I didn't want to taint the news of Fringes & Q with my emo gushations, but I just have to give a likkle lyric at this particular moment. I guess I should start by acknowleging how rare it is that a couple meet through internet blogs, and fall in love, and turn it into a life together. Being that it's rare, most of the credit has to go to Q, no doubt. He's the guy who made the first moves through comments, then made the commitment to travel 650 miles every week to see Fringes. He's the one who stayed through after meeting two kids. He's the one who ignored whatever anyone might have said about him doing all this for a black girl. And for her credit, she's the one who trusted that his intentions where true. That his love was true. So this is completely and madly special.
Having said that, I want one! Wahhhh!
In wanting to identify with Dexter, the novel protagonist-cum-TV serial-killer-for-good, I wanted an out from this bizarre condition I have found myself in. Alone, not always lonely, and untapped in my forties. I wanted to be able to say, "I'm not bizarre, I was born this way. I'm autistic!" Then Karma, who also works in mental health, postulated that my condition may me due to PTSD, which is Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Which I can also accept, but in a "I'd really rather it be just pnuemonia, but if it's lung cancer then ok let's deal with it" kind of way.
Because PTSD means that it's a result of the man who molested me. And it makes sense that what I am and what I do would have resulted from a molestation. And whereas I can't remember everything he did to me, I do know it wasn't just once, and I do know that I liked it, but that I couldn't have been older than 6 and so what he did was a crime against me (and God, really). And that I was violated. And that it wasn't my fault any more than autism would be.
But yeah, my symptoms have always been fear-based. A little panicky, really. PTSD does fit in there. Fear of getting close, getting naked, letting her and/or him turn me on. Fear of bodily fluids (I admit it, I sometimes snap my head away from porn when mouths open up and tongues go in places, and liquids start to flow and get on people's faces and other parts. Sometimes. Not all times, but most times). When it became a reality that sex was going to be required of me by my peers in high school, I went running to a strict little church in Mahwah where I wasn't even supposed to hold hands too long with a date. Perfecto. Escape from the fears! Religious pious excuse to avoid, avoid, avoid!
And yes, my fear could have come from actually being gay and not really wanting to be with a chick, but I can't be successfully gay with the hang-ups I've got! EUCCHH! No way!! And I can never dismiss the strong possibility that I only have an attraction to guys because it was a guy who introduced me to sexual stimulation before puberty; not because I was born gay.
And I want to understand!! I want to know WTF?!! Do I go and earn Ned's comforting and craved-for pride in me and take on a gay identity? Do I defeat the effects of a criminal pervert son of a bitch who diddled with me, and resist same-sex urges? Do I just go with what I've got, disregard how I got it, and go find me a muscular stud? Do I stay nice and safe inside my bubble, and trust only myself as a lover? Or do I find a girl who will understand and who will be patient, and who will let me experiment sexually with her until I get it right and also allow me my hang-ups (like I don't think I'll be able to **zz on her face or in her mouth if she wants me to. Sorry. ICK).
I don't know. And I hate not knowing. But I might never have the answer. But I can't just stay here, can I? What a waste that would be. I'm a good-looking guy with a lot of love to give. I'm about to come correct with my finances and enter into a full time (equivalent) counseling career in New York City. And I'm a good guy. I mean no one any harm. Only good things. I only want to use my powers for good. I want to make someone's life better for loving me.
I don't want to die alone.
So where's my fringes?
Where's my Q?