Lesbian – Page 3 – …on the B.L.

The Gay Is Here To Stay: I Got Tattooed

May 17, 2022May 17, 2022 RaeAnna

I recently took a trip to Denver, and while I was there, I decided to get two tattoos. I’ve kept them hidden on social media as they heal, and I wanted to show a few important people the finished product in person before announcing it to the world. So without further ado, these are my new tattoos.

Two concentric circles in the Pride Flag and Lesbian Flag colors.

If you can’t tell by the ink, I’m gay. Both hold meaning, one more than the other. My journey to being a lesbian has been long, varied, and quite the story, and I wanted to get something to commemorate that while also acting as a reminder to be boldly myself always.

A few years ago, I knew I wanted to get a gay tattoo because I’ve been out of the closet for over a decade now. As I do, I take my time to mull all the infinite options over. I thought I wanted a rainbow ear cuff. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that was not actually what I wanted. It didn’t give me the “yes, that’s what I need” factor. So, I turned to a Pinterest search. Rainbow dots, flowers, hearts, etc. Not my thing. I decided I wanted to put whatever it would be just above the inside of my right elbow. I saw a line with gradient rainbow colors. I liked that, but… why the fuck would I want anything straight tattooed on my body?? The answer: I do not.

Circles are hugely symbolic in literature, nature, life, myth, etc. There’s no beginning or end. It made a lot of sense to have a rainbow circle. Pride! As I thought on it more, why stop at one circle and just the pride colors? I could have two concentric circles with the inner circle made up of the lesbian flag colors. I’m a genius. The moment the idea came to me, I had that feeling I always get when I know something is right. It doesn’t come often, but when it does, I pursue it with everything I’ve got.

I love the idea of concentric circles for this one because I am a lesbian—the inner circle—belonging to a larger community—the outer circle—of beautifully unique people living their authentic lives. I don’t want to hide that, and I no longer can since I have it tattooed on my left forearm.

Why is it not just above the inside of my right elbow ? Well, there’s some unintentional yet deeply meaningful overlap. One of my closest friends and someone I love with all my heart has two concentric circles in that exact spot. Though my tattoo is colorful and much bigger, I wasn’t about to have an exceptionally similar tattoo in the same exact spot as one of my people. The reason she got her tattoo was in honor of her dog, Nigel, who passed away after prolonged illness in March. He wasn’t my dog, but I loved him as much as my own babies. I was a huge part of his last few months, and my life revolved around my friend and him as she tried everything to get him better. But he passed far too soon, and it broke me wide open.

Her tattoo was in the shape of his dog tag. So though I came up with the idea for my tattoo completely separately, the added meaning made it even more poignant for me. I will carry Nigel’s memory with me forever. I don’t need a tattoo to remember him, but his memory is subtly etched on my skin the way he not so subtly carved a choco-taco lab shaped spot in my heart. He really was just the best boy. The thing is, his memory will always be intertwined with his mom because I wouldn’t have gotten to know him without her. She came into my life when I had no idea I needed her and quickly became one of my favoritest people for more reasons than I can enumerate. She is also gay and well that’s a much longer story, but she has inspired, challenged, and helped me reclaim some very integral parts of who I am in the short time we have known each other, and I expect it’s only going to get better. As a writer and advocate, I know the importance of people and connection, and I believe in honoring those who impact our lives. I could probably write a piece about how influential she is, but you know an accidental matching-ish tattoo works. As a survivor, I don’t let many people in, but when I met her, I had the same feeling I had with three other people who would go on to be fundamentally impactful on my life. I knew from the first time we hung out that she would be immensely important in my life, and she has. Again the tattoo’s connection was absolutely incidental, but I love layered meaning.

After I realized why the idea of concentric circles felt so familiar, it then felt odd but not odd enough that I didn’t do. There were lots of discussions had on if I should scrap the idea completely, but I chose to keep the idea and change the location. Because at the end of the day, it also just made it feel more right. Weird but right. So very on brand for me. Luckily she’s weird too and doesn’t hate it. Or she’s lying to me because it’s a fucking tattoo and not going anywhere so she had to accept it either way. But she is the one who took these pictures, so there’s that. Lucky her, she made me look cute, so she’s found herself a new job: my personal photographer.

