Oh, Sexual Life

Bombshells, Part 2

2006-09-12T23:57:00.000-05:00

The news about Fake-boyfriend's new relationship had caught me off guard and, let's be honest, depressed the hell out of me. The next one simple unsettled me, though it should've been even more expected.

Walking back from dinner with Greg and my phone rings. I look at the caller ID and the name throws me off: just a first name that belongs to both Vodka Tonic and an ex-boyfriend. Instead of doing the smart thing and letting it go to voice-mail, I answer. It's Vodka Tonic. He's drunk and apparently fascinated by what I'm doing and when he's going to get to see me again. My stomach instantly turned into sinking knots. I told him I had to go and hung up.

Why was I surprised that he'd call? I told him I had a good time, I gave him my phone number, it's only natural that he'd call. How do I explain that to Greg, though? After he received a crying phone call from me telling him that I'd been bleeding for two days, he naturally thinks that this guy is some kind of monster. He's not though; I'm just a fool who couldn't keep a situation under control.

I walked the rest of the way home in a self-loathing daze.

Bombshells, Part 1

2006-09-11T23:03:00.000-05:00

There are things you know in your heart, but convince yourself otherwise in your mind. It's something that I do frequently. Last night it caught up with and completely overwhelmed me.

One of my best friends, Greg, had been out of town for a week, road tripping on the east coast, and had just got home. We were spending the day together: catching up, hanging out, enjoying each other's company. Then, at dinner, the first bomb dropped.

"So, any romantic interests?" He asked.
"I don't know. I still really like Fake-boyfriend, but I don't really think that it's going anywhere." I replied.
He stared at me for a couple seconds, obviously trying to figure out exactly what to say. "You know he's dating Stacy now, right?"
"No...I didn't know that."

Fake-boyfriend and I had been seeing each other for a couple weeks when we had "the talk". The talk was neither good nor bad, just a clarification. It just affirmed that, although he really liked me and enjoyed spending time with me, we were not actually dating. It was a very convoluted conversation, but it boiled down to the fact that he was very confused right now and wanted to take everything very slow. After my last disastrous relationship taking it slow sounded like a great idea.

He also wanted to make sure that I knew he was bisexual and still trying to figure out exactly what that meant to him. I knew about his bisexuality already and, though it seemed odd to bring it up, I didn't really think much about it. I had mentioned it to Greg afterwards, who told me that Fake-boyfriend had told him about it not long ago and had confided that he was attracted to one of his good, female friends, but didn't know what to do about it. At the time I simply took this at face value and decided not to let it bother me; it was me he was actually interested in after all.

For most of the summer I simply ignored the information. It just didn't matter: we had a good time together, we didn't have anything too serious, and he wasn't actively pursuing anyone else. However, as things between us began to cool off and dates became less and less frequent, despite my efforts, my mind kept coming back to this mysterious other person. I pushed the thoughts away, though. I rationalized: he's been very busy, I've been very busy, once our schedules settle down things will come together.

Well, apparently things aren't going to come together. Without a word to me he had started dating Stacy. Not once did my wandering mind think that the girl Greg had mentioned would be Stacy. Stacy was his best friend and his hag, his non-sexual life partner I had thought. Suddenly, I felt very dumb. And hurt.

I liked him, I liked him a lot. I had truly wanted something to happen with us and had convinced myself that if I just gave it time it would happen. What am I to do now? Even if I wanted to compete with her for him I wouldn't know where to start. If it was another boy I could at least try, but how do you compete with the opposite sex? I've never done it before and don't have the first clue. And I don't want to either, I wanted him to want me.

Suddenly, I'm completely back at square one.

Doctor knows best...

2006-09-07T15:25:00.000-05:00

I woke up the next morning and I was scared. I was still bleeding from events over 24 hours ago. What if something was seriously wrong? What the hell was I supposed to do? I reviewed what seemed to be my limited options and decided to go with "calm the hell down, give it more time, everything is going to be alright" option. I went to work again, nervous and hoping that soon I could just forget about all of this.

I couldn't. I got home from work still bleeding. Scared turned into panic, enough panic to swallow my pride and call one of my good friends, Greg. I prayed that I could just leave him a message and that the act of vocalizing everything would simply make it all go away. When his machine picked up I was relieved and crushed at the same time: I just couldn't handle what was going on and needed him to do it for me. In between sobs I gave his answering machine a confused, nervous synopsis of that the hell was going on and told him to call me back and tell me what to do. A couple minutes later he called and told me exactly what I'd been dreading: go to the doctor.

