Sexcapades and What Impossible Feels Like

Yay, it's Wednesday!  That means I can tell you more about Veronica. If you need a refresher, please go to How I Fell.  

And so.

My life got complicated.  Veronica became the best part of every day.  In the sweltering summer humidity and heat, we escaped to the pool daily.  I brought my two baby girls and a couple bags of Little Ceasars breadsticks and she brought her two sweet kids and her rocking body in that tiny bikini.  She would sip on a blue Monster and I would 86 a couple RedBulls.  

I can't remember what we talked about, but there was never hesitation.  Comfort was our mode of operation and  I loved hanging out with her.  I felt like I could finally be myself even though I was still trapped in the LDS community, trying to squeeze my rectangular self into the tiny round hole that is religious Mormonism. 

For weeks I watched her rub oil all over her body, her beautiful tattoos, her breasts, ass...  She loved a good tan line and God, was she tan!  The white of her natural skin peeking out from her ever tinier bikinis was so bright, shiny with tanning oil and art-like, it made me want to reach out and touch it to find out if it she was crafted from oil paint or acrylics.   

As you may have surmised, Veronica is married. Two kids, nice home, husband has a good job, girl scouts, hockey, and all the rest.  My mouth was sealed shut, never to leak what I felt in my stomach, chest, the wetness that would come.  The thoughts in my head were repressed, pushed away.  I couldn't tell anyone.  And it was painful.  

When my husband and I decided to split and I drove to Salt Lake City, I called her.  I didn't want to tell anyone in the church, I didn't want to talk to anyone, I didn't want anyone to tell me that God wanted me to stay.  I just wanted to see Veronica and tell her goodbye.  When I called I had the kids in the car, and all of my things were ready, I was specifically waiting for her.  But she was out visiting family in a neighboring town and wouldn't be home for a few hours.  The sadness I felt driving away without getting to see her and hug her and hear her sweet voice with the adorable accent was deep.  More deep by far than the sadness for my failed marriage, which at this point we both knew was long over.  

A year passed, and as we stayed in touch, I wanted her to visit and the trip was planned!!  Finally, a year too late, I would get to see my best friend again!  

I remember when the first hints at mutual sexual attraction began. 

Somehow talk led to thoughts on sexual experimentation and um, lesbian desires.  She sent me a photo in a text and asked "how does this make you feel?"  I remember the photo perfectly and when I was writing this, I emailed her and asked her if she remembered the first photo she ever sent me.  She did.  It was a kitchen scene, two lovely, tattooed ladies from the waist down, naked save panties, legs entwined. 

The image excited all of me in all of the ways that I had been wanting for so many, many years.  She arrived.  Her visit wasn't long, just barely three days.  I took her to the Pie Hole, RedRock, up to see the mountains, we rode the tram up to the top of Hidden Peak at Snowbird and there where we could see the whole world, I remember the feel of holding her hand for the first time.  

I also remember the night that I drank enough liquid courage that I walked up to her standing in my living room, put my hand around her perfect waist and pulled her towards me.  I kissed her for a long time and it was like spring had sprung or like a thousand doves cooing, or a million butterflies taking off all at the same moment.  It was like nothing I had ever experienced and everything that I could have imagined.  

The next part is pretty rad and I know what you're probably wondering.  Yes, I fucked her.  But it's more than that.  Years have passed and my love for her grows.  When I need to imagine a happy place, she is there with me, warm breeze, her laugh, her smile, her touch.  Together.  She is everything I could ever want.  In a partner, in a friend, in a lover, in a confidant.  

So why might I have stated in the title, what impossible feels like?  Simply because for Veronica and I, our time is not yet.  I cannot be with her.  It's tragedy and pain and agony.  Yet it makes my love for her and our bond stronger.  We grow closer over the thousands of miles between us. 

I ask each of you one question: think of the person who completes you or the person you are searching for and tell me in one word, who are they?  

For me, it's Veronica and she is Zen. Peace, calm, rest, stillness, tranquility, my center.  I love her so and one day, one glorious, delicious, deserving day, we will be together. 

How I Fell

I was raised like most every other mormon girl, with the continual pressure, prodding, persuading and brainwashing that i would grow up to be a stay at home mother, with a loving husband and plenty of children. 

Becuase my parents were so restrictive and afraid of everything, as far I knew, the word gay meant happy until i was in college when i would learn that peers i had had in high school had "come out" and i saw the gay kiss between Rachel and Melissa on 'Friends'  (College got weird for me, after that).  I was always taught that men loved women and women loved men and there was nothing else. Nothing else was REAL.  Anything else I would ever hear of or see would be fictitious or between two people who were just playing around like two drunk girls on spring break in Miami, and that those people were misled, or acting out or bad!, but most especially, that those people were definitely not in love.

