Sexual Musings

You know what? I don't think I can see myself with a guy anymore.
Here I am, procrastinating from writing an essay (that was technically due 4 hours ago), thinking to myself, "am I really gay?"
Trying to prove to myself that I am, think about the women I've had relations with, and it seems to menial. So trivial. Why do I need to prove anything? If I think I consider myself attracted to women, is that not enough? So I tried considering myself as straight to see how I felt about that. And I can't picture myself with a guy. Well, I can physically, but I can't see myself *dating* a guy.
Now, considering the amount of time I've spent outside of a relationship, this isn't particularly surprising, but what if it's more than that? I mean, I'm not afraid of my sexuality- I consider myself *fluid*, embracing namelessness in all it's glory. I don't need a label to define how other people look at me. Thus, *fluid*. For those of you who do need a label, pansexual, I suppose.
Discriminating against feelings you may have for a person because of what they  associate as, or consider their gender to be, seems stupid. If you have feelings for a person, why should a label stand in the way of that? However, the concerns introduced in my leading statement to this post are directed towards the fact that I no longer know how I feel about a certain gender. Undeniably, I'm still physically attracted to them- men can be beautiful to look at, or be with. But I don't think I can see them as anything more than a means to satisfy carnal.. lust.
Granted, I could very well be pulling this out of my ass on account of my exhaustion, and because I've got an essay I need to write that I don't want to do, but it's been nagging me so I thought I'd vent. There's also the fact that I've been really preoccupied lately thinking about girls. A few in specific that I can't get out of my head; from whom I want more than just physical satiation.

Sharon Olds: Sex Without Love


How do they do it, the ones who make love

without love? Beautiful as dancers,

gliding over each other like ice-skaters

over the ice, fingers hooked

inside each other's bodies, faces

red as steak, wine, wet as the

children at birth whose mothers are going to

give them away. How do they come to the

come to the come to the God come to the

still waters, and not love

the one who came there with them, light

rising slowly as steam off their joined

skin? These are the true religious,

the purists, the pros, the ones who will not

accept a false Messiah, love the

priest instead of the God. They do not

mistake the lover for their own pleasure,

they are like great runners: they know they are alone

with the road surface, the cold, the wind,

the fit of their shoes, their over-all cardio-

vascular health--just factors, like the partner

in the bed, and not the truth, which is the

single body alone in the universe

against its own best time.

Conquest

He was the nicest guy I’d met in a long while- it wasn’t about false flattery with him. He was genuine. He understood. And then it occurred to me that maybe he understood too well. Maybe he knew more than any of the other ones ever had before.

And I was right. Because that one night, after you thought I was yours, we went out for drinks. And you saw me talking with another guy. He was the best listener I’d met in a while. And he was funny. And it wasn’t about false flattery with him. He didn’t understand quite the same way- but maybe that was for the best. And then he left the bar for a minute to explain to his girlfriend that he’d be late tonight. And you looked at me, and I returned your look. I wasn’t sure what it was asking of me. Until I felt your hand on my leg. And then I understood. And I turned away. But you’d found the answer to your silent question.

“So he’s tonight’s conquest.”

And I swallowed my tears and drew lines in the little beads of water on the glass in front of me. Because only I was allowed to look at them like that. Only I was allowed to think about them like that. Only I was allowed to see myself in that light.

But you had figured it out. You understood. And that terrified me.

Return of the Freak

I fear I've been irreversibly damaged, by none other than yours truly. (I've never actually understood that- why does "yours truly" mean "me"? How does that even make sense?)
I'm in a super shitty place mentally right now, and I don't even know what I'm doing with myself anymore. Every time I see someone that I had relations with, I get angry.
False.
Only when I see people I cared about and had relations with do I get angry. Whether at them or at myself I've yet to decide.
And then there's the fact that my brains completely stopped working. Serves me right, leaving the country for  7 months and expecting to come back and have everything just as I'd left it. Ugh. What bullshit. I can't write anymore. I don't think I can even bullshit anymore. And I most certainly cannot creatively write. I'm angry with myself. I'm angry with my parents for fucking up their shit and driving my sister crazy. I'm angry with my profs for speaking with complex terminology that I don't think I understand a hundred percent.... God, I'm just overall angry.
Plus, I think I have an STI.
False.
I know I have an STI, and I just haven't had the balls to go to the doctor and have it confirmed. Because I'm a pussy. And I don't want solid proof that I'm right. Even though I know I'm right anyways, there's a tiny part of me that hopes that if I go see the doctor they'll tell me it's something else completely and can be cured.
But I'm not stupid enough to believe that.
Every time I think about the STI and the guy I associate as having given it to me, I break down and cry.
Breaking News: I don't have my shit together, contrary to popular belief. I'm a real fucking mess.
And by last count, I'm pretty sure I'm at 36? Jeez. I don't even know anymore.

Good thing no one else reads this anymore. Or at least here's hoping.
Damnit. Now that it's occurred to me, I fear posting this in case people *are* reading it. Turns out, just as I don't have the balls to see a doctor, I also don't have the balls to admit this to myself via blog posting.
               That's not right.
It's not a matter of admitting it to myself. I'm already aware and in acceptance of it. It's that I don't have the balls to let *people* know.
Tough shit. Now you know.