I realized a few days ago that I’ve never written publicly about this. I’ve shared the story in person with many people, sometimes even to a group, but I’ve never written, and knowing my mind the way I do, writing this down and putting it visibly out there will help me immensely in letting it go.
I’ve been in love twice in my life. The first time I fell, it was a whirlwind 3 weeks from before Thanksgiving to just shy of Christmas, and I walked when she got physically abusive — and suddenly could see the verbal, emotional, and psychological abuse she’d been doling out since day one.
The second girl I met mid-August last year, when I moved into an apartment in East Oakland after being homeless for 2 weeks — she and her primary partner already lived there. By the beginning of September we’d both realized we had feelings for each other, and one week later we’d fucked for the first time, with her partner’s blessing. I should mention that when I got there she was a few weeks pregnant — I’m not certain how long, but she’d just started showing. By the time we had sex, she’d miscarried, and I later learned that this was not her only recent pregnancy and miscarriage — in fact, this was either her second or third in a short period of time.
Well, we had lots of sex, discovered that we had a number of common interests and fetishes, several that (she claims) she’d not had a chance to explore, and all of it new to me in practice (as opposed to “in porn.”) In the instances where our preferences differed in the particulars, we did what she wanted — often with the promise that we’d try things my way “next time,” or lots of talk and work to convince me that it would be okay to try something I didn’t like, didn’t want, shouldn’t do. I did many things that, without her consistent wearing me down, I’d have said “not on your life!”
She slowly worked to gain my trust, to let me grow comfortable with her, until finally she felt she could share what she considered to be the ultimately important secret with me… she lives in another reality. She’s delusional and hears voices talking to her.
Or, in her way of putting things — she’s thousands of years old, comes from outer space, is immortal, and best of all, she’s a fictional character from a Hollywood film: She tells me that she is, in very true fact, Connor Quentin Macleod! Yep, that’s right: the Highlander movies weren’t just box-office hits, works of fiction. They were embellished (naturally! Bigger tales make bigger sales!) versions of the tales, but at their core, they were a documenting of Real History™.
She was, so she claimed, the last one to have had The Quickening — and so, in her fantasy, the voices she constantly heard whispering to her were all the thoughts great minds of the world, telling her their fantastic secrets and discoveries and imparting knowledge. Much of it was in languages she couldn’t understand, but I guess that’s what happens when these visionaries are foreigners…
Apparently her partner and their mutual friend were not only “in the know,” they actively participated in supporting her in this fantasy world. They all fed me plenty of conspiracy theories, tales about the end of the world — which, although it was coming at the end of 2012, wasn’t what “all those other people predict it’s going to be.” They told me all sorts of things about what chaos there would be, and that we would need to work together to, essentially, be the saviors of humanity. She outlined what my role might be in this doomsday scenario, and then after being given my part, I was pressured by all three to answer — “Will you join us in our fight? Will you commit now to do all that needs doing — to hack these government satellites to free the people in Area 51 even if the dead bodies are piling up around you and exploding?” That kind of nonsense was typical for their prophecies of The End Of Civilization As We Know It. But I was asked to commit, swear, promise absolutely to join them and follow through; sometimes it was a matter of pledging myself before I could be “trusted enough” to learn more of the important things, the things that would keep me alive when everything went to shit.
I say these things now, and it’s so striking to see the manipulation, to recognize the mind games. I wanted to believe, though, and these action-movie plots were — at least at first — a welcome escape from the reality of life. I hadn’t played make-believe in so long… I had forgotten the wonder of using my imagination, the thrill of knowing that anything was possible, the magic I could find in the world if I wanted it to be there. So I played along. I listened with excitement as she told me the latest tidbits about her good buddy James (That’s Mister Hetfield to the rest of you folks) or talked about making sure she got her important info to Alex (you’d know him as Alex Jones) since she was one of his primary sources. I walked with her and enjoyed “storytime,” hearing her histories of Highlander lore with the details that couldn’t be shared with the rest of the world, or tales of her time in Japan, studying under a master swordsman and hermit, of the gift to her of his lovely daughter and the incredibly hot sex they had together — and still could, any time she felt like hopping back to Japan. I took notes when she gave me dates and names and locations of certain books, things that would show me proof of glowing technologically “magical” cities in Antarctica, secret government programs designed to control and subdue everyone at will, aliens walking among us, and much more.
We also fucked. Lots. And it wasn’t long at all before she was pregnant again. She wouldn’t stop smoking her cigarettes, because she reasoned that in her previous attempts to find out what caused her to repeatedly miscarry, she’d eliminated that as a factor — and besides, the smoke masked her natural scent, so when she went camping the bears wouldn’t eat her. She refused to get any sort of prenatal care, because the doctors wouldn’t be able to deal with the test results from an immortal Highlander — she’d become a lab rat. Instead, her “medical care” was someone she had telepathic conversations with, or answered her phone which hadn’t rung and talked with her “doctor” and friend Mythos, or came in and told us what he had said regarding her medical concerns (although he goes by Marty these days, and apparently installs flooring and carpets. It’s a decent day job, right?)