I had known this all along, but the thought was sickening. I work in the student health center on campus - where my doctor for the past two years was located - and I knew that I couldn't handle going there. To have all my co-workers and supervisors knowing and seeing me at this low of a point was too much. I decided that I'd rather see a complete stranger than have these people silently, awkwardly judging me.

I drove across town to one of the walk-in, urgent care facilities. I was given the traditional five or six forms to fill out. Working in healthcare, I knew them well. I made my way through them quickly until I came to the section where it asks you to describe your injury or illness. A wave of embarrassment and . . . shame came over me. I was going to give this the sweet looking ladies at check-in, who were going to review it and put it into their computers before giving it to the nurse. The nurse would read it over and ask me questions about it on the way to the examination room where, finally, I'd be confronted with the problem by the doctor. Then the process would be repeated when I checked out.

I watch this process everyday at work: people coming in for STI testing, morning-after pills, depression, eating disorders. I always helped them as best I could with very little thought to the problem that brought them there. I wasn't there to judge them, just to help them. I was always slightly confused when the people I helped where nervous or uncomfortable. It was, after all, a health facility; everyone who was there had some sort of problem and it's our job to help you regardless of what your problem is.

Now I was on the other side of the rope and I understood. Sure its their job, sure they’re bound by confidentiality laws, sure they’re there to help, but the fear of judgment is still there.

After staring at the piece of paper for a good five minutes I scrawl “bleeding” into the section and quickly finish the rest. They call my name and bring my paperwork and insurance card back to the check-in counter. The lady at the desk skims through it and comes to the problem section. “Honey, could you be a little more specific here? It’s really important that you’re as detailed as possible.” I stare at the paper for another minute before adding “rectal” to the “bleeding”. She takes it back and frowns for a second before gently telling me that the nurse will be out shortly.

The nurse calls me back and walks me to the examination room while she looks through my paperwork. She asks a couple basic questions and, once in the room, starts in on the problem. “When did the bleeding start?” “How much blood is there?” “How uncomfortable am I?” I answer as best I can, my face flushed and words stuttering. She tells me that the doctor will be in in a minute and that I should strip from the waist down, handing me a sheet to cover myself with.

I sit on the cold, sticky examination bed: anxious, embarrassed and naked. I’m sweating by the time the doctor gets into the room. The doctor was an older gentleman with a neat mustache and a warm smile. As he asks me questions his smile fades. “When exactly did the bleeding start?” “Why did you wait to come in?” I try my best to be truthful and nondescript. Then he asks, “Did you experience any trauma to the area?”

I mumble “yes” and hope there will be no follow-up question. “Well, what happened?” He asks.

My face grows redder and I stare at the ground as I try to explain. “I was with a guy and . . . I told him to stop, but he didn’t.” There was a heavy silence in the room. I finally looked up, tears forming, to see him staring at me, his face carefully blank. “Well,” he said, “why don’t you roll on your side and I’ll take a look.”

What followed filled me with the most shameful feeling I’d ever experienced in my life: being examined and prodded in one of the most intimate and already painful places of my body.

When it comes to men and my ass the only experiences I’ve had have been warm and loving or hot and needing. Then there was Vodka Tonic and his urgency and pain. Now there was the doctor: cold and sterile and shaming. I’m sure I would’ve cried right there, lying on my side on the wax-paper covered bed, if his touch hadn’t left me feeling so empty and used up. Instead I closed my eyes and pretended to be far away.

I opened my eyes with the snap of his glove being thrown into the trash can. He abruptly left the room, telling me I could dress now and that he’d be back. I’ve never put on my clothes faster in my life.

He returned with a prescription and a curt analysis of my injury: a small tear that would heal soon and irritation that had formed a hemorrhoid. He handed me my paperwork and told me to come back if “the problem” persisted for more than two weeks. I went through check-out in a slight daze and hurried out of the building back to my car. Once in the relative safety of my car I looked over the pile of papers in my hand. I found my encounter form and read through the doctor’s comments. In the cause of injury section he had written “NONE.”

I couldn’t help but wonder why he had asked if he was negate my answer to “NONE”. I crumpled up the sheet and threw it away. I was going to be fine and that’s all that mattered.