I will show this one of for years to come.

ga(y)me on Fun fact, I am very competitive. It manifests in subtle ways, but if it can be a competition, it will be a competition. I’m also cocky as fuck. Especially when I shouldn’t be. If I’m atrocious at something “Game on, bitch.” I have been saying “game on” since high school. Staring down the starting o-line in a fun game of tackle football in college? Game on. You want me to try water skiing for the eighteenth time, knowing full well I will not get up. Game on. Help you tile your bathroom having zero experience? Game on. Rescue a dog and tend to her thirteen puppies? Game on. Want to play a game of Scrabble? Sure. Let’s have a trivia night. Sounds nice. If I’m good at something, you won’t know until I have wiped the floor clean of your loser sweat. With a smile, obviously: I’m not an asshole.

I was in a sleep-deprived, depression induced, anxious state of mania when I said “Game on.” Wait… gayyyyme on. I was so excited about my pun, I called my best friend in Denver and told her I would be getting that tattooed on my right finger when I came to visit. I do not feel the need to explain why that finger. If you know, you know. She said, “Let’s sleep on it, and revisit.” Yeah okay. Game on. I knew it was happening. It happened. I did it. She was hesitant until the tattoo gun hit my finger, and then she was like… well, okay.

I would be lying just a little bit if I said I didn’t get it as a huge flirt because I really fucking did. I know this shit is adorably cocky and competitive. It’s also a pun. It’s also gay. It’s also funny. Every person I show giggles and quickly follows it up with “That is very RaeAnna.” It is. It’s such a dumb tattoo, and it makes me brilliantly happy. I show it off a lot. I am also really excited to explain what game on means to my great nieces and nephews. That’s all the meaning there is to this tattoo. I wanted it. It makes me happy. I did it.

Those are my tattoos. I love them very much.

Yay gay! I got them at Old Larimer Street Tattoo in Denver, Colorado from Johnny Campa, a fantastic artist and human!

In My Own Words, Lifestyle, So Gay

Six Years Can Change Everything, But We’re Still Here

May 10, 2022May 10, 2022 RaeAnna

May 8th marks the officiality of Dylan being a significant part of my life for six years. Where the fuck has time gone?

When we met, I was 25 to his 23. I was bartending to pay the bills until freelancing took off. He was figuring out what life looked like after the military. We chose to move cross-country four months into dating so he could follow his dreams of becoming a race car engine builder and designer. My job allowed me the flexibility to go with.

Today, I’m making my way through my 30s as a full-time freelance writer. Not only is Dylan a race car engine builder and designer, he’s teaching others to do the same. We own a house that we’ve filled with six rescue dogs. We are best friends, partners, and co-parents in this life we have made for ourselves.

There are few people who have had the impact he has on my life. He drives me absolutely insane. I can’t stand him, I love him, and I can’t imagine my life without him. Moving cross-country was a life altering decision. One that has allowed me to distance myself physically and emotionally from a past fraught with pain. He’s given me the security to chase dreams, travel, and figure out who I am. He’s held me through more anxiety/panic/PTSD attacks than I’d care to count. He listens to my endless fears of failure and mediocrity. He has watched me climb waterfalls; gotten up at the ass crack of dawn to see my smile as hot air balloons float over the mountains; held my hand through health issue after issue; raised eyebrows as I’ve danced around at 3:30 in the morning; taste tested many a new recipe; and so much more He’s been a rock through some really difficult years.

One of the things I admire and respect most about Dylan is his unrelenting respect and support as I figure out who the fuck I am.

When we started dating, I had been out of the closet as pansexual for five years. I wasn’t necessarily loud and proud, but I never let anyone call me straight. Over the course of four years, I would start embracing my sexuality more openly because I had someone who supported that journey. He took my pride pictures and high-fived me the first time I said I was gay. It took me a long time to even consider myself part of the LGBTQ+ community because I had always been in straight passing relationships, but Dylan pushed me to include myself because pansexual is valid no matter what kind of relationship I was in or had been in. Over the past two years, I have been coming into my identity more and more, searching out community and relationships I would never have before. Partially because I’m an introvert. Partially because I hate change. Partially because of so many other things.