And on December 12, 2010, somewhere between 14 and 16 weeks along in her pregnancy, when the rest of us had gone out to a party she stayed home — not feeling well. I had a blast — and came home to find her crying. She’d lost the baby while we were out, knew it was going to happen and sent me off to have fun. I shouldn’t have helped create that potential life. I don’t want children, I don’t like children, and I know myself well enough to know I’d be a horrible parent… but she got what she wanted from people, and she got pregnant by me.
A couple weeks later, on New Years’ Day, she was watching the Star Wars films — something she did to cheer herself up. She invited me to join her, and I figured I could use the cheer myself! She turned on A New Hope, and then set the picture to stretch the aspect ratio and remove those “stupid black bars” that “didn’t belong, and distract you from watching.” I couldn’t get into the movie, though, because I was distracted by Luke Skywalker looking like Mr. Fantastic, and she wouldn’t hear my complaints, just wanted to “compromise” by doing things her way, as always. We got angry, started arguing, and I left the room because I knew I was too angry to keep trying to talk. I spent some time alone in my room, and later came out to kiss up, apologize for being wrong, and watch the last half of the show cuddled up next to her.
When the credits had finished rolling, she wanted to talk about what went wrong before — or rather, wanted to convince me that she was right, and help me understand why I should change. Things quickly escalated again, and grew into a much larger fight about much more than that one incident — and somewhere in there, I had my hands on her sides, and I remember shouting as I looked her in the eye, “I don’t want to hurt you! Can’t you see that?”
The next few moments are a blank. Next thing I do recall, I was pinned against the arm of the couch next to the wall, her above kneeling to keep me there. She’d completely snapped. But when she lost it, so did I — and it had been a very long time since I let go that way. I had long, sharp fingernails then, and I remember clawing at her, trying to push her off of me and drawing blood from her chest in the process. Didn’t last long, because she repositioned me so she could pin my arms and legs with her body and keep her hands free. Five open-handed blows across my right cheek left me laughing, taunting — “What, is that all you got? Puh-leeze. You think I can’t handle pain? Hel-loooo! Masochist here!” Nobody else at was that end of the house, the other two were closed away in the back room. Two punches to the jaw, closed fist, came right after — through the adrenaline and the pain-joy I kept smiling and taunting, before she sprang up, screaming for the others to come. Soon as I was free, I got up and headed towards my room, hearing her accuse me to the others of having viciously attacked her, with no provocation. Closed my door and sat rocking in fetal position for… I don’t know how long. I was dimly aware that the others had gone back to the rear bedroom, and then I heard a loud crash from the front of the house. I’d long since trained myself out of responding to anything that sounded like a major emergency — it was usually just one of them losing their temper, shouting and smashing things. Someone else wandered in a few minutes later and found her having one of her frequent grand mal seizures — and after they helped her come to and lay on the couch to “sleep it off” they mentioned that it was the worst seizure they’d ever seen her have, and they’d both known her a few years.
When she woke up later, she’d forgotten the entire night of events. In fact, she’d forgotten the entire two weeks prior, and thought I was avoiding her because I was angry at her for having lost our baby. She dropped back to the day she miscarried, and seemed to truly not remember anything afterwards. Nobody dared to try telling her what had happened, but we all walked on eggshells hoping that she wouldn’t freak out if it all came flooding back.
My jaw was incredibly sore, swollen, hard to move — it was tough going down on her, but I did as much as I could when she told me she wanted it, and couldn’t mention the pain for fear she’d remember everything. The swelling had finally started to subside when I was mugged for the second time in under 6 months living there, on January 22, 2011 — and then got pistol-whipped three times. My jaw had certainly still been sore, but I was silently grateful to the punk with the pistol in my face, because he gave me an “out” — I got my jaw checked out and made certain it wasn’t seriously injured from either the gun or her fist.
The last time we fucked, it was the very end of January. I’d gone without since sometime before the baby died, and I needed some. I swallowed my pride, put on an act of sorrow and contrition, and went in to offer her sex, because “It’s probably been so long for you, and I’m sorry I haven’t been looking after your needs like I should, and I still love you so much, dear… I bet you’d like to fuck me after I take care of getting you off, right?” After we finished, something in our conversation led to a question — and I couldn’t keep holding it in. She’d asked why I seemed nervous, why everyone was so jumpy, what was wrong… and I told her. Gave her all the details of the night she turned into a monster, transformed into something frightening and surreal. She listened, shrugged, and still swore she didn’t remember.
We were all in the process of trying to escape from the slumlord bitch who’d been tormenting us from the day we moved in, and I was fortunate to find another place to live much sooner than they did. Of course, it turned out to be this shit situation I’m in now, but I figured “Hey, it can’t be all that bad compared to this!” I got away from them, cut all ties and haven’t heard from any of them since.
I loved her. We were a fucked-up couple, but I really did love her. Of course, I also hate the bitch for all the suffering she caused me — and I don’t ever want to see her again. But that time in January when I went in to her was the last time I’ve been good and screwed, and I’m seriously missing that. I’ve had many more of my other basic needs cared for, and so it’s often easier to distract myself from the fact that I don’t have the sex to keep me going when I’ve got regular food and frequent positive social interaction and exercise and such, but… I’m still trying to find a woman who’ll take her cock to me, and not get hung up on how I’m hung or act like a boob because I don’t have any. It sucks sometimes, being happily queer in a frustratingly straight society!