I thcored, Beavith
I'm a noob here, so hi, all.
I'm also gay and an abuse survivor. I suspected both for a long time, but found various excuses not to confront those suspicions, one of which is that I kind of don't like identities at all. Every label used to feel like a pingeonhole, every role was a straight jacket. I don't know if that's an abuse survivor attitude or just a quirk. I'm weird by any standard.
I'm fine with being gay. Coming out to myself was slow but pretty painless. Am I gay because I'm an abuse survivor, was I abused because I'm gay? I don't know, I don't think anyone knows, I don't think those are answerable questions. What it boils down to for me is that I can't change my desires and don't think anyone else can, so I might as well express where I'm at, whether it comes from nature or nurture or The Devil Himself.
It took me forever to admit that I'm gay and an abuse survivor because I was basically asexual most of the time. I jacked off ("masturbate" is such a clinical word,) but I didn't star in my own fantasies, and at higher stress times I would wank while watching a totally non-sexual TV show, or reading a dry, scholastic book. I could relieve the sexual tension without having to think about it that way. I didn't "check out" people of either sex, would get annoyed when the subject came up, and would get terrified whenever anyone would touch me.
A few times girls all but threw themselves at me and I played along, in spite of the fear and an underlying lack of interest, but the more intense the making out got, the more terrified I got. I didn't make out with men at this point, but I hated being touched by them as much as I did women.
In spite of all this, at 23 I was very tired of being a virgin, so I managed to get a girlfriend. I was shaking and sweating and could barely breathe, but tried to sleep with her anyway. Naturally, I couldn't manage an erection. She left in disappointment and shortly after we broke up. This was when I was forced to face the fact that I had a serious problem.
I emptied the medicine cabinet into the bathroom sink, then ransacked the house for other potential poisons. I was sure that everything together would off me pretty efficiently. I looked at my little coctail of pills. I looked at myself in the mirror. I said, "There's no going back from this point, so you better be damn sure this is what you want." I wasn't.
The next day I had an accident at work. It was my fault. I was doing a job I was inadequately trained for. Nobody got hurt, but it was close and far too much stress for me, so I walked off the job. I had to pull over on the way home, I was crying so hard.
Over the next two years I started recovering memories of covert abuse, and realized how much I *don't* remember: that I couldn't tell you what a day in my life was like when I was five, or ten, or twelve. Writing down what I remembered, I realized that I remember more on some days and less on others. I am actually suprised by my own words when I go back over my journals, reminded of abuse that I'd forgotten.
I also figured out I was gay because I got an insane crush on this guy in one of my classes (I went back to school--I had dropped out the first time.) I could hardly think about anything else. He was straight and had a girlfriend, I wasn't sure what I was, but I followed him around like a lost puppy dog, tongue-tied, shaking and sweating. He seemed quite casual about it all--maybe there was some attraction there on his part (and maybe pigs fly.) Luckily, I didn't come onto him--my timidity spared me the unique humiliation of coming onto a straight guy.
So I turned twenty-five not long ago and am sure I'm gay. Partly because I jack off to gay porn and straight porn does nothing for me. I check out guys and not girls. And I realized that the feelings I was feeling for guys all along were sexual after all (it took a really strong crush to make that undeniable.)
But, when I turned twenty-five, I was still a virgin and miserable about it. When I started to wrap my head around all this at 23, I'd sworn to myself that I'd kill myself if I was still a virgin at 25. That looks enormously silly, now, but it was important at the time.
It was my 25th birthday. It was Pride weekend. I found myself alone with a gay friend. I told him. I cried a little. Thith ithn't the part where I thcore, Beavith. He had to leave or he would miss the last bus home. He hugged me and said we'd talk later.
We did talk later, but not about anything very important. We met at a cafe and he didn't seem to understand why I didn't want to get into details, with the people at nearby tables studiously ignoring us.
Shortly thereafter, I was in another queer-friendly context. I'm terribly socially inept, but had started forcing myself to get out every now and then even if I all I did was sit there quietly, answering questions in monosyllables. Weed was going around. I don't go out of my way for Her Maryness, but if someone passes me a pipe, I don't say no. So I got high. The guy next to me started giving me a back rub. It was terrifying, but the weed let me modulate the feelings a bit, so it was still really intense but I could take it and was tired of being alone, so I didn't tell him how hellish it felt. I just let myself feel the panic, didn't fight it, didn't judge it. I hid my face because I couldn't keep a casual expression on it, and, of course, if he knew how he was making me feel he would have stopped, and I didn't want him to. I was tired of being alone and ready to confront the feelings, even if it hurt like hell. I had journaled enough to know that this was what I wanted, in spite of the weed. It got easier as he went along. I pushed through some kind of barrier.
We met up the next day after the herb had worn off. I told him about my history. He said he had no expectations and was happy with whatever level of intimacy I could manage. I didn't think he understood the implications of what he was saying.
To make a long story short and spare you gratuitous graphic details, thith ith where I got laid. On the first attempt, I managed an erection but was too dissociated to reach orgasm. At times I had to look and see what he was doing because I couldn't feel a thing at all. On the second try I had to constantly remind myself to reconnect with my body and managed to actually enjoy it at times, and eventually have a consensual orgasm with another human being for the first time in my life.
The guy lives in another city so we don't see each other much and aren't in any kind of committed relationship. That's OK, neither of us is looking for a linear-progression-toward-a-starter-home-in-the-suburbs kind of relationship, anyway. We call each other and talk every few days, it's nice in a mild, low-stress kind of way.
Reading the stories of other people here, I still wonder what I don't remember, but realize that I'm a lucky bastard when it comes to my first time.
