I knew that I was homely.
I knew, because my mother had been telling me that ever since I was a little girl. There was something wrong with her to do that, true or not, but she had her own inner demons that caused her to act that way, and do a lot of things that just weren't right.
But, what could I do? I was a little girl, and a little girl believes what her mother tells her, especially when she loves her as much as I did. So, growing up, looking very good wasn't really a big concern. As my mother once said, and I've never forgotten, "You can't shine shit."
Yes, that's what she said. To me. And about me.
I'll never forget my 8th birthday. I was SO excited to be able to invite my friends over for a party, just like the other kids. I asked my mother if it would be okay if I had a birthday party, and I was thrilled when she said that she thought that would be wonderful. She added that she would take care of everything, including inviting my friends, that it would be a secret that she would surprise them with, and that I shouldn't "let the cat out of the bag," as she put it, so that they could be thrilled when they received their invitation.
The two weeks before my birthday were the most exciting of my life, as I had to keep what was a big secret for a little girl, inside of me. Of course, like most any other little child, I was only partially successful, but happy that I only spoiled the secret by telling my best friend at the time, Shelley Watkins. Every day, my mother would update me on the preparations for the party, and even let me peek at some of the decorations - they were lovely, ribbons and banners and balloons in pink and lavender and white.
When I told Shelley, she shared my excitement, and promised to keep it our secret, and she did. The night before the party, I could barely sleep. Finally, though, I did, and woke up the morning of my birthday eager and ready for the 1 o'clock party, it being a Saturday. I helped my mother put up the beautiful decorations, my favorite ones were the pink, lavender and white ribbons of crepe paper that ran from the chandelier over the dining room table to each corner of the table. I thought that they were the prettiest things that I had ever seen, and that I would never see anything so beautiful ever again in my life. As the time approached, I could barely contain myself. I was so honored to share my birthday with my friends!
1 o'clock came and passed, and no one showed up. I began to grow restive when there were no shows at 1:30, and frantic by 2 o'clock. My mother looked at me blankly around 2:15 or so, and said, "I don't understand. I mailed them their invitations, and several mothers called me to confirm the time. Although......the ones who called back did say, that they'd TRY to make it, but that they thought something more important might come up."
I was crushed. As more time passed, and no one appeared, or even called, the gay decorations were like a bitter pill, reminding me that no one could really love, much less like, me. It seemed that my mother's low opinion of me was a universally held belief. Far from being the most wonderful day of my life (up to that point), it was like ashes in my mouth, the beautifully decorated cake sitting sadly among the ruins of the hung decorations, the ribbons hanging forlornly now. I couldn't eat it, and in my grief I failed to notice that my mother didn't bother to offer me any presents, presence of guests or no.
It wasn't until later, much later, that I discovered that my mother had deliberately NOT sent out invitations, had not contacted anyone about my party, and, in fact, had told Shelley Watkins' mother, when she called to confirm that there was indeed a party, and for directions to our house, that there was certainly NOT a party, and that "Rachel is somewhat touched in the head, she has delusions sometimes." When I asked Shelley the next school day what had happened, she said sadly, that her mother had told her to stay away from me, that "there's something wrong with you." Things were never the same after that. Not for me.
So, I buried myself in studies and schoolwork, trying to excel in that area, even if it WAS painful to look at me, and even if no one wanted to be my friend. And I'm proud to say that I succeeded beyond my wildest expectations in that area. I earned a scholarship to a highly rated, religious-based university in California. For a girl from the Midwest, it looked like it would be an amazing adventure no matter how it turned out, as I'd never seen any ocean "live and in person," and the school was only a few miles from the Pacific.
Now, in high school, while I'd never made too many friends or joined too many organizations outside of academic groups, I still supported my school's activities, going to all the games and cheering our teams on. They weren't anything special, but it was fun to watch them try, and I took a little lesson from that. I should always try my hardest, even if I DID fail.
But anyway, about midway through high school, I went through a BIG growth spurt, and from a homely, skinny little girl, I grew to a homely teenager with B cup breasts, and an actual round rear end, like the other girls. I could see I was getting looks from some of the boys in the hallways, but I could hear them using words like, "...bag over it..." followed by derisive laughter, so, while my body was attractive, apparently my appearance was not.
But that was okay with me, because while watching our basketball and football teams try, and usually fail, I found my attention wandering to our female cheerleaders. Their long, slim legs, full breasts, round bottoms and frankly, beautiful faces were continually drawing my eye. Soon after, I found that my eyes, usually cast downward at the floor in the hallway, were now resting on some approaching girl's breasts or her ass as she walked away. While boys were looking at me and laughing, I was looking at girls, and appreciating their beauty, even if they weren't "beautiful." I also discovered masturbation then, and after a few abortive attempts at fantasizing about Brad Pitt, I found myself fantasizing about Nicole Kidman, or Hillary Swank, and other beauties, and it wasn't at all long before I discovered the shattering orgasm that began to follow the pleasant tingling sensation I was familiar with.
