Tag Archives: desire

September 10, 2012 · 8:42 am

My First Crush

Telling and listening to “coming out” stories are always fun.  Lesbian 101 tells me it’s one of the most important stories I own. Yet there is one story that beats my out-of-closet experience hands down. My first proper “straight-girl” crush. It, or rather the thought of her, still move my lips into a self-indulgent side smirk.

She was well… beautiful. I laid eyes on her dark short hair, her tiny but bigger-than-mine frame.  Her confidence and arrogance killing any SMS (short man syndrome) she was hiding. I’ll call her “Mine”, for the purpose of my fantasy and her anonymity.

“Mine” was a more senior colleague. I’m not sure where I first set eyes on her, but I remember I required a double breath to get air back into my lungs so as to continue breathing. There may have been an involuntary sigh that escaped. I was introduced, and the yearning was born…

From that moment I noticed everything about “Mine”.  Her skin, her frame, her curves.  How her lips were filled with organic lip liner and shine.  How she was strong without the testosterone feel. How her walk reminded me of figure-skating, Olympic style.

“Mine” had to figure-skate passed my office to get to hers. Each time she did, I lost all sense of reality.  As a usually talkative and high energy level individual, I was accustomed to being friendly with all colleagues, but when she entered, I turned into a fumbling fool waiting for someone to put a gun to the side of my head and relieve me of this high school crush state.  I specifically recall a day she walked into the office; the first time we were alone… she had come to ask a question.  All I could do was stand, gawk like I was seeing aliens for the first time, and feel the colour creep up my face.  In my mind, I ran, like a scared bokkie across the green veld of the Kruger trying to save itself from the hungry lioness.  In reality I stood there, big eyes staring and transfixed, mumbling an “I don’t know” because I had not really heard the question.  In her usual “I-rule-the-world-swag” she turned and left.  Mortified, I asked the earth to swallow me whole.

This one-side unrequited yearning became the reason I woke up, the reason I hated weekends when I couldn’t see her, my soul purpose, and a realisation that liking girls was about more than just me having an open mind.  I was never really able to overcome the stupidity and foolishness “Mine” had led me to.  In her presence I barely uttered a word, her energy filled the room and I was reduced to 16 again.  I could imagine white doves carrying “Ode-to-Mine” scrolls to her window sill whilst I stood below, strumming away on my instrument.

I could never really step to “Mine”.  In my eyes, she was a beautiful Egyptian queen.  All I wanted to do was wave palm tree leaves over her light bronzed clear skin, and fetch milk to bathe her in. Dark pools of brown eyes pierced me every time she turned in my direction, and I was acutely aware of African drums beating in my nether regions. My legs (fortunately) would automatically lead me in an opposite direction.  She was to be revered, idolised, but never embraced.

At the time, I was new in the conscious lesbian emotion department, my only reference was fondling with my high school crush.  “Mine’s” effect on my heart was so consuming that I swore I heard church bells ring.  Albeit this love affair only ever saw the light in my dreams, the feelings she let loose in me changed the way I saw the world.  She was and still is, straight.  I didn’t believe it then, how could the universe be so unkind? I had always hoped that via tortured passion and yearning, she would fall into my arms * blame corny movies*. “Mine” was too much for a young fresh lesbian heart.

12 years later and Facebook returns the fantasy via a “poke”. “Mine” is escorted from past, to right here.  My heart still skips a beat when I see her name pop up on my screen.  Like any tortured wish-I-was-her-lover, I wonder whether there was ever even a slight possibility. I wonder whether she ever knew she turned my life upside down. And now, when she inbox’s me on how sweet she thought I was, I wonder whether she realises that once upon a time she was the object of my unrequited affections? I wonder if she knows that through her presence I discovered a different me?

And as I “come out” to my longest standing friends.  As I try and make them understand how these feelings are the same as theirs for their husbands, “Mine” is my most favourite story to tell.  How I found awakening in her eyes, how I knew the story of me would not see me following the hetero norm. That first time you know in your gut that this story was the beginning.  My first same-sex, lovesick, heartfelt, want.  My most beautiful and silent crush.