I kissed boys in my late teens, I dated men in college.  I felt attraction, I liked big, hard, muscle bodied men.  I loved/STILL love my male friends and number them among the most loyal I've ever had.  I have an ease with males that has always been difficult with females.

I've felt drawn to women since I was 12.  I was never allowed to go to friends' sleepover parties but dreamed of being able to make what Anne Shirley of 'Anne of Green Gables' calls, a "bosom friend'!  (no pun seriously intended)  When I was younger, females made me nervous.  I was quiet and self conscious around them, always wanting to stay cool and collected, but I simply came out, instead, the quiet, sweet girl who never spoke.  

Years later at the age of 25, I had renamed myself as a friendly, outgoing woman and involved myself in lots of activities with other women. 

 I was married and living in Philadelphia with my husband of 4 years and my first baby girl.  I had a best friend.  A woman, even!  She and I had met while our husbands went to graduate school in Michigan and when they both got hired on by the same company in Philly, we were thrilled.  She even had her baby girl a month before I had mine.  

It was at this time that I had openly claimed female celebrity crushes, Scarlett Johannsen  and the incomparable Julie Andrews. (YES, I'm serious. she is one classy lady. besides, her as Mary Poppins, mee-oww!) and I was beginning to admit to myself that I truly was attracted to women, although I kept it a deep, fantastical secret that revealed itself in my dreams often. 

My friend and I became inseparable.  Gym, shopping, hanging out, movies, baby stuff, walks, parks, we even went and met one of the cast of 'Twilight' at our local Hot Topic during the 'Twilight' craze.  I loved her. And then I realized, rather terrifyingly, that I didn't have just friend love for her, but I was attracted to her.  

I dreamed sexually about her. I looked away at the gym when she changed, I looked away when she was climbing in the pool in her bikini. I looked away when she washed her gorgeous long hair in the shower afterwards... So much looking away.  So many feelings.  So much wanting. 

She divorced her husband and moved back to her parents house in California. I had my second baby and moved to a little town outside of Houston, Texas.  

That's when I fell in love.  With her.  With the girl of my dreams, and there was no awkward, scared 19 year old, fumbling over words, but a brave, confident woman, ready to be who I really was. 

The first time I saw her, she was at the community swimming pool, sitting on a pool chair in her bikini, impossibly tan, impossibly cool, impossibly sexy!  I was mesmerized and drawn as if by an invisible electric tentacle. When I saw her I thought 'I want to be her friend' and Before I knew it, i was saying, "Hi, I'm Mina."

And she replied in her impossibly adorable accent, "Hey. I'm Veronica".

And the rest... Is for next time. 

Chewed Up and Spit Out

Trigger Warning: Sexual Abuse, Assault, and Rape

Last week I mentioned that Pride was both wonderful and horrible at the same time.  It was wonderful because I was able to see a world of diversity that I hadn’t seen before.  It was beautiful because I saw a spectrum of color and variety that I hadn’t allowed myself to acknowledge.  And, finally, it was a chance to validate myself and find more courage to become my own authentic person.

It was horrible, however, because I was raped by someone who I thought was one of my best friends and his boy friend.

Friday night, before the festival opened, I was invited to go clubbing with a friend from college and his partner.  I was excited to experience Pride weekend and what better way to do it than by hitting up a gay bar with a group of gay friends.

It’s important to know that these people weren’t strangers. I had known my friend for more than five years and I also knew his boy friend (they’ve been dating for about six months). 

 

They still live in Utah County so they decided to rent a hotel room in Salt Lake City. They invited me to their room to start drinking before we made it to the club.  Drinking in bars is so expensive so why not save as much as you can by “pre-gaming” before you get there, right?

Well, I like to drink and I know it takes A LOT for me to feel anything so I helped myself to a couple of mixed drinks at the hotel as well as an 8-10 oz. Dixie-cup shot of pure pineapple vodka (no ice, just straight liquor).  I hadn’t been drunk in close to two years and I really wanted to let my hair down.

Well, we quickly made it to the bar and continued drinking. At least six bar drinks later, I was three-sheets to the wind and the club was closing.   

We took a cab to Denny’s and after we ordered, it became even more evident that the alcohol was taking its toll on me.  I couldn’t sit up in the booth and I definitely couldn’t eat or walk, and I could barely even talk.

Almost immediately after receiving our food, the three of us left the restaurant and walked across the street to the hotel.  While on our way back, I distinctly remember saying that I didn’t care what they did in their bed, as long as it stayed in their bed and they left me alone.

When we got to the hotel room, I immediately got into bed and, just before passing out, one of the guys gave me a glass of water and some ibuprofen. “You need to take this, it will help with your hangover tomorrow morning,” he said.

