour enjoying our cigarettes. We stopped our rendezvous all together, until one day she pulled me into the bathroom stall as I headed to my room. She must have been watching for me because it was perfectly timed.

As I stumbled into the common bathroom with laughter, she whispered in excitement, “Come smoke with me; look there is a vent in this one,” pointing to the top of the wall in the far stall. It took her beautiful brown eyes a few flutters with a bit of begging before I agreed. We giggled as we squished into the stall, lit our cigarettes, and tried to blow our exhales into the slats as quickly as we could so we wouldn’t get caught.