Ya Vas Lyubil/Я Вас любил… (I loved you, once…)

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!

“F” words!

I had a sudden moment of realization a few months back.  I’d been reading lots of different blogs and bits online, among them The Pervocracy, Miss Maggie Mayhem, Violet Blue, and Kitty Striker — and much of what I read resounded deeply, made me think and question, and felt very right.  Very true.  It fit, it was other voices expressing views I held but either hadn’t articulated or hadn’t realized.

Then, as I said, the sudden moment of realization: the words came out in exclamation, “Holy shit!  I’m a feminist!”  In much the same way that I have been the last to know lots of things about myself, it wasn’t really a shock to anyone else.  Nor, I suppose, was it a shock to me, after sitting down to think about it, as was the case when I found other identifying concepts for myself like “transgender” and “Asperger’s syndrome.”  In both of those cases, I had people who knew me laugh, shrug, and say essentially, “Yeah, we could have told you that.”

So with that word, I had a single key that I could use to search for further information, to take as a starting point for refining my understanding and particular preferences in “flavor” of feminism.  I could plug that word into a Wikipedia search box and learn about the “waves” of feminism.  I could walk into my local public library and check out any of dozens of textbooks, non-fiction works, collections of essays, and novels presenting concepts both directly and indirectly related.

Then, as I spent more time following blogs, expanding my online reading lists, cutting out the sources that least often fit my particular views (but occasionally glancing to re-evaluate where I stand) and further refining my feminist identity, I saw that I also care deeply about other groups, their oppression, and fighting as a voice for change and equality.  I picked up new vocabulary and concepts — “intersectionality” and “kyriarchy” and “masculism” and others, words new enough in their use and function that the dictionary in my web browser insists they’re misspelled.  I picked up pretty quickly that as a transwoman, I am both woman and transgender, that both those identities which I proudly claim come with their oen oppressive baggage.  I began to see that my light skin and ancestry traced back on either side to the British Isles, mean that I have “White Privilege” — that whether I want it or not, whether I like it or not, I have societal advantages in many ways over anyone not perceived as Caucasian.  I think that sucks, actually, and when I stop to think about the ways that manifests in my day-to-day life (or, more often, when someone points it out) I remember how strongly I feel about changing things, about making the world a less shitty place.

But — there’s this little bit that’s bothering me.  I can’t quite put my finger on it, and maybe someone out there has a touch of insight for me.  I have a particularly intense passion, a very strong motivation for activism towards body positivity, fat acceptance, being beautiful in the body shape you have, especially if that body doesn’t fit the multi-billion-dollar-salary marketing moguls’ image of “beautiful.”  Which feels… hypocritical, somehow.  I mean, I know it’s not.  I know it fits right in with seeing women as individual humans, capable of deciding what we do with our own bodies.  It fits right in with my anger and outrage when I look at news headlines about a young transgender girl approaching puberty and her supportive parents approving hormone-blocking pills — headlines using the wrong pronouns, “reporters” suggesting that this girl and her parents are insane.  It fits right in with recognizing that “insane,” used as an insult, is an ableist slur, and choosing to work that kind of offensive language out of my personal vocabulary.

But I still often feel like I shouldn’t be vocal in my support of body acceptance.  I stop and question my own motivation regularly, and though every time I come to the same general conclusion, I look in the mirror and see something pretty damned close to that idealized marketing image — I’m tall, thin, white, proportioned in all the “right” ways.  Total strangers ask me “Are you a model?  Well, you ought to be!”  I’ve never really dealt with being anything other than privileged in that regard.  When I was growing up as a boy, I was tall, skinny, plain.  During the decade or so I spent on psychiatric medications, I weighed between 250 and 300 pounds, but I was also rarely in any social situations, and as a computer geek and video gamer, being that size wasn’t unusual or looked at poorly.  So why would I have any say in things? Why should my voice count?  And knowing that I’m romantically and sexually attracted to bigger women often makes me hesitant to speak out — because, “well, she’s just doing it so she can get laid or something.”  I know my motivations, but I’m scared of having them questioned or challenged, especially when I often have difficulty expressing myself about things that stir a lot of emotion in me.

