misspelled
It's like losing my virginity all over again. I had hoped I wasn't the same person I was then. This time, I was going to be the one in charge, setting the pace, laying the groundwork, and I was going to be the one getting up, getting dressed, kissing you goodbye and walking out. But it didn't work like that.
Is it men like me who made you a lesbian, He asked, tracing the outline of my ribcage with his index finger. I wish I'd said It's men like you who fail to convince me I'm not, But instead I laughed, looked away, and said Some lesbian I am, As I lay, exposed, like a butterflied chicken carcas on the sterile white-sheeted mattress, the blankets i may have used to cover myself folded neatly at the bottom of the bed where he'd placed them before undressing us both. Somehow he'd succeeded in turning my act of subversion into yet another assertion of power.
Was it your father, then? He meant it as a joke, but I realized that a moment too late. I sometimes wonder whether I love him so much that I was spoiled for other men, I replied. So does that mean you love your mother less? He was probing, analyzing me, poking around the gutted carcas like a butcher searching for the meatiest bits. I adore my mother, I replied. She is the idea of femininity, and I am the demystified realization of woman. When I'm with a woman, I'm with another realization, another possible incarnation of myself, or what I could be in another life.
And when you're with me? He asked.
It was his damned hotel room, and he still got to leave me lying in an empty bed, waiting for the inertia to wear off so that I could recover my body and re-enter the half-light of the rain-washed streets. Somehow I'm still just that little girl wielding the one piece of power I have left, to prove something unproveable. This time I know I'm a lesbian, and sleeping with him wasn't about denying that. But I also knew that once again I was the one with the most invested in this, and even my play-acted non-challance couldn't hide that. My weak point isn't my sexuality, it's this desperate need to be recognized, to be seen and remembered. He could spot me in a crowd a decade later, take me to bed, and challenge my self-concept, but he still couldn't spell my name.
Is it men like me who made you a lesbian, He asked, tracing the outline of my ribcage with his index finger. I wish I'd said It's men like you who fail to convince me I'm not, But instead I laughed, looked away, and said Some lesbian I am, As I lay, exposed, like a butterflied chicken carcas on the sterile white-sheeted mattress, the blankets i may have used to cover myself folded neatly at the bottom of the bed where he'd placed them before undressing us both. Somehow he'd succeeded in turning my act of subversion into yet another assertion of power.
Was it your father, then? He meant it as a joke, but I realized that a moment too late. I sometimes wonder whether I love him so much that I was spoiled for other men, I replied. So does that mean you love your mother less? He was probing, analyzing me, poking around the gutted carcas like a butcher searching for the meatiest bits. I adore my mother, I replied. She is the idea of femininity, and I am the demystified realization of woman. When I'm with a woman, I'm with another realization, another possible incarnation of myself, or what I could be in another life.
And when you're with me? He asked.
It was his damned hotel room, and he still got to leave me lying in an empty bed, waiting for the inertia to wear off so that I could recover my body and re-enter the half-light of the rain-washed streets. Somehow I'm still just that little girl wielding the one piece of power I have left, to prove something unproveable. This time I know I'm a lesbian, and sleeping with him wasn't about denying that. But I also knew that once again I was the one with the most invested in this, and even my play-acted non-challance couldn't hide that. My weak point isn't my sexuality, it's this desperate need to be recognized, to be seen and remembered. He could spot me in a crowd a decade later, take me to bed, and challenge my self-concept, but he still couldn't spell my name.
posted by choirgirl at 4:21 PM
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