Often, I mistake the emptiness I feel when I’m alone for sadness.
But it has suddenly come to me that, yes, I am empty - but not sad.
I have let go of the hate and the rage and the anger that fills my days and have opened my chakra and allowed the universe’s power to flow through me.
I mistake the vastness of the universe for sadness, just because it is cold.
When you are alone in the cold, your job is to create fire and shelter for yourself.
How can I do that, when I cannot even understand my own self? How am I to understand the vastness of the universe, when I cannot even understand a 5’8, 160 pound boy?
I would like to remind everyone that outing someone before they are ready to come out is a really shitty thing to do because the situation can range anywhere from “Its okay, honey, we accept and love you as you are” to a trip to the morgue in some (very extreme, albeit) cases, so please, let gay people come out at their own pace because everyone is different and has a different way of doing things. Even if you think you’re helping them: YOU’RE NOT. Its not your life, its not your closet to come out of, please do not open that door because a window will open and let in a fire storm.
I didn’t come out to my parents, I was outed by my sister. Thankfully, my parents accepted me and came to terms with my homosexuality much easier than I expected. I did, however, have an escape plan if things were to go wrong, ranging from how I was going to find a place to live and how to work without having a car, to how I could leave in secret if I needed to. I didn’t know what the reaction I was going to get would be, and that terrified me. I lived in constant fear of being outed, and when it finally happened, I had to say fuck it and go on the offensive. My entire world shattered and I had to pick up the pieces, even though I was in a better place. My life was decided for me by someone else, who I thought had my back, but instead she stabbed me in the back. Yes, I gained freedom and respect by being outed, but I really wish I had had the opportunity to do it on my own terms, in my own time.
Thankfully, we in America do not have to worry about criminal punishment for being homosexual, as our brothers and sisters do in other parts of the world, but we do still have to worry about our safety, particularly in this day and age, where anyone can have a gun and kill you without a moments hesitation, where anyone can shoot up a school, or bomb a mall. I lived in near constant fear of being beaten by my dad for being gay if he found out, (which was a grave misjudgment on my part, but understandable in the context of the situation) and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.
Do not put someone in that position. It is a violation of their most private self and if they trusted you with that secret, your betrayal is tantamount to murder, whether it be social, mental, emotional, or maybe even physical. Someone’s sexuality is not a joke to be told or a prank to be pulled, so please, do not out someone as a joke or to get revenge on them. You are going to do much more damage than good and no feeling is worse than having your entire world fall from under you.
Alright, its time that we have a chat about this gay cousin thing.
I am sick of this bullshit that is the “Oh, my God, I am the gay cousin” post on this site. For me, it typifies us homosexuals into the “black sheep of the family” category. When people say, “I have a gay cousin”, its either to impress or oppress. Either they are impressing their friends with their liberality and trendiness for having a gay cousin, or their seeking to put us back in the closet by preparing themselves to spew hatred and lies. I refuse to be “the gay cousin”, because I am just as entitled to be part of my family without any bias or stigma attached to my name as any other member of my family. I will not be slotted into the gay cousin category, because I have worked just as hard - if not harder - than my cousins to construct our family. My blood, sweat, and tears have gone into maintaining our family structure and I will not be pushed back into the closet by the toxicity that is the “gay cousin” position. I fucking refuse.
