“Can I kiss it?”
My cheeks flushed as I shook my head no.
With a devilish smile on her face she kissed me and whispered, “I love you so much, can I kiss it?”
I blushed again, but I smiled and forfeited my naked body to her.
She swiftly traced her way down from my neck to my nipples to my belly button and finally made her way to the most sacred part of my body. All I could concentrate on was the playlist coming from her laptop that kept repeating over and over. I felt a wet tickle and kept shaking my head, but she didn’t notice my anxiety. It didn’t feel good. Or maybe it did. All I know is that I was letting a girl touch me in places that I’d only expect a man to touch me. I wanted to say I didn’t care if she was a girl, but it ate me alive. I had a constant fear of someone finding out, especially my parents, yet I couldn’t let go of the thrill that I was up to no good. To make matters even more complicated, she took my virginity. How? Use your imagination.
But one nose job later, $6,500 poorer, and a million times more confident than ever, I wasn’t so in love with her.
It started the summer I graduated high school when I met her. A mutual friend was hosting her going-away party and our mutual love for Jägermeister may have sparked the next few years. We would get drunk together, tell each other how crazy it all felt, then get naked and go at it all night. It helped that she knew exactly what to do to make me squirm in ecstasy.
I grew up in a conservative family with the most extraordinary and selfless parents. They were immigrants who gave me everything and more. They also bred conservative values into me, but growing up and diving into academia opened my mind. They were anti-homosexuality and would always sneer during local news coverage of the Pride parade. So at one point in my life I was opposed to gay marriage. More importantly, I was so insecure that I didn’t even know how to formulate my own opinions. I had bangs to cover my face and would always have my hair down to hide my big nose. I felt like that’s what everyone would stare at, and no boy I liked ever liked me back. Don’t get me wrong; I was quite popular in high school (class valedictorian and class vice president), but I was good at hiding my insecurity.
So when this beautiful girl with porcelain skin, emerald-green eyes, and long blonde hair that draped down her spine with a contagious laugh found an interest in me (while every guy in the room wanted her), I’d be stupid not to pursue it. After our first kiss I would end up on a random bench crying my eyes out screaming in oblivion. I frantically called my best friend at the time and kept repeating, “I think I’m a lesbian” as the waterworks kept going. My friends who knew about my lesbian relationship would always roll their eyes and tell me I was going through a phase. It was difficult to take my feelings seriously when the ones closest to me wouldn’t take my relationship seriously.
I took one Women’s Studies course in college, so I’m no expert at the topic. But I did spend four years with her. My lust for another girl really had me analyzing a modern-day enigma: What is sexuality? What I came up with: Sexuality is insecurity. Insecurity is being afraid to look at yourself in the mirror. Insecurity is not knowing your worth. Insecurity is not allowing yourself to like someone because you think you’re not good enough. Insecurity is liking someone simply because they like you (because everyone wants to feel wanted) or liking someone because you think they’re out of your league. That’s why we sometimes allow assholes and bitches to mess with our heads and emotions. This sort of masochism is rooted in our individual insecurities.
When someone who resembled a porcelain doll with the personality of a firecracker thought I was perfect, I instantly “fell in love.” I was so insecure and yet so shallow at the same time.
After enduring a tumultuous relationship where I cheated on her with her ex-boyfriend, the sneaking around, the alcohol abuse, the tears, the fights, the endless plane tickets, the dinner dates, the surprise gifts, the late-night phone calls, the laughs, and the discovery of my self-esteem, I sobered out of being a lesbian. Yet I learned one valuable yet sickening lesson: Nearly everything is a social construct. My idea of beauty, my idea of love, my idea of relationships, my idea of sexuality had all been constructed by the society in which I lived. But for one brief moment, my time with her helped me peel the thick layers of social construct and find a blank slate. I became a pragmatist and took everything at face value. She became a person, neither a girl nor a boy. Love became something that made me feel better and secure and sex just felt good. Because of her, I know what love means to me. Sometimes I feel that I led her on, but at that point in my life she was worth it.
I’ve probably left you confused and thinking that I’m bisexual or pansexual, but I think I’m just a human with feelings and a strong hatred for labels.