So often when a person comes out, we lose people. Friends, family, partners. Especially partners. They don’t usually stay, let alone support the journey. That’s not my story. Dylan stayed. He continues to stay. He was the first person I told when I decided to start calling myself a lesbian. When I decided to get the rainbow and lesbian flag colors tattooed on myself, he was the first person I showed. I would not say it’s been easy for him nor should it be, but he has never wavered in his desire for me to be happily, authentically myself.

I am so incredibly lucky to co-exist with a man I have spent six years with, building a life and a family. We are not traditional by any loose definition of the word, but we’re figuring it out. The one thing we do know: We love each other deeply, support each other eternally, and will always be there for one another.

To the man who has allowed me the safety, freedom, and unconditional love to be myself exactly as I am: I will die loving you. You’re also a huge fucking pain in my ass, and I would not change a single thing about our journey. I’ll see you at home, gingey.

11..., Lifestyle

11… Moments Leading to Embracing the Fact I Have Sexuality

March 28, 2022March 28, 2022 RaeAnna

It’s Women’s History Month, and I am an absolute history nerd. I’m also a woman. So yay for this month. I had a voracious craving for history as a kid. As an adult, I realize I was searching for women. Women who bucked tradition, lived exceptional lives, did the unexpected. Women who did not sit down and look pretty. History, more often than not, has been documented by men, who were more concerned with their own stories than those of their mothers, sisters, wives, mistresses, and daughters. Though the stories I sought out were harder to find and less documented, they did exist. As I pulled on the thread, I found more and more extraordinary women.

I am very anxious putting these pictures out into the world…

As a student of history since I was seven years old, I have been acutely aware of the problems women have faced throughout documented history, and I have seen those same problems play out in far too similar ways in my own life, my friends’ lives, and in the media. For as far as we’ve come… How far have we really come?

By the time I turned into a teenager, I was in love with the resilience, audacity, innovation, and endurance of women throughout time. I still am. I also saw the glaring pattern. Women were noted in history, novel, song, and poem for two reasons: they were born to the right family; married well; and gave birth to someone [usually a boy] important OR they were someone’s mistress and or a prostitute. There are exceptions, but by and large, the pattern is clear. At the heart of this… S.E.X. Let me be clear, sex for men. Not with. For. Sex for men’s desire, power, wealth, name, lineage, so on and so forth. Wife or whore, women were notable for one reason and one reason only: their sexual/fertile availableness to men. Even the women who were not attached to men, so much focus is placed on their fuckability or their “virginity”—looking at Elizabeth I—or their sexuality was questioned—fair, lesbians have existed for a lot longer than TikTok; it’s just upped our visibility. This is a long-winded way of saying: By the time I was a teenager, it was blatantly obvious how powerful women’s sexuality is. For the good and the bad. Every single woman noted in history books (up until a very recent point but even they probably have had to do some of this) has had to leverage their sexuality in return for protection, shelter, food, power, money, and all the in betweens. Some did it overtly by being a mistress/prosititute, not having sex but leading men on, or marrying and having a “cushy,” “respectable” life. I had read enough history to know all the outcomes, the positives, and the negatives. Whore, wife, or virgin, I knew I was damned if I did, damned if I didn’t.

Sexuality and I have quite the shituationship.

I don’t and shouldn’t have to choose between the two. Fuck convention. Normal doesn’t exist. It’s all a spectrum, and I don’t have to pick one static spot on that spectrum. I and everyone else can be wherever we want to be on that spectrum whenever we want to be there. And that’s the problem… History has always divided women into wives and whores. One doesn’t like sex; one is only sex. Both versions erase the woman and her sexuality.

At 30 years old, I’ve finally decided to dive head first (yep, innuendo) into a sexuality journey. And I hate it. Legitimately, it makes me uncomfortable and anxious and sometimes a little nauseous. I have half-heartedly embraced and avoided my own sexuality my entire life. I’m not talking about being gay-gay. I’ve been out in some fashion for over a decade and coming out-out in November was about the easiest thing I’ve ever done. I’m talking about sex-sex. Having sexuality at all. Actually, no. I’m talking about sexuality and not sex or sexual orientation. Though the three are related, there’s a difference. I have always wavered between my need to be taken seriously as a straight-laced, conventional human and the fact I’m a human who really loves sex and leveraging the sexuality that comes very naturally to me.

Without further ado… Here are eleven moments that would define my sexuality and inevitably lead to my need to embrace the fact I am a sexual human being.

And women’s sexuality should no longer be stigmatized or punished or hidden.