I can tell you, though, that it pisses me off when the first thing I hear, with very few exceptions, when I mention that I weighed 250 pounds about three years ago, is “Wow! How did you lose the weight?”  Especially angering to see the expectant look that joins the question, awaiting my answer as eagerly as if I were about to impart the Ultimate Secret Of The Universe.  It makes me really sad when a wonderfully beautiful young woman is ashamed of the number on the scale, asks me to promise to keep it secret, and has to make sure to balance our scheduled time together against her regular, mandatory stop at her Leading-Brand Weight-Loss Program Center’s scale.  It hurts to have a good friend point out to me just how much work I’d put into avoiding the word “fat” in a conversation with her about another woman who was — and beautifully so — and stings even more to understand that the reason I’d danced around those three letters is because on a deeply internalized level, I “knew” that it was a dirty word.  I could keep going; there are many more examples that immediately come to mind, but I hope I’ve made my point.

I care, for whatever reason I do.  This particular passion doesn’t have nearly the volume of literature behind it that feminism does, though.  There’s nowhere near the amount of “suggested reading” as for transgender issues, not even the kinds of information — much of it inaccurate or poorly written, in my experience so far — about Asperger’s.  I don’t know where to look, don’t have anyone to sit down and talk with in order to — first and foremost — educate myself about anything outside of “thin, white, long-haired, big-but-not-too-big tits and hips and ass, you’re gorgeous!”  Yes, there are a few places online, and I’ve looked through what I can find, but… there’s just not much out there.  And while I have no shame about writing on my own blog about things I know for myself, things I know well, I’m fragile in many ways, and I’ve seen how one or two well-intentioned but poorly-chosen words left in a comment can be the spark lighting a blazing inferno of flaming, the hurt hurled and taken and the taking sides and fighting and often a humiliating defeat and retreat.  I don’t want to open myself to that on the scale that the internet can heap; it’s something I might handle in a face-to-face discussion with a few friends, where I could ask questions and begin to learn… but asking the “rookie questions” in an enormous forum of faceless “veteran players ” leaves me far too vulnerable.

The old folk wisdom is that “the only stupid question is the one you don’t ask.”  Well, if that’s true, then I have lots of incredibly stupid questions — and until I have someone to ask, someone with answers or someone willing to search for answers with me, they’ll stay the “stupid” variety.

An inebriated, lustful sonnet (or: drunk and horny poetry)

This spilled out of me a couple nights ago after 3 pints of Guinness on an empty stomach.  I figured I may as well post it to share with everyone!

Oh, why must it so often happen thus?
Libido pegged, yet lacking even means
To masturbate, and such frustrating fuss
My body makes when gazing at these screens!
Computers filled with pornographic bliss
To mock my appetite again denied
For want of lubricant, and only this
Prevents my lust from being satisfied.
But doubt ye not that choosing at my will
I’d trade away my manual company
For sweet delightful cunnilingual thrill
Or — joy of joys! — a woman pegging me!
Tonight my head on cotton gently rests
I dream instead a pair of pillow’d breasts.

One psychological drama after another!

Y’know, overall today was a pretty good day.

I slept in, or rather I slept again after getting home from the motel room this morning — fun times last night — and finally got myself up and moving around 1:30pm.  Checked a few things online, then killed time looking at my RSS feeds and all the news and blog articles and whatnot for the day…

Around 4:45 I decided to get out and do some walking — it’s been rainy and wet, and there’s absolutely no way I could excuse staying inside when it’s so beautiful outside!  Got things together, dressed and out and as I walked I sang Carole King’s “Beautiful” out loud, stopping to say hello to strangers as I went.  Because especially on the first grey day in a while, people are often more gloomy and depressed and sour than usual, so I was out there with a reminder that “You’ve got to get up ev’ry morning with a smile on your face and show the world all the love in your heart!”

Stopped at the Starbucks downtown and did some reading, killing a bit of time with a cheap mug of crappy coffee plus lots of sugar and cream to make it passably potable, then off to my local independently-owned cafe to hang out for the rest of the evening.  One of my good friends works there, and he was there tonight, so that was fun — and after I’d been there for a bit, another guy I know showed up, and the three of us talked and had fun to make the time pass more quickly.

