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She's taken advantage of onstage...or is she?
There was supposed to be someone else. And you provided me with assurances that there was a woman out there for me. So why didn't I find her? I would like to think it is because women just don't find me attractive. But any sort of honest self-reflection reveals the cold, hard truth. I didn't really look. I never pursued anyone, because no one ever interested me. There was just no one that ever really stacked up to you. And that took me eight years for me to figure out.
By that time, I was moved out of home. I was wrapping up my last year of college at a state school, while you were finishing your nursing degree at home. I visited home often, as the drive was not that far and I've always enjoyed the company of my best friend. I was even able to make some new friends at school, which was a welcome change of pace. No advancement on the love front though. Hell, by now, I'd already considered the situation hopeless and immutable.
You knew. You knew there was something up with me. I tried so hard to leave you out of it. I thought you would hate me if I told you, or that you would be so freaked out that you'd never speak to me again. The worst theory was that you would tell the family. I fear neither man nor the supernatural, but what would happen if I were exposed is something that horrified me to my very core.
I internalized those feelings for the most part. I've had a lot of practice with that thus far. But love is like diarrhea. You have to let it out and any attempts to hold it in is extremely uncomfortable. And when you finally explode, everybody shuts up, the whole room starts to smell, and an unfathomably disgusting brown liquid begins to seep down you pants and stain the carpet. (I really let this metaphor get away from me, didn't I?)
Despite this, I simply could not work up the nerve to tell you how I felt. I always imagined you would react with shock. Which is not unreasonable. But the idea of looking into your eyes and seeing contempt, for how I feel? The simple idea of that just about killed me.
The nights were worse. Terrible, actually. Before, I simply could not sleep unless I thought about you. Some of those thoughts were explicit. Most were me just fantasizing about you snuggling into me. Every single inch of our skin would be touching. From our feet, to my pelvis against the curve of your ass, to my chest pressed up against your back. This relaxed me better than any drug or anesthetic, and I would carry the fantasy into my dreams.
Some dreams were actually pleasant. Just us being together intimately, sexually or otherwise. Where we would exchange intimacies like couples do. Glances that meant nothing to no one but us. Touches that would express exactly how we felt. Often time, it was like we were alone in the world, and we didn't have to worry about the persecution of the moral elites. It was nirvana.
Most of the time, they were terrifying. Most of the time, I would confess my secret to you, and the contempt I so often feared would manifest. The looks of love I so often saw in your face would morph into hatred before my very eyes. You would tell our parents, and our brothers and sisters. Their judgment would be swift and exacting. I would be rejected so completely and utterly by the people who were supposed to care for me. And they would certainly exact their vengeance, with sticks, stones and fire. And I would have deserved it.
But it was never the family's reaction that really bothered me. I knew that they didn't really love me; I didn't need some sort of divine revelation to understand that. But your reaction? That's what I feared. Fuck everybody else; you were the only one who ever mattered.
Do you understand the hell I went through? Are you even capable of understanding that, every day for eight miserable years, you were the only thing that brought me any measure of joy, and at the same time, you were my unassuming tormenter?
You could tell that something was killing me. And the fact that you cared would seal my fate.
I could never deny you for too long.