I felt safe. 

I passed out.

I don’t know how much time elapsed and, I’ll be honest, my next memories are all very broken and disjointed.

I am not going to go into detail but I was sexually assaulted in every way a man can be assaulted by another man.  Every time I said “no” and garnered enough strength to push off or pull away, they found another part of me to violate. 

These two men had been asking me to make an ‘MJ sandwich’ since December and I have been telling them “no” since then. 

Likewise, I told them “no” when we were all sober when the night began.

I told them “no” at the bar.

I told them “no” at Denny’s. 

 

I told them “no” on the walk back to the hotel.

And, in my drunken, passed-out state during the exchange, I remember saying “no, I’m not ready.”

I remember many things about that night; most of which I wish I did not.  Even when everything was happening, in between blacking out and then being forcibly brought back to consciousness, I remember thinking, “this is my fault,” and “why am I so stupid, how did I let this happen?” And then I would try and force myself to black out again – and I would.

I felt so guilty and dirty and responsible for letting myself get that drunk that I told myself that I deserved what was happening and that maybe if I just let them, they’d finish faster and it would all be over.

In that moment, I had convinced myself I deserved to be raped while the other guy took pictures. I deserved to have both of them violate me without any form of protection and, in that vein of thought, I believed that losing my virginity in such vile, disgusting way was my just reward.

Why? 

Because I am gay.

In the last conversation I had with my mother she told me, “if you decide to live the gay lifestyle, it will chew you up and spit you out.”

And, in that moment, I believed her.

Four or five hours later I came to, alone in the bed and half naked.  I put the rest of my clothes on that had been pulled off me and left the hotel room.

For the next two hours I walked downtown Salt Lake City in an effort to burn off the rest of the alcohol in my system before I took a taxi back to my car and I drove home.

Over the next few days I battled myself and my emotions.  I tried to justify their behavior. Similarly I continued to blame myself. 

Eventually, however, I sought out  friends who truly love me and support me and they referred me to several invaluable resources.

As I’ve reached out to support groups and hotlines and medical professionals, I have come to understand that this wasn’t my fault.  I wasn’t raped because I was drunk or because I'm gay, I was raped because my supposed friends are rapists.

No means no.

While speaking with the Utah Pride Hotline, I was told that this happens a lot.  That predators feed off of newly “out” members of the LGBTQ community because they are easy targets.  Similarly, while on the phone with the Rape Recovery Hotline, I was told that one in six men is a survivor of sexual assault and rape.

I am horrified that this happened to me.  I never thought it would, I never thought it could – I am enormous and I played sports. I didn’t think anyone would even consider doing something to someone as large as me.  I never thought it was even a possibility.  But, beyond my own pain, I am even more disgusted by how frequently this happens and by how many boys and young men are affected. 

 

It makes me sick(er).

So, if you are a survivor or you know someone who has been assaulted, please know that you are not alone.  Please use the resources that are available to you and, most importantly, know that you are not alone, that you are loved and that this wasn’t your fault.

There are many side effects associated with an experience like this.  I don’t know exactly how my personal journey will play out, or how this experience will affect me long term, but I do know that I am strong enough to weather the challenges that have already popped up and that may arise in the future.  I also know that with the right resources and support anyone else in this or a similar situation can also survive and thrive.

If you or anyone you know needs someone to talk to, please don’t hesitate to reach out to me.  It’s tough but we can all heal together.

Resources:

Below are a few of the resources that I've found to help me through this experience.

http://www.raperecoverycenter.com/ - They have a 24-hour crisis hotline at 801-467-7273. This is a predominantly female-centric resource but they have been trained and are very generous with male (especially gay/bisexual) survivors, too.

http://www.rainn.org/get-information/types-of-sexual-assault/male-sexual-assault - There is a wealth of resources and information here too.

Me – Please reach out to me if you need any support; I will do all I can to help you.

Google – Truly, if you Google “Male Survivors of Sexual Assault” you will see a wealth of resources that can and will help you.

50 Followers!!! and LGBTS Flash Fiction

Hello Everyone! We now have Fifty Followers. 50!!
We also have 38,421 page views. That's a lot.

I just thought this might be a nice time to celebrate.

I've also had someone submit a few flash fiction pieces to me and it got me thinking about how cool it would be to have a few LGBTS fiction pieces on here.

So, if you like to write fiction and you like to do it in a flash--send in your pieces. Flash fiction is supposed to be short. Concise. Clean. The word-count limit is 75-100 words. Leave out the "to be" verbs, the adverbs, and the excessive adjectives. Get your creative mind cranking!

Send your submissions to tiffanydemings@gmail.com

~live your own truth~