Rape Though this should be plural, I can’t count how many times it’s happened. But every time I was raped, it pushed me further and further away from my sexuality. It’s hard to have a healthy relationship with sex and sexuality when literal years of my life sex equalled violence and sexuality equalled asking for it.
Losing My Virginity It’s not even a good story. I just got rid of it with someone I trusted so I could finally say “yes.” But it was a pivotal moment. Terrible sex, but I got to say ‘yes.’ I learned I could consent to sex. I would continue to get raped by other men for a handful of years to come, but it’s the life I’ve had.
Dating Men It’s hard to claim sexuality when I only dated a gender I have no attraction to. Then again, dating men allowed me to not have to confront my sexual dychotomy because I made the excuse of “I’m just not that sexual.” or “Sex is hard because of my history with sexual abuse.” Valid, but also a fucking cop out (for me personally), if I’m being honest.
Stripping Gasp. I was a stripper to pay for my very expensive piece of paper. Really. It’s how I paid for college. I became obsessed with human sexuality and the science behind attraction while I was stripping. In my typical logical fashion, I scienced my way into making a lot of money. I had truly lived in a thought bubble where anything outside of basic sex was fringe. Hahahahahaha! Ha. I was so cute and naïve once upon a time. Sexuality is fucking weird. It’s a grayscale. There is no normal. Everyone has a kink or a thing, and it’s about embracing your sexuality and finding a partner[s] who makes you feel safe enough to explore that. As a stripper, I was quite literally paid to be that safe place for people to embrace and explore their kink and pleasure. Sometimes it was creepy, triggering, strange, cringey, awkward, but sometimes it was erotic, fun, lovely, and humorous. I walked in clueless; I walked out with my eyes wide open.
Rape Really it’s a two parter. If I didn’t give sex, it would be taken. So I made sure I was never in a situation where it could happen because whether I said “no” or not, sex was happening. (I am very aware this is not at all true. So many men, women, and theys are polite, lovely humans who have no problem understanding consent. As a woman in my early twenties, that was not my reality or experience. So it was easier to pretend like sex was never on the table ever so I would never have to face the potential of being raped… again.)
First Time Touching A Woman Ohhhh my god. I realized I was riding the gay train on a strip club stage a few weeks after I turned twenty, which was about three days into being a stripper. In Iowa, the laws are lax, and a great deal of touching is allowed. I touched boobs for the first time… Yeah, it was great. The fact I was getting paid to do it took some of the joy away, but hey, it was my gay awakening. Though it would take me ten and a half years to go full gay.
First Time I Kissed A Woman I was a little drunk one night at the bar the last week of my Junior year in college. A very tiny, beautiful woman kissed me. It was the first time I kissed someone and thought, I’d like to have sex now.
Masturbating I’m going to tell you something that I have only ever told one person. But first, back story. Masturbation has held an immense amount of guilt and shame for me. It was something I was forced to do by my high school rapist, and it just has been something I have avoided for almost half of my life. That being said… I did it when I was younger… to women. I never masturbated to men or straight sex. The fact I don’t touch myself has become the punchline to many jokes in my friend group. It’s also a great way to win Never Have I Ever. My closest friends know it’s hard for me, maybe not the why because I’ve never put words to it until right here. I’m exploring that now at almost 31. It’s an adventure akin to a battle. But it’s also an important step, that I’m hesitantly taking.
Rape Last time, I promise. What I didn’t learn in the history books, I learned from this. Sex is powerful. Learn how to leverage it in any and every way, and it could get me in and out of situations I didn’t want to be in or situations I did want to be in. I learned where I was willing to compromise my dignity and self worth for my safety. I learned how to nuance conversations and body language in covertly and overtly sexual ways to get what I wanted no matter what. I truly believe every woman knows how to do this on some level whether they realize it or not. Some of us have just been forced to master it… Mine was for self-preservation. It worked; I’m not dead.
Sleeping Naked Ignore the fact I was a stripper. I hate being naked. It makes me so uncomfortable and vulnerable. I don’t care if people see me naked, but the act of existing without clothes is deeply unsettling. Because I was a stripper, I am very, very good at hiding my discomfort, but to this day, I am not comfortable with my body because it is the thing that someone took away from me. So I started sleeping naked sometimes. I hate it, but it’s also kind of helping, a little, maybe, hopefully. I won’t keep you updated.
Naughty Photos I very recently started taking spicy pictures of myself. And I’ve decided it’s important for women to have them, even if it’s just for ourselves. Actually more so just for ourselves. It’s empowering. For me, it’s a reclamation of my own body. Also, I may never look as good, as young, as strong as I do right this moment. I want to look back and think, good for me! I’m not sharing the vast majority of the pictures I have, but it makes me love my body just a little bit, which is a weird and new feeling. Looking at them makes me feel sexy and beautiful and desirable, and those are not feelings I have ever felt I am worth or deserving of.

