Play? Or Play With?

I been doing a lot of thinking lately. As I have not returned to finishing The Velvet Rage: Overcoming the Pain of Growing Up Gay in a Straight Man’s World,, my mind has been been in RnD mode, research & development.

As I was watching Wally Cleaver take younger brother Beaver Cleaver and two friends camping, I inserted myself into the show and thought about how I might’ve acted. Of course, bearing in mind all that has transpired in my life, I kinda felt that I might flirt – without awareness, nor intent – my way into favor, then I might make a move. I think this because of my hypersexuality.

Now that it has come to my awareness, I am so curious about where it even began considering my mangina and moobs! As I play the tapes and think about this shit as openly and honestly as I can, the though comes to my mind that I took drugs to allow men to “play” with me because I enjoyed it and mistook that action as love, which has been my only true life objective.

My first – irrational or not – memory is of Eric M. touching me while we undressed from from our swimming attire, in his room. He might’ve been six, me: five. As a kid, having a peanut size penis was acceptable, even to me, but as I got older, I discovered that guys, who had initially expressed enough interest in getting me undressed were always severley disappointed with my penis size. The worst part, I never learned about touching one’s self to fluff it up! Lightbulb! That’s why I, like a woman, always got aroused by foreplay. Thinking back, it’s a miracle I ever had as much sex as I did, considering my own physical disappointment.

I switch gears and think – because I was turned down so many times, in such cruel ways – that I developed such strong characteristics to protect my unidentified self – homosexuality secrets; that these characteristics – akin to Eddie Haskell – were me being abnormal, other than myself, the identity into which I trapped myself. I really am the nerd, the geek – terms which I wore proudly; probably to counteract the undesirably strong characteristics I had come to defend myself with – the boring guy, the straight guy – terms I abhor, but with which I am finally able to make peace,

The Truth: Glad that is finally out of me! I’ve had conversations with guys I got sober with and they all still think of me as a sober slut. I ain’t that no more, no how. I am very boring and that’s okay with me.

La Historia de Un Fríjol Chiflado

or…The Story of The Wacky Bean

Yesterday, while attending to my fríjoles, I notice some yummy cake. I ask about it and my mother informs me that it was my brother’s birthday cake. So he had a party and did not invite me: I don’t care. And before he yells from the recliner he is mounding, in the other room, that “it’s his cake; I never share,” I’ve already made up my mind I don’t want any.

Then I am sitting with my parents, watching their television, while I wait out the hour needed for my “fríjoles” to finish. Next thing I know, mom is leaving to “Uber” my brother to the beach. Now it’s just dad and I. The phone rings. It’s my sister, immediately identifiable by her loud voice, which I can hear from the receiver! The next thing I know, my dad is communicating that he has something to tell her, but can’t because he is not alone…finally coming right out and saying it is me.

Since when can’t he talk in front of me? Unless it’s about me, right?

“What the fuck!?”

Today I suppose it’s not the first time I have been talked about. My motto: I don’t care.

The Truth:

Seeing how loving Ward Cleaver was to the Beaver & Wally Cleaver, my feelings are hurt…big time.

One week, my mother is giving me notice and the next week I am being talked about by my father. And all this as I have been trying to extract myself from mother’s web of misery and martyrdom, by getting medical transportation for my medical visits and paying for my own Ubers for personal stuff. Thank God, my SSI check is large enough to cover everything, though, I can be better.

OMG! There’s Gilbert again…I’m losing it again…give me a minute.

Gilbert was a crackhead, buther, with no teeth I met when I lived in North Miami Beach. We used to smoke crack together: I would try to make him molest me with his G.I. Joe body while he would geek and then proceed to tell me how is is better than EVERYONE!

Another Truth:

I loved him. I lusted him. I would do anything for him. And my deepest, darkest wish is that I could be back there with him again…to smell him, to touch him, to smoke crack with him…and the spell is broken. 😀

Final Truth: I am an idiot!