"You know what you want
So you go and
Break the terror of the urban spell
It will all find its way in time" --Tori Amos, "Riot Proof"
I'm also gay and an abuse survivor. I suspected both for a long time, but found various excuses not to confront those suspicions, one of which is that I kind of don't like identities at all. Every label used to feel like a pingeonhole, every role was a straight jacket. I don't know if that's an abuse survivor attitude or just a quirk. I'm weird by any standard.
I'm fine with being gay. Coming out to myself was slow but pretty painless. Am I gay because I'm an abuse survivor, was I abused because I'm gay? I don't know, I don't think anyone knows, I don't think those are answerable questions. What it boils down to for me is that I can't change my desires and don't think anyone else can, so I might as well express where I'm at, whether it comes from nature or nurture or The Devil Himself.
It took me forever to admit that I'm gay and an abuse survivor because I was basically asexual most of the time. I jacked off ("masturbate" is such a clinical word,) but I didn't star in my own fantasies, and at higher stress times I would wank while watching a totally non-sexual TV show, or reading a dry, scholastic book. I could relieve the sexual tension without having to think about it that way. I didn't "check out" people of either sex, would get annoyed when the subject came up, and would get terrified whenever anyone would touch me.
A few times girls all but threw themselves at me and I played along, in spite of the fear and an underlying lack of interest, but the more intense the making out got, the more terrified I got. I didn't make out with men at this point, but I hated being touched by them as much as I did women.
In spite of all this, at 23 I was very tired of being a virgin, so I managed to get a girlfriend. I was shaking and sweating and could barely breathe, but tried to sleep with her anyway. Naturally, I couldn't manage an erection. She left in disappointment and shortly after we broke up. This was when I was forced to face the fact that I had a serious problem.
I emptied the medicine cabinet into the bathroom sink, then ransacked the house for other potential poisons. I was sure that everything together would off me pretty efficiently. I looked at my little coctail of pills. I looked at myself in the mirror. I said, "There's no going back from this point, so you better be damn sure this is what you want." I wasn't.
The next day I had an accident at work. It was my fault. I was doing a job I was inadequately trained for. Nobody got hurt, but it was close and far too much stress for me, so I walked off the job. I had to pull over on the way home, I was crying so hard.
Over the next two years I started recovering memories of covert abuse, and realized how much I *don't* remember: that I couldn't tell you what a day in my life was like when I was five, or ten, or twelve. Writing down what I remembered, I realized that I remember more on some days and less on others. I am actually suprised by my own words when I go back over my journals, reminded of abuse that I'd forgotten.
I also figured out I was gay because I got an insane crush on this guy in one of my classes (I went back to school--I had dropped out the first time.) I could hardly think about anything else. He was straight and had a girlfriend, I wasn't sure what I was, but I followed him around like a lost puppy dog, tongue-tied, shaking and sweating. He seemed quite casual about it all--maybe there was some attraction there on his part (and maybe pigs fly.) Luckily, I didn't come onto him--my timidity spared me the unique humiliation of coming onto a straight guy.
So I turned twenty-five not long ago and am sure I'm gay. Partly because I jack off to gay porn and straight porn does nothing for me. I check out guys and not girls. And I realized that the feelings I was feeling for guys all along were sexual after all (it took a really strong crush to make that undeniable.)
But, when I turned twenty-five, I was still a virgin and miserable about it. When I started to wrap my head around all this at 23, I'd sworn to myself that I'd kill myself if I was still a virgin at 25. That looks enormously silly, now, but it was important at the time.
It was my 25th birthday. It was Pride weekend. I found myself alone with a gay friend. I told him. I cried a little. Thith ithn't the part where I thcore, Beavith. He had to leave or he would miss the last bus home. He hugged me and said we'd talk later.
We did talk later, but not about anything very important. We met at a cafe and he didn't seem to understand why I didn't want to get into details, with the people at nearby tables studiously ignoring us.
Shortly thereafter, I was in another queer-friendly context. I'm terribly socially inept, but had started forcing myself to get out every now and then even if I all I did was sit there quietly, answering questions in monosyllables. Weed was going around. I don't go out of my way for Her Maryness, but if someone passes me a pipe, I don't say no. So I got high. The guy next to me started giving me a back rub. It was terrifying, but the weed let me modulate the feelings a bit, so it was still really intense but I could take it and was tired of being alone, so I didn't tell him how hellish it felt. I just let myself feel the panic, didn't fight it, didn't judge it. I hid my face because I couldn't keep a casual expression on it, and, of course, if he knew how he was making me feel he would have stopped, and I didn't want him to. I was tired of being alone and ready to confront the feelings, even if it hurt like hell. I had journaled enough to know that this was what I wanted, in spite of the weed. It got easier as he went along. I pushed through some kind of barrier.
We met up the next day after the herb had worn off. I told him about my history. He said he had no expectations and was happy with whatever level of intimacy I could manage. I didn't think he understood the implications of what he was saying.
To make a long story short and spare you gratuitous graphic details, thith ith where I got laid. On the first attempt, I managed an erection but was too dissociated to reach orgasm. At times I had to look and see what he was doing because I couldn't feel a thing at all. On the second try I had to constantly remind myself to reconnect with my body and managed to actually enjoy it at times, and eventually have a consensual orgasm with another human being for the first time in my life.
The guy lives in another city so we don't see each other much and aren't in any kind of committed relationship. That's OK, neither of us is looking for a linear-progression-toward-a-starter-home-in-the-suburbs kind of relationship, anyway. We call each other and talk every few days, it's nice in a mild, low-stress kind of way.
Reading the stories of other people here, I still wonder what I don't remember, but realize that I'm a lucky bastard when it comes to my first time.
"You know what you want
So you go and
Break the terror of the urban spell
It will all find its way in time" --Tori Amos, "Riot Proof"
