Grace and I spent a lot of time together this week, owing mostly to the snow day. We’d hardly had time to talk since Sunday morning after that amazing night with Kale. I had to get to work fixing my thesis and shit, and she had a busy Sunday planned, taking advantage while the kids were with her ex. But on Wednesday, the big snow storm hit New England. Everything was shut down, the university, my work, almost every business except the big chain markets. So Grace invited me over on Tuesday, and we had a great dinner, amazing sex (which I may write about later, not today though). I met her kids, fraternal twins Dylan and Graham, and we took them sledding and it was a fucking riot.

But on Tuesday night, as we lay in each other’s arms, Grace asked me to tell her how and when I realized I was gay, wanted to hear the whole story, and I couldn’t tell her cause I started bawling. What the fuck my issue is with the waterworks these days, I do not know. Probably my strong feelings for Grace are stirring my emotional pot or some shit. Anyway, this started out as an email to Grace, and here it is for you all. Don’t worry…there’s sex at the end.

Seems like in the media, you hear gay activists talking about how they knew from birth or age three or some shit. That’s not how it was for me.

I grew up a tomboy, but I never really played with boys. Just by myself rolling around in the mud, climbing trees, wrecking myself on my bike and skateboard doing (or at least attempting) stupid shit. I had girls as friends, and we’d play together too, doing whatever girly shit was in vogue that week. I always did sports, too. Soccer when I was a kid, then later cross country, swimming, and track. I was probably lucky, because my success as a school athlete probably helped deflect some of the shit that would have come my way in high school.

When I was little I always imagined a church wedding, a nice house, and all that shit, but I never thought about boys or sex really at all, that I can remember. I always had this general feeling that I was still growing up, and at some point I’d be ready and the thoughts of boys and sex would kick in. Everyone says kids mature at different rates, and some take longer than others, but we all get there eventually. I just figured I was a little behind with that stuff.

When I turned sixteen and my tits (such as they are) were developed, I had all the expected body hair and odors, and Auntie Flo and I were old friends, I started to wonder why I wasn’t dating. Again it was just a vague sense that illegal bahis I wasn’t ready somehow, that the time would come. But at that point I started thinking, shouldn’t it be time? But it wasn’t, apparently.

I still didn’t think about sex per se, but sometimes during class I’d amuse myself with daydreams about going to the beach with some of the girls on the track team and splashing and laughing in our bikinis, but that was as far as my imagination took it.

All my friends were dating regularly by junior year. I’d been asked out, but always turned down date requests based on that vague feeling of unreadiness. Tried to talk myself into it. Shouldn’t I be flattered and excited when a handsome boy asked me out? Shouldn’t I go? But I never did. Eventually date requests dried up and a few hurtful rumors started. Ironically, those kids trying to be mean probably knew more than I did.

There was also a teacher at the high school, Miss Lorenzo. She was a rotating sub, would step in and teach any class whenever she was needed. She was young, in her twenties, sweet and dark and pretty, and often overwhelmed by the subject she was teaching. I think English was her specialty, so when she had to cover a math or science class, she was way out of her element. We bonded early in my senior year when she was covering for my calculus teacher and the class made a game out of stumping her and just being mean. By the middle of class she was near tears, and I felt so bad for her I helped her out, going to the white board and answering the questions the kids were throwing at her.

After class, a few kids called me a dyke and an ass-kisser. I told them to fuck off. I thought Miss Lorenzo would bust me for swearing, but she held my hand and thanked me, and that made me feel a lot better. I thought about that day often, and we always stopped and chatted when we saw each other.

At the end of the school year, they had this party for the seniors. Maybe all high schools do it, fuck if I know. I only went to one high school and that’s what we did. Anyway, it was at night, at the school, and the parents and teachers decorated the school according to a different theme for each graduating class. For us it was “See the World” or some shit. The cafeteria was supposed to be a Parisian street cafe. They had five foot paper mache’ great pyramids in the quad. Shit like that.

I was hanging with a girl from the track team, a pretty good friend I guess. We’d always ridden the bus together to meets and shit, worked out together, illegal bahis siteleri went to each other’s birthday parties. We were having a great time, laughing and holding hands the way girls do sometimes, when this football player came over, took her arm, and she walked off with him smiling. Apparently they were dating and I didn’t even know. And I was, for some inexplicable reason, devastated. I was crushed and miserable. My heart was twisted around my stomach in a throbbing lump of nauseous misery. And more, I was utterly baffled as to the reason.

