She says she needs me
I say “Oh really”
She says “Give me a hug”
I say “Look, a bug!”
She says I don’t care
I say “I’m free as the air”
She says I hurt her
I say “Whatever…”
She says I’m wasting my life
I say “You’re not my wife”
She says I’m her husband
I say “You mean ex-husband”
She says I’m a father
I say “I don’t own my daughter”
She says I’m irresponsible
I say “I’m unstoppable”
She says I should conform
I say “I’d rather drink chloroform”
She says I’m suicidal
I say “Cause we’re a sick couple”
She says I’m a pervert
I say “I’m an extrovert”
She says I’m gay
I say “Hooray!”
She says I’m effeminate
I say “Why do you hate?”
She says she wants a divorce
I say “Go back to the source”
She says “I love you”
I say “Screw you”
So I decided to test my coming out with one member of my family, the one I am closest to.
I told this person that I was bisexual and that I had found someone online that I was interested in. I said that I had made plans to meet that person face to face within the next week.
The reaction was worse than I expected. She had a panic attack, didn’t sleep that night and called in sick the next day. Finally I was able to reassure her a bit and this is what she said to me:
“You can do what you want with your life, but I don’t want to hear about it. Anything that has to do with your bisexuality, I don’t want to hear about it because I will never understand it. You can talk to me about anything you want, but not about that. It makes me panic and it makes me sick. I love you and I cannot stand it when you say you want to meet new people, possibly for sex. Nothing could hurt me more. I am here for you, and you can do what you want with your friends but don’t tell me about it. I don’t want to know because it hurts too much.”
I was surprised to hear that this person does not want to know anything about my sexuality and my private life. I actually thought she was interested in me, but it is clear that she is not interested in this part of me. And maybe it’s a good thing. I feel free now. Free not to come out to my closed-minded family.
It also makes me question the maturity of Christian heterosexuals. The fluidity of their own sexuality scares the hell out of them. Just like it used to scare the hell out of me.
If they wish to act as if sexuality does not exist, fine. I can do that. So if they ask me what I’m up to, I shall say this: “I’m meeting new people. Nothing sexual can happen because sexuality does not exist. It only exists between a man and woman who are married. Anything outside of this is sickening, perverted pornography. Keep your blindfolds, I don’t care, but I’m walking out because I had enough of this shit.”
They won’t know what the hell I’m talking about. But I will smile.
I found a curiosity
Shaped like a “he”
And it thinks like me
It is still an unseen
It first came in a dream
Then on my computer screen
I know it exists
Inside a mist
I can’t resist
When it moves I follow
When it drinks I swallow
It shot me an arrow
A dart in my heart
A fruit in my cart
A taint in my art
I know where it’s at
It made a contact
It’s my turn to act
I know where it stays
It pulls with its rays
It lights with its blaze
If I go there
God should I dare
Things could get hot
or they might not
I could lose what I got
Or I might gain
A soother for my pain
Dopamine for my brain
It fills me with hope
I feel like a dope
Taking an antidote
I need to investigate
Not sure I can wait
I know I’m not straight
My father said he would kill me if I ever turned homo. I was 14 years old. I wonder how much this has affected my sexual development.
That evening I swallowed half a bottle of aspirin. I knew they were painkillers. I was not in pain. I think I was foreseeing the pain that was to come.
I didn’t know much at age 14. I knew practically nothing of personal identity and even less about sexual orientation. I was simply me. But I learned something important that day: A homo doesn’t deserve to live.
I didn’t think I was a homo. I hardly knew what the word meant. In my teenage mind, the word homo meant “like a girl.” I was a boy. So to be “like a girl” was abominable.
I could have been a thief, a liar, or even a murderer, and my father would have forgiven me. But if I was gay, I deserved to die — to be killed by my own father.
To be bisexual was even worse. That was the ultimate disgrace, the most perverted thing on the face of this earth.
I was bisexual.
The mark of infamy was on me. I didn’t deserve to live and I didn’t deserve to be happy. And if I was to ever succumb to my sexual desires, it would be the end of me.
I don’t think I ever got over it. Even now, decades later. My father is dead. I am free but I am not. He left something in me. The mark of infamy. I wish I could pluck it out.
How can I be bisexual and proud?
I AM proud of myself. But I am not proud of myself in regards to THEM — my family. Bisexuality is not something to be proud of according to Christianity.
How can I make it happen
If I don’t know what I need
If this planet was an ocean
I’d probably be a seaweed
I ran away from a 17-year relationship
As big and as beautiful as the Titanic
But we hit something as cold as the Arctic
And my world went down like a sinking ship
Now I’m broken and lonely
I can’t swallow my spaghetti
I sit in my apartment like an old jerk
Feeling as worthless as an office clerk
Wishing I could connect with someone new
A man, a woman, maybe even you
I feel ugly, I feel sad
My mind is empty and mad
I’m wondering about this dating site
Maybe this is how I can take flight
But what would I write in my profile
“I’m no pervert and no pedophile”
I want to turn around
Bury myself underground
I want to project something real
Find someone who will help me heal
But who wants to date a damaged man
All I need is a patient helping hand
Fuck I don’t even know what I want
I feel more lost than a teenage debutante
There’s a site called Plenty of Fish
Perhaps it can fulfill my wish
Might not be as hot as Florida
But it’s free and popular in Canada
Sad is single
Happy is double
Sad is lonely
Sad is bad
Happy is glad
Sad is worry
Happy is easy
Sad can’t sleep
Happy rests deep
Sad has pill
Happy has will
Sad is stranded
Sad looks down
Happy looks around
Sad is short-sighted
Happy is excited
Sad is flabby
Happy is horny
Sad is gray
Happy is gay
No, it’s not the fear of cherries, but the fear of happiness.
I think I might be suffering from this a little bit.
After coming out, feeling ready, willing and able and tumbling, I realized that there is a deep-rooted uneasiness within me when it comes to potential pleasure or happiness.
I think I know exactly where it comes from.
Whenever I experienced great happiness in the past, it always seemed to be followed by great despair. So I have developed this strange belief that in order to avoid heartbreak, I must avoid being happy.
The result is depression. A self-inflicted condition due to a state of mind.
I am just becoming aware of this now. It’s quite disturbing. I’m not sure what to do.
Whenever I realize something, I write it down. This is how I give it a form and shape. I find it easier to tackle after it becomes visible, observable and describable.
Cherophobia: aversion to happiness. There is some of it within me.
I’m sure the universe will take care of it. If this is something that should be kicked out of my belief system, then let the butt-kicker step forward. I welcome him. Or her…