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September 28, 2011 · 11:35 am

The first time I fell in love across the colour line

We might have shared a number of classes in our high school career, but it wasn’t until we clashed in a debate in our Grade Ten History class that I first noticed ‘him’.  He certainly knew me  – everybody did.  A far cry from the ninety-pound shrinking violet that I have been since my mid-twenties, I was an outspoken and voluptuous fifteen-year old pretty girl with body image issues.  As a Black girl and top academic achiever in a historically White school in a conservative town on the East Rand ofGauteng, I was in the contradictory position of being both a celebrity and an outcast amongst Black and White students alike.

The topic of the debate was whether Black and White people could live together.  The vast majority of our class (including ‘him’) was for segregation, leaving a handful of us political “romantics” to argue for a multicultural co-existence.  Unfortunately my introduction of my religious beliefs into the debate weakened my argument and ‘he’ thrashed me.  Boys very rarely challenged me.  Furthermore, there were no boys at school who expressed any genuine romantic interest in me.   While I was proud of my achievements, I had until then felt untouched and untouchable.  That encounter shocked and upset me; but it also gave me a rush.  On the one hand, the guy seemed to be a racist pig.  On the other hand, ‘he’ spoke so eloquently that I felt that this was somebody I should get to know; somebody who could teach me a thing or two.

He was tall and big-boned, very much like the heavy-set guys he kept company with.  His hair appeared to be a sandy brown colour, worn in spikes that contravened school regulations.  Much later we would attend a school camp where a swim in a lake would wash out the copious amount of gel in his hair.  I would discover that his hair was the colour of sun-bleached wheat, with the subtlest hint of curls.  It had been easy not to look at him in the face because I am extremely short and rarely lift my gaze unless I have to.  That debate literally forced us to confront each other face to face.  It was on that day that I first took in the topaz blue hue of his eyes, which in that moment glittered with arrogance and contempt.  Some days later, I pulled one of the girls I knew aside and asked, “Who is that guy?”  It is astonishing that I had still failed to pay attention when the teacher registered class attendance.

“Oh, that is So-and-So.”

“He’s cute!”  I hadn’t meant to say that aloud. My face feigned a nonchalance that was absent from my voice.

“Yes.  Yes, he is.”

It took a couple more days before I actually went to talk to him.  The occasion called for a friendly, laid-back approach.  But it was beyond me to muster such a casual flair and I was decidedly overly diplomatic and formal.  We shook hands as I congratulated him on the debate.  My cool, papery palm pressed into his warm, fleshy one.  I must have said something contrived, like, “Hey, that was a really good debate.  You argue well.”  I don’t really remember.  I do remember what he replied.

“That means a lot, coming from you.”

We became friends in the very loose sense of the word, taking time to talk to each other apart from our respective friends from time to time.  I also paid attention to what he said in some of our other shared classes and discovered that when he wasn’t being offensive, he actually made me laugh.  We made each other laugh.  I remember a handful of moments when he would say something and I would be the only one cracking up or when I would say something and the two of us would be giggling, our classmates eyeing us with suspicion or as if we were just two loons. I was always the last one to leave class and he would wait for me to pack my books or to finish consulting with the relevant educator so that we could walk to the next class together.  We made for a funny pair: me with my oversized bag on my back, him with his long legs that gracefully constrained themselves to walk at my pace.  By the time that I registered the frequency of this routine, I was already smitten.  Noticing that ‘he’ always made a point of saying goodbye to me after school, my best friend innocently commented, “Hey, that boy likes you.” Once again reaching for my mask of nonchalance, I responded, “Ja, we get along.”  It wasn’t like we were seeing each other outside of school activities or anything, even though we lived in the same neighbourhood.