11..., In My Own Words, Lifestyle

11… Tidbits of Life I Avoid At All Costs

January 3, 2022January 3, 2022 RaeAnna

Writing is about cracking into one’s soul and extracting truth. It’s a raw and often painful process. Especially when one’s chosen genre is memoir or creative nonfiction, like mine. Fiction has never called to me; not that I don’t or can’t. Creativity is not my talent, and I’ve lived an interesting enough life to provide a good amount of therapy, I mean, content to write on for a good long time to come.

Sometimes I feel like I should just be a hermit in the wilderness I avoid so many essentially human things.

The genre is an interesting choice because I’m an intensely private person. What a conundrum. From a very young age, I realized if I shared enough seemingly personal things, I wouldn’t have to share anything of actual importance. As a writer who puts words into the world about my life and story for the purpose of starting conversations to change the world for the better, I have been able to find an incredibly delicate balance. My writing is far more honest than I am in person. Face-to-face, I have a tendency to undershare through rose colored glasses.

During the four years I was a stripper, coworkers, who I had spent thousands of hours with naked, never knew I had been raped until one my rapist walked up to my stage on my second to last night. Suffice to say, I lost my shit. I’d been hit and abused in front of these men and women for years, and they’d never seen me cry or even lose a smile. I am a well curated façade allowing people to see only what I choose, except under the most remarkable circumstances.

My ability to share an overview of my abused past or even the gory details of certain events without allowing people to know me is, honestly, exceptional. People feel like I’m letting them in, but, in reality, all they would have to do is google me to find out far more. It’s my way of testing the waters; seeing if they can and want to handle it; but I’ve done it so many times over the years, it’s just one of many stories to tell in the “This is who I am, who are you?” dance we do with new people.

As a coping mechanism to keep people at a distance there are so many things I don’t do or won’t talk about or avoid in general. Never were these choices I made consciously. Habits developed over time from experience, callousness, pain, or goodness knows. I have always held people at arms distance, only letting them get so close, only showing so much, sidestepping vulnerability in favor of mock intimacy. As you can imagine, this is detrimental to relationships of all kinds. More often than not, it has helped me survive. But I am consciously trying to move forward differently because I’m not trying to just survive anymore.

Sometimes I feel like I live in isolation surrounded by humans.

