It’s 2:45 PM on Monday. I always have lunch on MWF with my boyfriend
who actually is a biological female who feels like a guy on the inside, which means
I am dating a preop FTM transgendered American citizen also meaning she is "he" who is my boyfriend. This also means that technically I am gay because I am in
love with a female that really is internally a male. It’s a lot to wrap your
head around I know. I was hopping it Picadilly (our favorite laidback place. No
drama here always.) to meet Terry,
my boyfriend. After I sat down, with him after getting my Super Dilly, I was met
with, “I have something to tell you.” I had barely sweetened my ice tea with
one artificial blue and pink sweetener. “I’m straight,” he said with a straight
face. I stared at my baked chicken which looked confused as I did. Terry (Terri
when he was she) looked at me, he was
casually dressed like an alternative Rockband player. I pondered my sexuality
for a bit. You know sexuality seems easier in high school when you just have straight
and gay and no between. However, sexuality in the real world was like a
calculus problem, complex as hell. “So, you are telling me…that you are a
female…that feels like a male…who realized that he was gay…but now you are
telling me that you are a male who has realized he is straight,” I should have
gotten a regular Dilly. “Yes, so I have to break up with you. I am in love with
a woman,” Terry grabbed my hand that was holding my fork and asked, “We can still
friends?” I looked at Terry and then at my food. “Friends let friends enjoy
their Dillys at Picadilly,” I thought.
It’s forgettable- the number of times I was called a “fucking faggot” as a kid. As a former child of god, I wasn’t expected to know what those words meant. I was taught that repentance was vital to achieving everlasting life. My momma made me go to church every Sunday. I said my prayers as I was told. But I eventually learned that Catholicism was never my sanctuary. Christianity was never my safe-haven. God never stopped the cheap shots. He never once prevented the harassment or pure embarrassment that I felt from the words of my “kin in Christ.” Now, picture me- a helpless faggot, blinded by the incandescent lights of an old catholic church. I was home from college spending Spring Break in my former hellscape. So, naturally, my momma yet again made me go to church. This time, on a Wednesday. It was Ash Wednesday. When I was among the folks from home, I felt out of place. So much that I’d imagine camouflaging myself. Like saber-tooth in hiding. But the difference? I had a far mo...
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