Headed home because there’s little else to do tonight that doesn’t need a lot of money, plus I’m kinda tired — got home and my roommate is here in his room still, just like when I left, and I keep hearing him coughing in the next room.  When I got in to my bed, though, I was rather irritated to see that ants had descended onto my “clean-up towel” — not into the bottle with a little bit of Bawls soda, not all over the fudge cookies on the bed, but onto the rag I used earlier this afternoon when I was done masturbating.  Even more obnoxious was the roach that scurried out from under the rag when I lifted it up to shake off the ants — and then the recognition again that I’m no more bothered by cockroaches on my things and in my room than an ant or a fly or a bedbug or a moth, because bugs have been part and parcel of my living situation for more than a year, both out in the ‘hood and here in what ought to be a nicer area.

Roaches don’t phase me.  That’s not how it should be.  But that’s what poverty does; I can’t afford to care about gross bugs in my stuff when I don’t know the next time I’ll be doing laundry, and I can’t afford to get worked up about how messy my room is — and it’s absolutely filthy — when my next meal is whatever someone decides to give me.

My leash, the one made specially for me by hand from one of my old roommates, is gone. Missing.  Couple weeks ago when everything turned to shit around here, the last thing I did before running off was to toss it towards the back lawn.  I saw it land on grass, but the next time I went back there, the very next day, it was nowhere in sight.  I’ve looked through the backyard several times since, but there’s no trace.  It it did stay out there, then with the rain today it’s been ruined; if one of my roommates picked it up and did something with it, then it’s even worse off and nobody has said anything about it.  I’m angry that it’s gone, I guess, but I haven’t even bothered to really think about it.  It’s another thing to add to the list of tragedy and trauma that I can’t afford to grieve right now — survival is more important.  Getting out is more important.

A few nights ago, I realized that I was depressed, that I was not safe at home, and I almost walked the streets all night like I had once before… but I remembered my friend J who implored me never to do that again, she nearly ordered me to call her and crash on the couch at her student co-op if I was that bad off again, so I did.

As she met me down the block and we started walking back, I got a call from my roommate.  He essentially accused me of hiding his stash of weed from him, “maybe because you didn’t want somebody to see it when they came by or something.”

“Dude, I’ve barely been home, I’ve been staying away from there as much as possible — and why would I touch your weed, seriously?  I have no idea where it is, and I haven’t touched anything that belongs to you.”

“Well, maybe somebody walked off with it then, do you know if anybody’s been by there at all?”

“Like I just said, I’ve barely been home, and I lock everything when I leave.  Again, I didn’t touch it and I don’t know where it is.”

This was just before midnight, and he seemed pretty upset about it then, but apologized for bothering me and wished me goodnight.  Next morning before 8am, he called again to tell me that he still couldn’t find his marijuana, and that he didn’t know what to do because he owed money to someone else for it, and was supposed to have sold some so that he had enough cash to get to work that day, and that he may as well just kill himself because there was no point to anything.  He then broke into a tearful apology, seemingly for anything and everything that came to mind, telling me that he thought I must have killed myself when I’d tossed my leash in the back yard and walked off, and that he was sure it was all his fault and then — this was the weirdest and scariest part — acknowledged that I’d mentioned before on multiple occasions that I had Benadryl for the rare times I needed medication to help me sleep, but that he’d gotten some prescription Buspirone (Buspar) from someone he knew and would gladly give me some if I wanted because it seemed to be helping him so far when he’d taken it.

There wasn’t time in the call, especially with him getting so weepy and emotional, to mention that I knew full well what Buspar does, since I took the stuff for a decade… and it scares me to know that he’s popping psychiatric drugs like that.  I’m far less concerned about someone smoking pot, or doing any number of recreational drugs (with the exception of meth, but that’s a whole different story) than I am with something cooked up by big pharmaceutical companies.  Just another reason for me to stay out of the house, keep my room closed and locked, and interact as little as possible until I can find another place to live.

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