Feelings Having them. Talking about them. Other people’s feelings are welcome, valid, heard, honored. Mine… I’m sorry. What feelings? I’m just happy, rainbow, sprinkles, sunshine lady all the time, forever. I spent a very good chunk of my life ignoring the fact that feelings outside of happiness existed. When I went to college and met someone who made me confront those feelings, it wasn’t pretty. There’s a strong history of disassociating from all feelings outside of a very compact zone of happy because the moment too much joy, an inkling of sadness, a smidgen of discontent crept into that zone, I did not know how to handle it and would absolutely crumble. I’m better. I’m not great. Feelings are still hard because they’re a gnarly, interconnected yarn ball with a potential to unravel if a random string is pulled a little too much.
Being Held Touch is integral to my relationships, platonic and romantic. I’m a very touchy human. I love cuddling. I’m realizing by cuddling, I mean holding someone because I can hold people without a problem. Turn that around, not so much. Being held is hard for me. Really, really difficult. I don’t let people hold me much. If ever. Or very long. Hugs. Being the one cocooned in a cuddle. Little spoon. There’s a time limit that my body reaches where I have to let go, become the one doing the holding. I would rather stand sobbing in my kitchen with someone watching me at arms distance than be held. For me, it feels so vulnerable and intimate. There’s a sense of depending on someone, letting them take the weight of me and my pain, a transference or sharing of emotion. If I’m crying and someone holds me, I may not stop. I have this innate need to suck it up. Do it alone. Being held feels like my independence is being taken away because I’m letting someone in. Just a calm night on the couch with no drama or anything other contentedness, if I’m the one being held, I could tear up because I get overwhelmed feeling connected to someone. Even typing this, the thought of someone holding me for too long makes me antsy. I get this is problematic and that I likely need more human touch than I’m getting. Also I should learn to be vulnerable with people, but I had a really bad habit of choosing all the wrong humans to be vulnerable around, so I compensated by never leaning into people. I guess quite literally.
Attachment Getting attached to people sucks because there’s feelings, and I think I’ve been very clear on how I feel about feelings. Many people in my life have turned out to be… abusive. To put it bluntly and a bit lightly. When parents, close friends, and romantic partners are highly abusive, it makes forming attachments with new people even just as friends incredibly hard. There are some trust issues here. Staying detached makes it hurt less when I get treated like shit or they leave or they leave after treating me like shit.
Sex with Lights Off I can’t. I don’t like. In the dark, I can’t see my partner. With my past of rapeyness, I have some lingering issues. Sex with the lights on allows me to feel safe and comfortable. The likelihood I lose my shit is much lower. Fluorescent, stage lighting, super bright isn’t necessary, but I do need some light.
Crying I hate crying. This feels self-explanatory. I don’t like crying in general. But crying in front of people. Whew. No. Way too vulnerable. We’re very far outside my compact zone of happy, and I am not happy about it. If you see me cry: a) I’m really in my feelings. b) I trust you. b alternative) I might be really angry, so this is not a trust you moment. c) I am hating it while it is happening and will do everything in my emotional wheelhouse to stop immediately.
Hope This is a depressing one. I am an optimistic person for other people. When it comes to myself, I take realism to an extreme. I expect the worst, prepare for the worst, and don’t dare to hope for anything except the worst. The few times I have allowed myself to even contemplate things might be turning around… the things I was optimistic about turn out to be pretty insurmountable obstacles. I have surmounted them but always at great cost. Hope has led me to dark and even dangerous places. I just don’t. I tend to take each day, each moment as it comes, as it is. I keep going not out of hope but out of obligation, necessity, the fact others need me to.
Mixing Public and Private There are clear divisions in my life. A whole lot of compartmentalization. My home and what goes on inside it is very much a private place. Very few people know what is going on in my family. Maybe one day, I will feel like opening up more about the relationships in my life, but I keep them private. For as much as I share on social media, I keep it very much in its own lane. Whether people realize it or not, there are very clear boundaries maintained at all times. Part of this is because it’s nice having things just for me. Partially out of respect for my family and friends’ privacy. Honestly, mostly, it’s for self-preservation. Until things are cemented, I don’t write or talk about them. I DO NOT LIKE CHANGE OR EXPLAINING THINGS THAT ARE NOT AS CERTAIN AS LIFE CAN BE CERTAIN. There are three relationships I will write about with a degree of freedom, and those are my three people. One of which I spent many years romantically entwined with; the other two have always been strictly my closest friends. These relationships are going nowhere, probably. I can write about them honestly and openly because I know they love me, support me, and are stuck with me because I know too damn much.
Silence I love silence, but I have to be incredibly comfortable with someone to be in silence with them. Normally, if there is silence, I will fill it by asking lots of questions. Get the conversation moving… as far away from me as possible. Or I’ll start dancing like the uninhibited human I am for a laugh. The only time I’m really comfortable with silence is when I’m letting questions or statements sink in, allowing my conversation partner time to think and open up more than they would otherwise. I like hearing people’s stories, and silence makes other people just as uncomfortable so they fill it with all sorts of interesting tidbits. I don’t like silence because it gives people time to read me or come up with prying questions. I have a great poker face, but I don’t like to bank on it.
Prolonged Eye Contact I think most people avoid this. Eyes are telling. It’s cliché but true. This is a double edged sword. Like silence, I love good eye contact because it allows me to really see people, but it also allows them to see me. Abuse and stripping taught me to veil my eyes, but some people are good at seeing through it, calling bullshit. I rarely look at someone with unguarded eyes. One of the most interesting compliments was from a gay man in the strip club. I was 21 and tired after ten hours on my feet with four more to go. We sat and chatted for a while when he said, “You have Marilyn Monroe eyes.” Obviously I said thank you, but he continued, “You’re both beautiful. Her eyes were sad in the way your eyes are sad. It’s not a fleeting sorrow. The kind that killed her. You both guard your souls because all you’ve known is pain. It’s hard to see, but it’s there.” I felt so seen. I hated it. A stranger called me out, on the job. No thank you. It hasn’t happened since.
Confrontation This isn’t even the angry kind of confrontation; I can handle that, even if I don’t love it. I avoid confrontation in the being confronted kind of way. I find people fairly predictable. They ask the same questions in different but similar fashions. My life story and what I do isn’t exactly run of the mill, so when people find some things out, they tend to ask questions. I have no problems with questions. I love them. It allows me to share my passion with people and learn from them at the same time. Due to severe anxiety, I have tons of canned responses to an array of common questions. This makes me sound smarter than I am and doesn’t require thinking on my feet. I hate being flustered and having to come up with cohesive and interesting answers representing my truest feelings, opinions, or facts on the matter is very stressful and not something I’m naturally gifted at. It’s rare that I find someone who asks new, interesting, and nuanced questions. I have unfortunately found one of those humans recently, and she’s full of smart people questions. It’s throwing me off my game, and I’m realizing just how much I rely on these go-to answers. I say unfortunately but actually it’s fascinating the questions she asks because it makes me think and forces me to articulate things I do not usually disclose or even formulate into cohesive ideas outside of the thought clouds in my brain. I end up sounding like a bumbling stream of consciousness rather than the tenacious writer I pretend to be. I am a writer not a speaker. I can edit words on a page. I cannot go back three days later and say, “Hey, remember that miniscule conversation we had twelve days ago in passing? No? Well, I can’t stop thinking about it, so here is my dissertation on it anyway.” I HATE, HATE, HATE not being clear or concise. Being misunderstood is one of my great fears in life, and being confronted ups the chances I will be misunderstood.
Women Weird since I’m very gay, but also why it’s taken me so long to just be very gay. This is kind of a culmination of this entire list. Men and women are different. (The feminist in me feels the need to state that does not imply women are undeserving of equality/equity.) Men trend towards surface level interactions for much longer than women. Even after years with men, the conversations, questions, interactions are more surface level and less intrusive than with women. I’ve covered more on a first hangout with a woman than I have after a year with a man. This is terrifying when you’re a very private person with a shit ton of baggage and trauma who also has a chronic problem glossing over all of these things. Opening up about all of these things ever let alone quickly is intimate, intimidating, and rough for me and, oftentimes, for them. Women are excellent at all of the things on this list that I avoid, whether that’s biological or environmental—I’ll let scientists fight over that. Women, on average, are exceptional at creating deep bonds quickly, which I avoid… always. Making it difficult to have and keep women in my life as friends or whatever. I’ve been doing a lot of work on this since moving to Houston. I’m getting better. I’m intimidated. It’s great. I’m fine.

