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Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Our First Girlfriend
We are going to backtrack a little in our stories for now, we will get back to what happened after we were diagnosed with schizophrenia about 9 years ago, in a few days, perhaps a week.
We want to talk about our very first relationship with a girl.
When we were younger never really knew what it was to be a lesbian, or gay, or bisexual. Growing up in a small rural area, secluded from most of the world, raised on religion, with little knowledge and access to things outside our life on the farm, except books of fiction, made us unaware of many things. Our town library was terribly small, and our television extremely restricted for long periods of time.
We knew we liked boys, but we were confused about girls. We used to read smutty romance novels as early as age 10 and 11, maybe even younger. We enjoyed them, we learned a lot of information that would later benefit us by giving us the ability to impress boys who were out to get what boys are usually out to get, trying to get one of them to love us. We also learned that reading dirty things about woman had much the same affect on us as reading about boys.
We had confusing feelings for female friends and thought of them in ways that the bible told us we ought not to.
It was only made more confusing for us, when, in the ninth grade, we had learned that our mother liked girls; something we dealt with in damaging ways by injuring our self, openly crying in the corners of the hallways at school and dealing with it all silently, using excuses for our behaviour because we were to afraid to admit we liked girls. The last thing we EVER wanted to do was be like her, The Mother. It got even scarier when Unpleasant Woman, our mothers girlfriend, sexually abused us not long after they were together.
It’s rather perplexing how it happened, how we stumbled upon a girl in high school, who also liked girls, in her case only for a bit. It happened in math class in the 10th grade. She was our friend, a good friend. We used to leave the school grounds in her car and go out for lunch every day. Her parents were divorced and her father was in charge of her; as in charge as he could be.
He knowingly let her use the car, despite the fact that she had no license. He would let us smoke cigarettes; he would let us drink, and stay up late to do whatever we wanted. While he nice enough, he was a dirty man. He often chided us, making innuendos, even before there was anything to joke about. Being an alcoholic, most of our memories of him involve a beer in his hand. He would tell jokes, pointing to his belly and saying:
“I’m going to get a tattoo of a dollar, with an arrow below it pointing down, and beneath it the words ‘All You Can Eat, Under A Dollar’”, laughing at his own dirty jokes, inappropriately told to 15 year old girls.
In math class we would pass notes back and forth to this girl, it was the class right before lunch break. Somewhere in the exchanges one of us became flirtatious, and then forward. It was probably us. One day, after a forward not exchange, we decided to take our lunch break at her dads apartment; he being gone, working in a factory most afternoons, giving us the privacy we wanted.
That day there was kissing, touching; our first exploration of another woman’s body. We don’t remember too many details. We do remember the thrill and the enjoyment we felt. We had not been all the way with a boy yet, though certainly had experiences with them, mostly negative in an emotional way.
The first night we ever had sex with a girl was almost magical, and certainly memorable. It was raining that spring evening, there was lightning lighting up the sky, and thunder rumbling the second floor apartment where she lived with her father. She made us put a pillow on her belly, between her and our face, so she didn’t have to look at us. She was probably embarrassed. She had been with other girls before though, so we don’t really understand the pillow, even to this day; but we remember it. We have almost always had a pretty face. At least that’s what people have said. We figure that couldn’t have been the reason. She is the only one who would know and we doubt she would remember such a detail.
We won’t get into specifics; this is not the place for us to share erotic stories. Did you know we write those too? We got a bit of a reputation for that in high school, being reminded by one boy on graduation day.
“Remember when you wrote that story?”, he laughed, trying to make us uncomfortable. Yes. We did, and we do. We also remember we had written it for a boy who had passed it around the school, sharing with an unknown number of people. We’d like to thank him for that someday, but we digress.
We got our first job on our 16th birthday, and while we didn’t keep it, one we did keep for a period of time came close behind. We ended up leaving that job after being put on probation there; other stories for other times. This job provided us money and independence; the ability to show affection with gifts.
There are only a few significant things we remember about those few months when we dated this girl, aside from the physical aspects.
It was around Valentine’s Day, and to show how much we liked her we bought her a pair of delicate diamond earrings. She was surprised and they made her happy, which made us happy. We sometimes wonder what became of them, those earrings. We might even ask her sometime, since we have seen her in the past couple of years, and know how to contact her.
Anyway, one day she was at our house, we only lay on the bed in our bedroom, whose walls were made only of sheets, to talk; it was all very innocent that day. After she left we were in the kitchen kidding around with Baby Brother, while The Father made dinner. Baby Brother was talking about girls and his crushes, and so we poked fun at him, saying, “You’re too young for a girlfriend!”
The Father, absentmindedly preparing dinner quipped, “So are you”. Nothing else was said.
We were confused by this statement, how he could be perceptive and confrontational without saying more than three words; but then, we’ve lived most of our life in confusion. Perhaps that is why we think so much, and want to make sense of whatever we can. Being confused makes things feel worse for us.
It wasn’t much later, a month or so, before another girl that apparently liked us, and was bitter about us not liking her back, went to her father, a pastor, and told him she had seen us making out with a girl in the parking lot at school. This may not be as a big deal these days, but given that we were in the middle of preparation for our second trip to Mexico as a missionary for a North American youth organization, the fallout had an impact.
The pastor, this girl’s father, armed with this information, contacted the pastor of our church and relayed to him what he thought he knew to be the truth; even though we had NEVER kissed a girl on school grounds, let alone made out with one.
Our pastor contacted The Father to tell him that he didn’t think it was a good idea for Us to go on that missions trip, all things considered.
When The Father confronted us, we lied.
Well, we didn’t lie, because we had in fact not made out with the girl at school; and he never asked us anything about girls in general. Semantics.
We fought to take that final of the two trips we would take to Mexico in our youth; attempts to convince our self of what we didn’t believe. The trip was hard for many reasons, some which should be clear and those that probably are not.
Eventually this girl and us would become involved in a complicated Spring Break three-way relationship with a boy we both liked from school; one who had been Our first real boyfriend; a nice boy who later turned out to be gay, and not so nice.
That situation, that relationship, with those two people was exciting to us, until the girl we liked became more interested in the boy, and we got our feelings hurt.
The irony is that about 12 years later we would be in much the same situation, only older, and we would break the heart of a girl who was in love with us, while having our heart broken from being passed over by a man who chose her over us. When we write that story, you'll recognize his name from our posts over the last few months, when he got hurt, and felt scorned because we chose someone else over him.
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