The day after...

2006-08-29T00:12:00.000-05:00

I pulled myself together; when I’m stressed or upset I become very organized and practical. "I have to go to work. What do I need to do in order to get to work?"

I dressed and threw product in my hair. I iced the visible bruises as best I could before trying to disguise them with make-up. I grabbed my stuff and headed out of the apartment. The three flights of stairs to the ground level convinced me that walking the mile to campus wasn't going to be possible: it just hurt too badly. Even the two blocks from where I ended up parking to my job left me almost in tears.

Once at work the day became a blur. I have no idea what I did all day. Only one of my co-workers noticed the make-up lacquered bruises, but a short 'don't ask' changed the topic and allowed me relative peace for the rest of the work day.

I finally made it back home a little after 7 p.m. I stripped my bed and cleaned my room, trying to rid the space of any memory of the night before. I busied myself for awhile - long enough to not think until I had to go out again.

Straight-boyfriend's going away party was that evening. He was leaving for a year to do Americorp half-way across the country. Part of me was dreading seeing him, afraid of having to answer his questions about what had happened last night. The thought of not seeing him again until Christmas won out, though. I iced the bruises a little more and applied another layer of make-up before heading over.

Thankfully, straight-boyfriend has wonderful instincts. I showed up and hugged him so hard he had to peel me off. I was starting to cry again so he just took my hand, got me a glass of wine and let me cling to him for the rest of the evening with no questions asked.

I left early - I just wanted to sleep so badly. I got home and stripped off the day's clothes. I found, with horror, I was still bleeding, but to exhausted to even think about it. I showered and crawled into my sheet less bed and fell asleep.

On second thought...

2006-08-22T21:40:00.000-05:00

Although I started this blog with the intention of immediately going back to the beginning and working my way forward I don't think I can do that now. Already events and details and emotions are becoming blurred and I'm afraid of losing them all together.

In an attempt to prevent that I'm going to catch up to where I am now and then going back. We'll see how it goes.

Every endeavor needs a mission statement...

2006-08-13T20:42:00.000-05:00

The previous post is the reason I'm here, blogging about my sexual life. I'm trying hard not to make specific value judgements about what happened. I don't necessarily see myself as a victim or stupid or irresponsible. I'm just a person and I make mistaks, I have victories, I have let downs. What I do know is that there are reasons that I am at this place in my life: there are people who have shaped me, events that have formed me, and choices made that continue to direct me.

So I'm going back, back to my perceived beginning of sexual life. One could argue, and argue well, that sexual life begins long before sexual experience and certainly before sexual experience with another person. However, a line must be drawn for the purpose of this blog and I have chosen that latter most. Because it's not necessarily my sexuality itself that has me confused or wondering, but my sexuality in relation to others. Perhaps I'm creating a distinction that does not really exist, but in any case that is what this blog will recount: my sexual life and relationships.

Hopefully I will learn and discover and grow. I hope.

Night with Vodka Tonic

2006-08-13T13:29:00.000-05:00

It was 80's Night at the club and I had just turned 21 earlier in the week. Most of my friends were busy so I dragged my straight-boyfriend along with me and had plans with my fake-boyfriend to meet me there later.

In my world these terms need little explanation, but perhaps here they do. There is a certain breed of men out there who become straight-boyfriends. They're self-defined as straight, usually smart and attractive and open-minded, and who, for some reason or another, formed a very close friendship with a gay man. It's a friendship that to the casual observer looks very much like dating and perhaps one or both of them wish it was, but it's not. He's simply your straight-boyfriend.

'Fake-boyfriend' is probably more common and universal. It defines the "we're sort of seeing each other" stage of relationships. You go on dates, perhaps you've messed around some, but you aren't dating.

I define these because it helps to explain the romantic stage I was in. No real relationship and relationships that made me want a real relationship. I had been in constant relationships for the past two years with really not much more than a month inbetween (but that's many more posts). Being single, for all practical purposes, isn't something I'm used to.

Straight-boyfriend and I had started the night at my apartment, drinking rum and coke and dancing to vinyls. We were adequately liquored by the time we got to the club, but, in light of my recently reaching the age of majority, I felt compelled to buy more drinks. Shots of cognac chased with cognac and coke. Followed by crazy dancing to delightfully bad 80's music. Followed by beer and more dancing.