Things came to a head in our matric year, when he formed a friendship with another girl.  He and I were still close, although the number of awkward moments had increased: like the time he swooped down so close to my face I feared that he would kiss me right there on school property in full view of at least one observer; or the time he hugged me in front of a class of Grade Eights that I was supervising; or his tendency of lightly touching my forehead when he passed my desk or of touching my formidable bottom when we were just kidding around; or how his eyes lingered on my curves when he told me I looked good before looking away.  And perhaps more significantly, there’d been a number of times when I’d seen him waiting for me and – too embarrassed to join him – had taken refuge in the company of girlfriends instead.  Many people believe that teenagers are at the mercy of their hormones.  It’s amazing the restraint you can muster when you think you have to; even as desire to touch the object of your lust seems to be lacerating your very sinews.

While he was certainly not the first boy I’d ever had feelings for, he was the first one I wanted to f…er…to know carnally.  I felt threatened by this other girl and with good reason: she had already told some of us girls that she liked him and hoped that they would end up together.  Believing that they were in the process of “hooking up”, I became involved with somebody else in our grade.  I thought it was a move that would enable ‘us’ to maintain the platonic aspect of friendship, but it destroyed the friendship altogether. ‘He’ seemed to be angry with me and made inappropriate comments about what I did with my new boyfriend.  For the remainder of the year, I was baffled by how we had drifted apart.  I suspected that it was because of my new relationship (I dared not hope that ‘he’ was jealous), but I didn’t have the guts to broach the subject of ‘us’ with ‘him’.   At the same time, I treated my boyfriend unfairly and eventually broke up with him as I admitted to the both of us that my heart wasn’t in it.  Towards the end of that final year, I found out through a mutual acquaintance that he had never been romantically or sexually involved with the other girl.

We briefly rekindled our friendship after that revelation and even as it became clear that we had feelings for each other, it was also clear that race and the incumbent cultural differences were obstacles that we were not really prepared to overcome.  Ten years, three degrees and three adult relationships later, I still feel conflicted about that relationship.  I wonder whether my attraction to him was natural, or whether it was the result of my “colonised mind” responding to “Western concepts of beauty”.  I sometimes feel a little saddened that he didn’t try harder to fight for me.  Most of all, I am sometimes saddened by the fact that I wasn’t brave enough to speak my truth when it really counted, regardless of the potential consequences.  I try not to lose sight of the fact that we were only children, after all; but the fact that we can’t even bring ourselves to talk when we bump into each other back in our hometown reminds me that the hurt and embarrassment of the past is still with us.


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February 10, 2011 · 12:17 pm

The first time I separated love and sex

Sex is everywhere. Books. TV. Movies. Magazines. We’re surrounded by it even before we really become aware of what it is. It seems like our lives are meant to revolve around this act: anticipating it, pursuing it, engaging in it. After all, sex is tied up with our idea of the much sought-after Fairy Tale True Love. How many hours are spent contemplating “that someone” and what you would do to them if left alone in a room together? Why wouldn’t I want those things? Doesn’t everyone?

I had a wonderful, if uneventful, childhood. My parents were conservative, but not overbearingly so. My mom would frown but say nothing to the perpetual chaos of scattered toys.  She allowed us to be children. When afternoons at the playground transitioned to weekends at the mall, she broached the topic of sex. My mom sat me down and gave me a book explaining the mechanics of things. She counseled me to wait until marriage, and I had no problem with that. I was only twelve or so. Boys were alien creatures as far as I was concerned.

By the time I entered high school, men and relationships had become a favorite topic of discussion among my friends. I didn’t have much to contribute there. I occasionally crushed on someone who I found especially handsome or intriguing, but for the most part I remained uninterested. By senior year, I still had never dated anyone, but since I was happy by myself, this didn’t particularly disturb me.

In college, I had a great deal more exposure to the opposite sex. In bars, at frat parties, at Pictionary night and church socials, they made moves, which I deflected with ninja-like skill. When I brushed off the inferior males, I told myself that I was just picky. I was waiting for THE one.  He would be wonderful. Something would click. I would feel that “burning passion” or “electric spark.” I would be drawn to him “like the tide to the moon,” like every overdrawn metaphor you’ve ever heard.  I would want to give myself to him.

Except he never showed up. No one even tempted me. Other girls detailed their random hookups and make-out sessions. I never understood their interest. I told myself I was just a bit prudish.