I’m done now. This list caused a lot more emotions than I thought it would. I only cried twice. A few more things I need to work on have been identified. Shocking I have friends or people in my life. I’m a dumpster fire. God help me.

bisous un обьятий,
RaeAnna

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Lifestyle, So Gay

Labels Make Me Uncomfortable… But I’m So Gay

December 1, 2021December 1, 2021 RaeAnna

I’m gay. This is the term I’m comfortable with. Queer works too. Labels make me uncomfortable, but I’m also a writer, so words make me comfortable. I want to express who I am with words, but also I hate being defined because the moment labels enter there’s connotation, expectation, stereotypes, and all that jazz.

The labels for my sexual identity have shifted drastically over the years. The first label I ever tried on was gay. It’s also the most recent one I’ve been wearing. I never told anyone when I wrote “I think I’m gay” in my diary at twelve before burning it because privacy didn’t exist in my childhood home. In recent years, I’ve used pansexual because it feels inclusive of my past. I have only ever been in relationships with men. I’m not mad about it because those men have made me who I am today. For the good and the bad. Some of them literally saved my life. I am trauma bound to all men and yet one specific man for so many reasons. In my adulthood, I have had amazing taste in men. They are going to go on and be fantastic partners to hopefully equally incredible women. I’m not that woman. If I could be, I would. But I’m not. Those relationships didn’t work for a lot of reasons. Very valid reasons. Some incredibly painful reasons. Even if those relationships were perfect—not that there is such a thing—I would have left eventually.