It's a little past midnight at this point and obvious that fake-boyfriend isn't coming and probably won't call. Liquor and music, however, have made this fact much more palatable. The boy dancing a couple feet away who has spent the night watching me was making the lack of fake-boyfriend almost preferable to my booze-soaked thinking.

Straight-boyfriend left the dance floor to go to the bathroom and relieve himself of the alcohol cocktail that had quickly moved through his system. I had been dancing alone for less than a minute when the eyeing boy, let's call him Vodka Tonic, made his way to me. He simply put his arm around my waist and started dancing. Few guys can pull of presumptuousness like that, but he could. He was slightly taller than me, just over 6'1", a perfect blend of muscles while still being thin, with dark hair and skin and features. In short, my type of guy.

Straight-boyfriend returned, eyed me questioningly, and moved on to dance with some girl. Vodka Tonic and I went out for a smoke and then he proceeded to buy me drinks: vodka shots and then a very large vodka tonic. These were definitely drinks that I didn't need, but there is a certain thrill, a small ego boost, when boys are buying you drinks. We talked, about what I have no idea, and danced and drank until the club closed at 1 a.m.

The alcohol and sweat soaked patrons flowed out onto the sidewalk in front of the club. We chatted a little more, under the supervision of straight-boyfriend. I asked him where he was headed to now and he says, so ridiculously cliche, "I don't know. I'm homeless, I could go anywhere."

This is normally the point at which I smile and say "Oh, that's so sad" and give him my number and tell him to call me sometime. This is what I should've done. Instead, more out of spite to fake- and straight-boyfriend, I lean in and ask him if he wants to spend the night with me. He does.

We go back to my apartment and the fun begins. It starts off nice, he's gorgeous and playful, telling me how beautiful I am. Then he wants to fuck me. I'm not opposed to the idea so, after convincing him that a condom is necessary (what should've been the first sign), we start.

Though not the most experienced, I'm definitely not a virgin. It had been awhile, but I'm convinced that I can handle and even enjoy it. However, it turns out that he was nothing like any of the men I'd been with before. Not that he was packing anything porn-like amazing, he was just rough. Very rough. I accepted the pain as inevitable for awhile while he through me around from one position to the next. It hurt so bad that I was practically whimpering in pain. This he took as encouragement and redoubled his efforts. I just couldn't take it, I told him to stop, repeatedly. Eventually he did.

At this point I rationalized, "He was caught up in the moment. He didn't realize that I needed him to stop. It'll be fine, everything is under control." So we moved on. We played around. Things were back to being pleasurable and the former pain had dulled. I came.

We both laid there for a minute in the dark before I heard him moving around. I faintly hear the ripping open of packaging and then, a couple seconds later, he's fucking me again. Though conscious of my condom requirement, he's forgotten about lube this time. I'm hurting again, an immediate, sick pain that stretches from my ass to the pit of my stomach. I cried out. I don't remember what cry my body, mind and mouth managed to coordinate. I hope it was some semblance of 'no' or 'stop', but maybe it was just a cry. Whatever it was, it did nothing; he kept going, moaning and saying words that my mind wasn't registering. My mind quit doing anything at that point. I gave up. I buried my head into a pillow and let it muffle his noises and my crying and the pain.

I don't know how long his fuck lasted. When it was over I left my head in the pillow and fell asleep while he kissed my back and told me how amazing I was.

When I woke up the next morning I hurt everywhere. The pain in my head, however, helped dull the pain the rest of my body was experiencing. I rolled over and looked at him: he was beautiful and so innocent in his sleep. I laid back down and tried to comprehend everything that had happened. My stirring must have woke him because he was sitting up now, kissing my neck, bruised from where he had been biting me the night before. He had to leave, naturally, but assured me that I was beautiful and amazing and last night was amazing. "You had fun, right?" He asked.

I said 'yes' and proceeded to give him my phone number when he asked if he could call me sometime. I laid there while he kissed my body before he finally left. And then I laid there, hurting and sore in my bed, trying not to think of anything. I just wanted to lay there and not think.

I must fell back to sleep because I woke up again when my alarm went off. I dragged myself to the shower where I stood for a half-hour letting the warm water ease my body and my mind. I got back to my bedroom and went to lay down on my bed again for a couple minutes before getting ready for work, but the splotches of blood from where I had been laying before stopped me. Instead I sat on my floor and cried.