I wandered away from the party into the campus, hugging myself, trying to figure out why I was so upset. “Come on Kelly, get a fucking grip. It’s graduation. It’s the end of school. Scary things lie ahead, that’s all.”

That wasn’t right (well, maybe partly right), but the only other thing I could come up with was half a thought that kept repeating itself over and over in my mind. ‘Him? Why him?’

I sat down on a bench in a dark corner, across campus from the party, and covered my face with my hands trying to be quiet. What the fuck was wrong with me? I was afraid I popped a gasket and they’d eventually take me away to wherever they take people who can’t stop crying for no reason.

I heard a voice say, “Excuse me, you can’t be here. You need to get back to the party.”

“Fuck off!” I snarled.


Someone sat down next to me. I didn’t look. “I said FUCK. OFF.”

“Kelly what’s wrong? Did someone hurt you?”

“Just go away. I don’t know what’s wrong. I’m fine. Just leave me the hell alone.”

But she didn’t. She rubbed my back and talked to me softly while I cried. She told me it was okay. We don’t get to decide how we feel about people or things that happen, we just do the best we can. She asked me what was wrong, and I kept saying I don’t know, I don’t know. Then the half thought came out, “Why HIM?” Then I looked at her, and for the first time I saw Miss Lorenzo. “Why him?” I said in a snot-bubbly voice.

Miss Lorenzo leaned in and kissed my cheek, and she held me and stroked my hair. And she was so warm and kind and sweet, and her hair smelled like fall berries, and her arms were around me, and her sleeveless blouse was so soft and pretty…and I kissed her mouth.

And then I panicked, but she was kissing me back, and I let everything else dissolve away and concentrated on her mouth. Her breath was minty, her tongue warm and searching. Her hand moved up into my hair. I pulled her close to me, just canlı bahis siteleri needed to feel more of her presence, to be closer to her. And then her hand touched my breast, cradling it in the web between her spread thumb and forefinger. She squeezed softly, running her thumb over my nipple, and I gasped at how good it felt. I heard myself whimper.

She moved her mouth to my neck, kissing tenderly, and I put a timid hand on her breast. It was large and heavy in my hand, and I could feel the underwire of her bra. I squeezed it, caressing it. Her breathing in my ear deepened.

Reaching behind her, I fumbled for the catch of her bra and released it, and then slid my hand up under her blouse, under the loose bra cup, touching her soft skin. I felt her nipple, hard under my fingertip. She moaned then, a sound so softly sexy it made my knees tremble.

Mesmerized, I gently squeezed her breast, touching her nipple with no fucking clue what I was doing, but her soft moans told me it was working.

I hadn’t noticed, but she had unbuttoned my pants. Then she stood up, hiked her skirt up, and straddled my lap. She lifted her blouse and bra, and guided my mouth to her nipple. I sucked softly, cupping her breast in my hands as she reached down between us and slid her hand down my jeans and into my panties. Her fingers glided over the swollen lips, between them, brushing my clit. Anyone could have walked by and seen us, my mouth on her tit, her hand in my jeans. It just added to the surreal thrill of touching her body, of having her respond, and having her touch me and feeling myself respond.

I knew what an orgasm was, but I had never felt one before, so I had no idea what to expect. As it came on, I clung to her, thrusting my hips against her hand and wailing into her soft, warm tit.

When it passed, she took my hand and slid it into her panties. With her hand on top of mine, she masturbated herself. She moaned, “Touch my wet pussy. Finger fuck me.” I pushed a finger inside her as she pressed my curled fingers against her clit. I curled my finger as I slid it in and out of her. “Oh Kelly yes, oh good god that’s it, yes like that, don’t stop don’t stop…”

I didn’t, and she came too, shaking and moaning into my mouth, and I knew I’d done it well, and I remember feeling puzzled. That puzzlement was the completion of my earlier half-thought. Why him? She could have had me.

There’s more of course. The conversation with my parents, essentially telling them there would never be a church and a white dress, and even if there ever was a grandchild there’d never be a son-n-law. There’s the few girls I hooked up with in college, mostly curious straight girls. But I’m wiped out, and I’ve said what I needed to say. Maybe I’ll tell the rest of it another time.



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