There’s one man I truly imagined a future with. But it was one of those very hazy, hypothetical, willing it to happen imaginings. We talked about all of the possible futures we could have. Engagement, wedding, marriage, children, retirement. Amazing human. Just the best. It would have been an amazing adventure of a life. But even in the absolute height of being in love with him, something deep inside told me it wasn’t quite right. I always brushed it away because being in love doesn’t usually go hand in hand with rationality. I never gave voice to the internal unease. I never told him or anyone my feelings; I’m incredibly private to begin with, but if I said it out loud or even thought it, then it would be real. He and I would never end up together. At one point the idea of not being with him was soul crushing. The bond we shared because of trauma and just a decade of history has made it so hard to let go of that hazy imagining no matter how much I needed to for myself and him. There was a bigger reason I always knew it wouldn’t work. Even very recently, I didn’t want to confront it. I was trying to force false realities into truths, make my life fit his, and create hypothetical worlds where my gayness could exist in tandem with a straight life. I tried and tried and could never make myself see the house, the kids, the full life with him. So I said I didn’t want those things. Convinced myself I didn’t in the hopes that he wouldn’t want me. Because it was easier to completely cancel that future with him and everyone than admit the reality. I was pushing away my reality, my dreams, and ultimately my identity because I loved him so deeply, knowing it wouldn’t work in the furthest corners of my soul. In a way, I don’t. I don’t want those things…. with a man. But with a wife. It doesn’t feel like a terrifying trap.

Loud and proud member of the Alphabet Mafia.

This is not a reflection on him. He will be an amazing father and husband, but not with me. It is also not a reflection on how I feel about being gay. I am so proud to be gay. It is not an identity I have hid from, but it is an identity that has hid behind love, trauma, abuse, and survival. Now I exist in a safe and settled home where I can be all of the things that I am all at once.

I am so gay.

Writing has always been equal parts cathartic and painful. Finally writing these things down. Owning the fact that I don’t want a heterosexual future. I don’t want to marry a man. I don’t want to have children with a man. I don’t want to raise a family and grow old with a man. It is all so relieving to admit. Before it was: I don’t want to get married. I don’t want to have children. I don’t want to grow old with anyone. I have no fucking clue what the future has to hold. I may never have any of these things. But I know if I get married, have children, and grow old in a romantic relationship it will be with a woman. I may not actively pursue these things right now or ever, but oh my god, it feels like something I may actually want one day. As I type, I can actually feel my heart loosen its grip on the things it held on to so fiercely out of love, loyalty, and self-preservation.

Honestly, this is probably my favorite hand gesture. No shame.

One day, I will probably be comfortable with the label: lesbian. It’s accurate. Or at least the closest thing to accurate. (I would try dick again with Taron Egerton. He is a phenom and a gift to the world, but even him… I just don’t see it working out long term. Sorry Taron. I know there’s a real chance there. *eye roll*) I’ve been saying “No new dick.” for over a year. The truth is… no dick. I don’t want dick. I want a woman. Wearing lesbian on my sleeve feels like an erasure of the awesome men in my life, past, and ultimately the love I once had. Intellectually, this does not make any sense at all. I’m aware. There are lots of lesbians who once loved men, were in relationships with men, had children with men, so on and so forth. What makes sense and makes me comfortable do not always have to be in alignment. Acknowledging the dissonance right now works for me.

Identity is always shifting; although, I’m never shifting straight. That’s just a big nope. Ten years ago, I was telling people I was attracted to women. Five years ago, I was telling people I wasn’t straight while in a straight passing relationship. Three years ago, I was proudly pan. They’ve all tasted strange in my mouth and in my heart. A year and a half ago, I tried on queer, which I very much like. It’s been in the last year that I started using gay, which is short and sweet. I like it. I like the way it catches people off guard. I like the way it makes me feel. I like that it’s a synonym for happy. It may always be my preferred identifier; it may not. I know one day I will take on lesbian. Maybe next month. Maybe after I have 2.5 children and a white picket fence with a woman I have yet to meet. Maybe before I die completely alone. The future is all up in the air at this point in time.

BUT AT LEAST I WON’T DIE STRAIGHT.