Coldplay is haunting me like the wishing-well ghost in the Gordon Lightfoot song.
Viva La Vida Lyrics
Today MFTD got back to me after three days. I called his home on Saturday and left a message with his wife. I had been squirmy enough after posting the Coldplay video to get him on the line. Three days later he calls me. Well, I remembered Scott's advice in a comment when I last kvetched about MFTD's inaccessibility. Spilling all your tea in the lap of one person all the time (especially when you're not paid to receive it) gets to be tiring. This is paraphrased from Scott's original words, mind you. And I'm not at my literary best atm.
Wait, I tell a lie. He actually called yesterday and I didn't pick up. I was in session.
So when he called today, I determined not to spill the tea. However, I couldn't keep the convo breezy and superficial. I did try, I swear it. But he heard I was being false and he insisted I tell him. He knew I was sitting on top of something. It's like, I want to tell, but I don't want to drive these people out of my life with my monotonous, same-old song. The eyes rolling with "Oh here we go again".
But I did it. I spilled the tea. I told him how jealous I was of him and I itemized the bill.
Well, MFTD is a fixer. So, unbidden, he launched into therapy. But we went over everything that we've gone over before. I owe him money. He's not pressuring me to pay him back. I want to make more. Why am I not leaving New Jersey and saving $$$ on car ownership and commute costs? I want to be in a relationship where somebody loves me. Then why don't you?
Now my eyes were rolling.
But yeah, why don't I?
But see, MFTD knows. He just hasn't accepted it. Hell, I haven't accepted it. I don't want to. I've fought it all my life. It just feels like there's no point in fighting it because it's not going away.
I mean, this isn't actual news, I'm guessing, because I've blogged as much--I just wouldn't end the sentences with it. Because too, I like breasts. Jiggly ones that double-mound in the center. Push-up bras are my friend.
But I lie if I didn't admit to myself that I really like guys. I mean, I admire so much about guys. Masculinity and strength. Their ability to go tough and stand like pillars for family, community, and nation. That in itself is not being gay. I know that. And no I've never had sex with one. And I don't particularly want to. For instance, I don't just not like the smell of booty, I'm disgusted by it. Gaggingly disgusted. I can't use a public restroom that's been bombed out by some exploded-colon victim. I'll circumnavigate like Jack Nicholson on a city street in "As Good As It Gets" to avoid the very shadow of careless dog turds.
Yet why do I think I'm gay?
Because I've been turned on by men since I was six. It was molestation, pure and simple, and a crime against me. But it was more than once and it's an appetite I have and have always had. Like K.D. Lang's Constant Craving.
And I don't KNOW if I'd have been gay without the molestation. But surely I wouldn't have been turned on at the age of six otherwise? Surely I'd have had a childhood without trying to rub myself into a stupor? Surely all the weekends that my mother worked wouldn't have been spent hunting down Mom's porn, isolating myself in the house instead of learning how to make friends, and then feverishly, guiltily teaching myself how to masturbate before I even knew how to ride a bike?
And here's what I also know--I am anything BUT gay. "Gay." Now that is a laugh. This? What I am? Is not "gay." This is miserable. This is conflicted and self-loathing and arrested and stunted and phobic and trapped and destroyed. Is what this is.
Because I love the company of a good woman. I want the late night talks. I want the staring into the eyes. I want the handholding. The hugs. The spooning. The "squooch-squooch-squooch" of sex. The slow and the fast.
But that's just not all I want. I'm a wide open, burglarized home. Despoiled and unprotected. Ravaged and unattended. A panic to the owner upon discovery, and forevermore a constant disturbing reminder that someone unauthorized has been here.
All my chances for normal is gone. Gone before I ever had a chance. My whole life, done in one.
MFTD knows this already. I've told him, and we've been going round and round for a few years now. And now I'm telling you. And him and me, we're working on the theory that I'm not hardwired by biology to have sex with one gender and no other. I don't think anyone is. I know a gay man who had sex with a woman just to try it, and loved it, but prefers to be and stay gay. He, I believe, is actually the definition of "gay," he does what he does, loves who he loves, and accepts who he is.
So the treatment plan is to move forward pursuing what I actually want. Not what I crave. What I want.
and what I want is a do-over. I want my chance back--my chance to be normal. To be loved and to be able to return it. To make a woman happy the way I've never been able to do in 43 years. Any woman.
It isn't unreasonable, it's just impossible.
And the happier I see other guys be, the further away from me it seems. For all the pitfalls of the normal life, it is infinitely better than this life I'm living. This life that I have prayed to be redeemable. I've lost my perspective on how that can be possible. Maybe I'll get it back, someday. But right now?
I used to rule the world. Seas would rise when I gave the word. Now I wake up in the bed alone. Sweep the streets I used to own.
Sorry Ned, but you did ask.