A very special thanks to the talented Alice_Rosaleen for her helpful feedback with this story as a beta reader, as well as to Grania2 for the inspiring anecdotes.
***
I have a problem. Or rather, many problems, all very much alike. Sure, I'm attracted to girls that are attracted to me, but I'm hopelessly, madly, irresistibly attracted to straight girls-- and naturally, that's complicated.
Why am I so crazy about them? Well, I have theories. Maybe it's the idea of getting them outside their comfort zone that excites me so much. The idea that I could help bring down an artificial wall of fear and uncertainty, leading them to an experience they were hesitant to imagine for themselves. One that they actually crave deep inside. Maybe I want to free them from a dualistic mindset about sexuality that unreasonably dictates which kind of sexual experiences they permit themselves access to. Or hey-- maybe it's just a superficial selfish desire to fuck a girl who's never fucked a girl before.
But really I think it's something else. I'll tell you. I have to tell someone...
In the summer between my junior and senior year of high school, my long-time childhood friend, Rachel, invited me over for a sleepover. We had just turned eighteen together the previous week, in ceremonial fashion, but didn't feel any different for it. Back when I turned eighteen kids still had no clue how to be an adult. It wasn't like it is now, where young girls have to suddenly learn to be adults before they even know how to drive, due to leaving school to march for their lives. That's fucked up.
Anyway, at first Rachel and I were simply friends. Then somehow we were aware of the fact that we were best friends. Then, as I began to intuitively understand who and what I was, I became conscious of the fact that it might be something more than that. Suddenly, the friendship I felt was love. The admiration I had for her beauty was increasingly flecked with flashes of a shapeless lust that straight up frightened me. Then, before I even knew what was building within me, it all came crashing down.
My lasting memory of that tragic episode always starts the same way: recalling the pleasant moments, the calm before the storm, that idyllic haze of childhood memory you wish could be bottled and preserved like a summer jam. The constant buzz of invisible insects infesting the deep green shadows. A puff of smoke from the neighbor's yard, filtering through the slats of their fence, evoking a scene of charred, spitting fat. The smiles, our laughter, two mouths still sticky and freshly stained with the not-too-distant memory of juicy watermelon that we wore across our faces like smeared lipstick.
"Rachel! Ashley! Come on back, it's getting dark," we heard her mom call from afar, after what seemed like hours swimming in the backyard pool.
Rachel laughed, "She thinks that means we'll drown..."
"Oh god, that's such typical mom stuff!" I giggled.
We climbed out of the pool and raced back toward her house, making our way to her bedroom together and carefully locking the door. I remember clearly: she had on a tight, navy and white one-piece that clung to her slight curves and accentuated every aspect of her changing body. I saw her begin to peel it off her damp flesh, shivering as her large breasts spilled out, so boldly revealed as a testament to the fact that we had become women together. I quickly took off my swimsuit beside her, until we stood there nude across from one another.
I began to casually towel off, taking as much time as I could, hoping that she'd do the same. Perhaps my seemingly relaxed attitude made her comfortable, so she lingered in this state as well. My heart began racing faster and faster as I took the time to secretly observe her body. I mean really observe, more than I ever had in the locker rooms where nudity was widespread, brief, and awkward. I felt myself awaken, an inner self I had yet to explore, as I gazed at the way her nipples danced about while the towel ran roughly across her body. I was impressed and encouraged that she didn't seem to be self-conscious about her boobs like a lot of girls were. I also observed that, like me, she had a neat little triangle of curly brown hair between her legs, crisp in its geometry and full of feminine charm. I wondered if she tingled like I did down there. I was excited by the confidence she had toward her own body and wanted that for myself.
"Ick!" she said, suddenly snapping me out of my trance.
For a moment I feared she was responding to my affectionate attention, but in fact she had been surprised by the sight of a small piece of soggy leaf that somehow got stuck to the underside of one of her breasts. She picked it off, mashing it between her fingers, and then introduced it to the small trash can beside her desk.
"Here, you have another one," I said, excitedly spotting another piece on her other breast. Without thinking, I lunged forward, anxious for an excuse to gain any proximity to her body. Without thinking, I plucked it from her boob, briefly treating myself to the sensation of her soft, spongy flesh which quivered at my touch.
"Oh... thanks," she said, as if surprised that I had done that. The warning signs were lost on me at the time.
Instead, my heart was thumping and a kind of madness came over me. I stood there momentarily, with just inches between our naked, drying bodies, and then I just did it. I leaned in and I kissed her. I didn't just kiss her, I did it eagerly, greedily, tongue and all, with my whole body pressing up against her, desperately awaiting the sensation of hers pressing back at mine. I felt my breasts gently compressing against another girl's for the first time and a powerful thrill went through my body.
And in an instant, it was over. I went from soaring as high as I'd ever been, to wallowing in bitter despair.
She threw me off her. "Oh my god, why did you do that?!" she exclaimed. I blinked at her, stunned. "Like, seriously? That's so gross!" She gave me a stern look.
Then she finally asked it.
"Are you gay or something?"
That question flooded my head until it felt hot, like a stinging pot of boiling water had been dumped all over me. I felt crushed. I still feel crushed. I feel like it happened yesterday.
"Sorry," I said, shrugging and not knowing what else to say. She didn't either.
I'd never seen anyone get dressed so fast. It was like Rachel became immediately conscious of her nudity, her innocence ruined like Eve after having just savored the apple. It was as if her body were something she ought not permit me to lay my eyes upon. The rest of the night was horrible; forcing myself through a sleepover in virtual silence, neither of us knowing how to get back on track with what would normally have been a fun experience. It was more like a chore, and when it was over I already knew it was for the very last time...
From that night forward we grew apart. Rachel seemed less and less interested in my friendship. We fully parted ways over the following school year, a year which should have been about celebrating our long-lasting friendship together before we went off on a college-bound adventure of a lifetime, and it ate me up inside. In a way, that was the event that subsequently forced me to own my sexuality around others. However, I've spent years beating myself up, buried in guilt for doing something I shouldn't have, and at the same time angry about how she judged me.
I used to obsess about it, thinking, "Fuck, I wish I could let that go, but I can't." I reminded myself that it was part of me now. That she's condemned to be the straight girl I first wanted, that I'm forever still seeking reciprocal affection from in the form of all the new Rachels in my life.
These days, for my straight friends my sexuality is just a source of curiosity and amusement. Whatever. Life is a rollercoaster of emotions, especially when your feelings can't be returned, and when you tend to have such an overtly sexual mind.
This was my burden to carry, but there comes a point where you have to lighten your load.
***