Okay, so there is a lot of hype around the new Harry Potter book coming out, but I’ve got a problem with classifying Merpeople and Centaurs as ‘beasts’. And this isn’t a social justice post about Half-Breed rights (even though I am totally for this, and I know this all sounds rather silly because this is all fictional, but bear with me), but because I’m about 100% sure that merpeople exist after seeing certain documentaries that Taylor and Day made me watch, so we need to have an idea about how to treat them. So, can we call sentient beings that have developed societies and can think and speak just as humans, beasts? I mean, Firenze becomes a professor at Hogwarts, for crying out loud! Now, the Merpeople are a little different from the Centaurs. They can’t speak English, but that’s because their vocal chords aren’t adapted to work above water, ergo making learning English impossible without someone to teach them. However, if a witch or wizard were to gain their trust and entry into their civilization, I’m sure the merpeople could learn English. So, this begs the question: should creatures that are capable of speech (and ergo culture, which is very near the definition of the separation of man and beast) and higher functions such as civilizations and learning, be called beasts? NO. The only reason these beings didn’t already have rights was because humans felt that they were the superior beings of the Earth. This can only be magnified by magic. But I can’t help but wonder if the humans weren’t here, who would be on top? Probably the Half-breeds such as Merpeople and Centaurs. So, what should be done about them? As sentient beings, they need to be treated the same as humans; they are just as capable as we are of making decisions, decisions such as voting, life choices, maybe even rebellion. I, for one, would not want to meet an army of angry Centaurs in open battle. I don’t, however, think that a being that can’t preform magic, should be Minister of Magic. But their existence falls under the control of the magical world, so I do think that they should be able to vote for the leader of the free magical world. So, in summation, no, we can’t call Half-Breeds beasts because they are just as intelligent as we humans are and they should be accorded the same rights as us.
Having sex in French was different than in English.
The pace was different, for one.
Telling him what to do to me - and what I wanted to do with him - had a sexiness about them that is missing in English.
I felt empowered when I told him “je veux que tu me suces les couilles”.
I felt über sexy when he said “avec plaisir, monsieur.”
It was late at night, I had snuck out, my parents asleep just several meters from the window I used to escape. He walked me to and from his apartment. The Parisian air was frigid, but I didn’t care. I was exhilarated, I was free.
There wasn’t anything anyone could say to me to make me feel that I was doing something wrong.
And I remembered this in therapy last week. I had completely forgotten about the dashing Frenchman that I encountered in Paris that night. I had completely forgotten, because it was commonplace in my life. And maybe that’s why I can’t function without a therapist now. Maybe that’s why I can’t keep a relationship - not even a pet goldfish - for more than a couple of days. Maybe that’s why I feel so alone.
Therapy is also different in French. Telling my therapist “il y a presque vingt ans, j’ai dormi avec cet homme à Paris, la première fois que je suis venu, et on a partagé une nuit d’amour, une nuit de passion si chaude que je me suis brûlé la peau. Voilà la cicatrise, ici, sur mon coeur. Je l’avais oublié jusqu’à maintenant pour me protéger, car je savais que c’était pas possible de retourner à ce lit où s’est couché l’Amour,” just sounds better than saying “almost 20 years ago, I slept with a man in Paris, the first time I went. And it felt magical. We shared a night of love and passion. It was so amazing. I had to forget about it to keep from crying because I knew I couldn’t return to that place, that time, that youthfulness”; everything sounds better in French. Everything is more expressive, and more honest. Everything is more real in French.
When I was fourteen, I met a guy walking down the street.
Statistically, the chances of something happening were infinite.
His eyes were green and his hair was brown and his teeth were white.
Statistically, I didn’t stand a chance.
When I was fourteen, I was confused and alone, dying for affection and a physical touch I didn’t know that I didn’t need.
Statistically, 100% of teenagers feel this way.
He saw a chance, a glint in my bright, innocent eyes - for I was innocent, once upon a time - and took his chance.
Statistically, this happens every two minutes in the U.S.
When I was fourteen, I gave myself away. I didn’t know that I was giving away the part of me that was most sacred.
Statistically, I figured into the 20% of sexually active fourteen year olds.
He never gave me more than his first name. I never saw him again.
And when I was fourteen, I was stupid enough to believe that I didn’t need love. I just needed the tantalizing touch to fill the void.
Statistically, my chances of catching an STD are much, much higher than any of my friends.
And my life has lost a lot of meaning, because I gave myself away.
Statistically, I think about this at least once a day, if not more.
And that’s not okay.
Achète-moi la chose la plus extravagante du monde,
Donne-la-moi avant tous de nos amis, pour qu’ils brûlent avec jalousie,
Comme je brûle avec amour pour toi,
Sans arrestation, sans pensée, sans aucun sens, je t’aime plus que la vie.
On écoute Lana del Rey en Basse-Normandie même maintenant qu’il fait beau et le soleil est enfin sorti de derrière les nuages parce qu’elle tombe encore, la pluie, dans mon cœur.