I'm not stupid, of course, it was becoming obvious to me that I was attracted to females. I felt guilty about that attraction, but I thought that I wouldn't ever be attractive to any lesbian, just as I wasn't attractive to boys. I certainly didn't think of MYSELF as being lesbian. I guess I just figured I was asexual, as I thought I was supposed to be attractive to "get a guy," and I knew THAT wasn't gonna happen.
So, I dressed really plainly, wearing blah colors, longish skirts and dresses, slacks a lot, plain blouses or shirts. I certainly wasn't drawing attention to myself. No makeup, as some boy had once said something about "lipstick on a pig," and, to be honest, it had hurt to hear that, try as I might to ignore such gibes. I let my hair hang down, not doing anything with it other than tying it out of my face so that I could see. It was long, and smooth, I guess I figured pretty hair could cover my ugly face.
Well, the big day arrived. A celibate Rachel (that's me), arrived at the University on a late August day for freshman orientation, registration and move-in. Of course, I had to make the move myself, as my mother would have none of it (as she considered me to be a loser), and truth be told, I didn't want her to be there anyway, so I was spared the conflicts and added stress.
I was assigned my classes, all intro level courses, then moved over to the dorm room assignments. I stood patiently in line with the other freshmen, and when I got to the head of the line, the senior level student behind the table acted as though I weren't even there. She was cute, all dressed up, and proudly wearing a flashy engagement ring. She fussed with some papers, continued to ignore me (or at least remain unaware that I was there) and I had to cough lightly to let her know I was there.
"Yes," she said, looking up. "What do you want?" I was crestfallen. To the others she'd said, "How can I help you?" or similar things. With me, it was "What do you want?" But then it occurred to me that college was a break with my previous life and, while I might still offend her sense of fashion or beauty (or both), I had to start making a stand for myself if I were to survive.
So I said, "What I WANT is for you to get off your fat ass, run your manicured fingernail down that clearly typed list in front of your beautiful, but blind, eyes, pick out MY name, Rachel Jones, which is also clearly displayed on my 'Hello, My name Is' badge, tell me which room I have been assigned, give me the generic package of freebies that you have sitting in that big box by your shapely leg, and then move on to the next freshman, this young man right here behind me with the thick black glasses held together by a band aid. I see that his name is Matthew Chris. Get hopping!"
Her jaw dropped open as the freshmen around me began applauding and cheering. She closed her mouth, then frowning, found my room assignments and gave me my material. "Well, you don't have to get snippy," she said as I accepted the material. "Thank you," I said, and smiled sweetly at her. As I walked away, I began breathing again. Let me tell you, THAT performance was entirely out of character for me!
I looked for "Madison Hall," where my room was located, and wondered who, or what, I'd be paired up with. At the college, they had a practice of pairing freshmen with upperclassmen wherever possible, as a means of integrating them into the student body. I got to the 5th floor, and found room "C," my assigned room. I unlocked the door to find a smallish bedroom, with matching twin beds, desks and counters along the wall, small dressers on each side, and two small closets. One side of the room, almost following an invisible line, was virtually a total mess, with girls' clothes strewn all over it, mementos and kitsch on every flat surface, pictures of a happy, smiling family in various exotic parts of the world, and numerous stuffed bunnies (the fake kind). The other side, completely bare, except for the furniture.
"I guess that's my side," I said to myself. I carried in my bags and boxes, which I'd had shipped in before hand (no tearful separations for MY family,) and started putting stuff away. I had a few mementoes, and pictures of my late father, and one small picture of my mother and I, in happier times (before I got so homely.) I finally got my stuff settled in, and felt a sharp pain in my intestines. "Whoops, gotta go bathroom," I said, then left the room, closing the door and searching for the bathroom.
I found it down the hall, a group bathroom much like group bathrooms everywhere, with 6 toilet stalls, 6 small shower cubicles, 6 wash basins in a long vanity counter, with a long wall mounted mirror above it. I hurried into one of the stalls, pulled down my jeans and panties, and let nature take its course. I heard the door open while I was waiting, and someone walked over to the vanity, where I heard splashing. I finished, cleaned myself, then exited the stall, walking over to one of the wash basins.
Already standing there, washing her face, was a petite blonde in a wrinkled sweatshirt and shorts, and sneakers. Her face was hidden behind her hands, as she was in the process of rinsing off. I turned on the water to wash my hands as she brought her hands down, and turned to look at me. Even with water dripping off her face, her blonde bangs wet and stringy, and wearing a grungy, sweaty outfit, I knew that she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen in my life.
"Oh, hi!" she said perkily, smiling at me. "You must be one of the frosh....right?"
