It’s been exactly three months. Three months of acquainting myself to a new place, a new story. When we think of the word “home,” I imagine the majority of us feel warmth. It brings to mind certain people, a specific place, perhaps. If you’d asked me when I was ten where I’d be twenty years from then, I’d say here. Georgia. HOME.
There was something about the art that came from this state. The Spanish moss draping the streets; romantic, with an ominous charm. My heart would be full, I’d never be bored. It was a writer’s state…
If you’ve been here from the beginning, you know my sexual becoming has had a tremendous impact on my ability to navigate life. Accepting who I am between the sheets has helped me walk a little straighter, chin a little higher, in the outer world. After two years in France, I felt invincible – nothing could take me off my podium…
Then I moved to the United States. Even more specifically, the bible belt. A republican state. Everything I spent the last several years eliminating were suddenly confronting me at every turn:
A woman has class.
A man doesn’t cry.
Women need to be protected.
Being gay is not masculine.
The woman’s first role is to be a good wife.
Those are only a few of the repeated truths of the south. The other day I sat behind my desk as three male colleagues spoke about a potential date one of them would have that evening. The most senior of the three opened his mouth to speak, then looked at me and said, “a lady is present, so I won’t say anything.”
I was shocked. Like, truly, completely, utterly, shocked. It’s an interesting thing when you finally make a decision not to tolerate certain attitudes, and then how, when they are raised, your body convulses in order to reject it. That’s how I reacted. I shuttered. But I remained silent.
My vulva is, and may always be, the elephant in a room of men.
I didn’t come here to speak about this though. I didn’t take three months off from COTQ to purge the issues I’m now facing in this new patriarchal territory. No, I write today to say:
I. Am. Sorry.
I am sorry for having given up this platform in the first place. I was afraid. I fell into the same trap so many of us do. I indirectly became associated with a puritanical, upper-class group, and I felt the pressure to be “normal,” in a self-torturing attempt to keep them from seeing the real me. Can you guess what happened though?
My insides started boiling. I began feeling anxious again. I regretted every click of that “delete” button.
I also relearned that normality is an illusion…even within the walls of their uncontaminated ring. Sometimes those who seem the most together carry the deepest pain.
So, for the trillionth time in my life…
I let the walls back down. I sank into my being. I reconnected to the part of me that gave me my power. You know who came ripping out? The Quean. And I’ve missed her.
So has my husband!
To celebrate this rebirth we spent the whole of Saturday night dancing in the middle of a club, naked and sweaty people around us, enjoying life. Liberated from the restraints. And we fucked. J and I, in some back room, with the door locked, on a black leather bed, surrounded by red walls, and her essence drowning us: the Quean.
For the first time in my life, I had multiple orgasms.
For the first time in my life, I realized there was no going back.
For the first time in my life I wasn’t sorry – no forgiveness needed.
Until next time,
Fuck well, friends!