I have spent 5 months of my life dating a girl.
She is so pretty that it makes your heart break.
She is thoughtful, and understanding, and compassionate, and
In essence, she is everything that I am not.
Anatomically, we have all the same shit.
I like fancy clothes. She likes fancy clothes. Different,
fancy, but fancy, nevertheless.
I like eyeliner and mascara. She likes eyeliner and mascara. Different brands, but eyeliner and mascara, nevertheless.
I’ve never really been attracted to women.
I can’t remember there ever being a time when I have looked at a woman and thought, “My land, she could get it.” Ever.
Conversely, the thought occurs to me regarding men 12-14 times a day.
And those are the days when I stay indoors.
But there she was—so pretty, so thoughtful, so well-intended…
Who was I to say “No?”
Who was I to accept, unthinkingly, this compulsory societally-imposed manufactured standard of human sexuality?
Sexuality was fluid, was it not?
Kinsey Scale and all of that bullshit.
And maybe this was different than everything else.
Because, in all of her compassion, in all of her thoughtfulness, in all of her well-intendedness, she was more than happy to fall back when I took to my moods.
She didn’t complain when I fell silent, or cut short her questions; when I corrected her on grammar or points of order when I felt her wrong.
She didn’t utter a hint of complaint when everything had to be my way, when I said “No” where she would have said “Yes.”
She was nothing, if not accommodating, and accepting.
And, in the beginning, I didn’t mind us being around each other constantly, because she so easily molded herself into my stark world. If an unbreakable silence was the order of the day, she was still. If it was my manic and incessant chatter that colored an empty afternoon, she was attentive and engaging.
She didn’t read the books I read or watch the cable news I preferred, but she was sweet.
She was more an appreciator of jokes than an author of them, but I was at home with my shtick and her rejoining laughter.
And sexually—sexually I was all in. I’m a far cry from prudish, and have certainly engaged in the more unseemly elements of heteronormative sex, so nothing freaked me out. I was down for whatever. And it was good.
And for a while—a quiet, contented while—I was satisfied to let the earth, and indeed, my life, fall away, if, but for one blissful moment, and enjoy the novelty of her. “…and possibly… the thrill / of under me you/quite so new…” as cummings would say.
Here’s the thing—
Failed heterosexual or no–
The fact remains—
My basic, sad, elemental truth is—
That I am a monster.
A devourer of men (and apparently the occasional woman).
I’m all about confronting truths, you see.
I’m not built for sustaining ever-lasting unions with people.
And perhaps—even a little bit cruel. Not because of words or sheer abuse of action, mind you.
But because I’m not unhappy.
Neither with my present state or circumstance.
And monsters should be unhappy right?—
Cast out from all good society, grumbling irascibly under their breath, skulking about, ever-present grimace on their goblin-y faces.
We walk among the decent, and the upright.
We laugh gaily (pun intended), and make you comfortable, and you trust us when you shouldn’t.
In the ten years that have comprised my active romantic life, I have never not divulged the truth of my makeup to anyone I’ve been involved with.
And no one’s ever believed me—
Until it was too late.