After I graduated, I took a hard look at myself. By 23 I had still never gone on a single date. I was still waiting for my first kiss. I began to get anxious. I was supposed to have accomplished these things much earlier. My friends were getting married and having babies already. I was so behind I felt almost freakish. What was wrong with me?

Then he showed up.

He was everything I could have ever asked for. I felt so comfortable with him that I lowered my defenses and set nervousness aside. We shared similar experiences, and a similar love of mysteries, exploring, and baked goods. We both wanted a family and a house with a tower. Our favorite method of flirting was texting each other the most challenging riddles we could dig up. He lived two hours away from me, so we could only get together occasionally, but after every single one of our dates, I would head home grinning like an idiot. I couldn’t get him off my mind. This was serious.

While he was entirely respectful, and I never felt pressured, after a few dates I realized that we had come to the part of our relationship where we were supposed to be kissing (at least). I considered this in a detached, academic way. I had no objections. I liked him very much.  A romantic relationship was supposed to progress from handholding to kissing and, ultimately, to sex.

Our next date, it happened. I could tell the mood had shifted. There was something insistent about the way he searched out my hand, the looks he cast my way. My stomach churned, more with discomfort than anticipation. That’s only natural, I told myself. This is my first everything. I tried to believe it. When we said our good-byes, I knew this was it. He leaned in. I steeled myself and moved towards him.

It was not what I expected.

I felt nothing. Not a thing. Where was the passion, this spark I had heard so much about? He obviously did not share my lack of enthusiasm. His arms wrapped around me. He nuzzled my neck. I cast a glance over his shoulder at the clock, wondering how long I had to wait before I could politely excuse myself. I was miserable.

I tried not to cry the whole bus ride home. I really cared for this guy.  Even though our relationship was new, I could see myself growing old with someone like him. He had made me so happy… until that night. Why, if I cared so much for him, had I not felt the slightest urge to kiss him? Why had I felt nothing when it happened? Instead of cementing our relationship, I felt like he’d driven a stake into it. I doubted myself. I doubted everything.

Back at my apartment, I took recourse to the Internet. I wanted to know what was wrong with me. What I found was asexuality.org. I had never really heard of an asexual before. It had never even occurred to me to question my sexuality. I mean, I knew I had options.  I was acquainted with all the different letters in LGBT, and while I had never been boy-crazy, I certainly had never felt anything for girls.

I didn’t know it was possible for a person not to be sexually attracted to anyone at all. In our sex-permeated culture, where a high libido seems the norm, and where love often equals sex, I struggled to fathom that many people do not ever feel the inclination. Not that they deprive themselves, as someone who chooses celibacy. Like myself, they are wired to never feel the urge. And it’s normal.

A weight lifted. Suddenly my whole life made a lot more sense. All the excuses I had presented for my lack of interest (a conservative upbringing, high standards, nervousness, being prudish) kept me from examining the underlying cause. I tried to think of a single time I had felt the slightest inclination to do something sexual with anyone and came up with nothing.

Perhaps most importantly, for the first time I realized that there is a clear distinction between love and sex. While the latter may never appeal to me, the first is still absolutely a possibility.

He texted me the next day. Without hormones clouding his judgment, he’d started to question our good-bye. He said that in retrospect something felt off and asked me if he had “done wrong by me.” He said he had a hard time reading me, and he understood if I wanted to just be friends. I replied that I was definitely interested in a romantic relationship, but that I couldn’t promise I would ever want to express that physically in the way that he would like. I couldn’t quite bring myself to use the A-word then, (It was still a fairly new concept after all.) but I did ask him if the lack of a physical relationship was a deal-breaker.

He said it was not.

I’m not sure he’ll always feel that way. As I understand it, most people have some need for sex. He desires me in a way that I can never reciprocate, and one day, in spite of our best attempts to compromise, that realization may be too much for him. (Was I selfish in that decisive moment by asking him to be more than a friend?) For now, fueled with hope and a willingness to communicate, we’re trying to make it work.

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