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2015-04-09 06:11 am (UTC)
Victoria Bitter's LJ, part 2
Friday, April 12th, 2002
Love is a very complicated thing.
We like to think that it comes in a complete package, if we only find the Right Person, or that if some part of that mental/physical/emotional/sexual/
spiritual/social package is missing, then it's Not Really Love. I'm beginning to seriously doubt that pretty fantasy.
I grew up, like any good little conservative Christian lass, assuming that I was straight. After all, homosexuality was a Lifestyle Choice made by strange people who were either sick, traumatized, rebellious, or just plain sinful. My lack of crushes on boys was just because I was a tomboy and surely I just subconsciously rejected boys as too girly a thing to be into. My fascination with my cousin's blossoming body and those of my friends was just a natural curiosity due to my own late puberty. My blase, even revolted reaction to tales of het romance and sexuality was probably due to my precocious literary scruples, and I just needed to find some to my taste.
When I got into fanfiction, I was of course too good a lass to even look in the direction of those nasty slashy people I'd heard of, because I could write het, really, even if I never felt comfortable with it, and even if I always gravitated towards pairings in which nothing actually happened (Fraser/Thatcher, pre-Day of Honour Paris/Torres) and the lass was actively pushing the lad away.
I made my final break with Christianity, discovered slash, hit puberty, and acknowledged that having graphic fantasies about girls, ogling girls, and having no more than astetic/intellectual fascination with lads was indicative of lesbianism within eighteen months between fourteen-and-a-half and sixteen. Extremely tumultuous, but also very liberating.
I tried coming out to my parents, but my mother was of the opinion that just because I talked a lot about Tom Paris and Benton Fraser when I was twelve and thirteen, I must be straight, because that means I've Had Crushes On Guys. Mother is not willing to accept that A) I have never had anything that could be interpreted as a crush on a guy either local, attainable, or within twenty years of my own age or that B) my interest in Tom and Ben was from the standpoint of enigmas. These guys were considered good looking, were interesting as character constructions, but I couldn't get them to feel right when paired with the lasses, so I collected pictures, read articles, tried to dig myself into the physical beauty, and ripped them apart from blue eyes to conflicted psyches.
To be honest, though I say I have a crush on Sean Astin now, it's really just the easiest shorthand to understand the kind of fan-love I feel for him. Were he naked, willing, and Christine-less in front of me now, I would happily drool over his amazing beauty and talk him late into the night for that amazing heart, but to be honest, not even the most skin-revealing red-hot photo in my collection causes the slightest tingle down there. Sets off the eyes and the fingers and the heart and the brain, oh yes, but the nether regions....
This complexity of what constitutes a Crush, and how you can find someone beautiful and sexy as all hell but not be sexually attracted to them...this was, I think, my first inkling of the problems that were yet to come.
I accepted my identity as a lesbian. I was very comfortable in it. It felt right. I dated some girls, kissed here and cuddled there, but never went very far. Hey, I was young, it was a conservative area, and my girlfriends were always ten years or so older than me and we were both always aware of the potential problems there.
Then I met Adrian. From the first moment I met him, it was as if my soul had clicked with the proverbial Other Half. Adrian was amazing. Smart, funny, sweet, sensative, caring, loyal, spontaneous, insightful...everything I had ever dreamed of and then some.
Only one problem. Adrian was of the penis-bearing gender. Threw me for a loop like you would not believe. See, I was in love. Big time, unquestionably in love. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. Never wanted to be apart from him for even a moment. He made me feel like I had somehow at once transcended and completed myself, and I would give anything for him. I would die for him without a moment's question, and I know he'd do the same for me. I even saw beauty in him where others saw a gawky teen...he has gorgeous green-grey-hazel eyes, long lashes, full, lovely lips, long, elegant fingers, great legs...
We loved each other, and he was a guy (despite being more than slightly androgynous in personality), so obviously, I'd been mistaken. I was still strongly attracted to girls, but now that I loved a man so dearly, I had to be bi. Right? Right. So I accepted that I was bi. We agreed to be married. Everything was perfect.
Except for one thing. I wasn't sexually attracted to him. Oh, I found him beautiful, yes. And if we worked on it, he could make me enjoy our sexual interactions well enough. Only I didn't really want him to touch me too intimately. And I was so adverse to the idea of him putting his penis inside me that I flat out vetoed it 'until marriage.' I figured that would give me time to adjust. You're not supposed to enjoy sexuality right away anyhow, right? Maybe if we communicated better, if we shared our kinks, our fantasies...maybe if we tried it this way, or if I started taking medicine for my depression, or if I started mentally substituting him for someone, or if...if...if... It was really starting to eat at me. I loved him. Our relationship was perfect. He was perfect. I loved him so much that I didn't understand why I wasn't fucking him like a rabbit on Viagra.
I thought maybe I was just sexually dead. Adrian was unhappy. Yet he loved me. I was unhappy. Yet I loved him. Wanted to share my life with him. We couldn't figure out what the problem was. I was bi, right? I had to be. I loved a man.
Then I went to Connexions.
For the first time in my life, I was surrounded by over a hundred women, all of whom were accepting of same-sex relationships, the majority of whom were lesbian or bisexual, and a considerable number of whom were so my type.
I can say without question now that I am not sexually dead. Indeed, I spent the entire weekend in various stages of arousal. And there was more than that.
I fell in love.
There was a lass there whom I already knew fairly well over the internet. I knew her personality, her sense of humour, her general background. We clicked really well in person, and moreover, she turned out to be absolutely beautiful. Next thing I knew, we were in bed. And oh, all the responses that I thought were dead and gone were so there. Fireworks and all that.
So matters had become infinitely more complex, as it was obvious that my original assessment of lesbian was pretty much dead accurate for sexual orientation, no matter what gender(s) I was capable of loving. While I'd had a long talk with Adrian before doing anything with this lass, and he had told me that I needed to explore that avenue else I'd always wonder and that could do horrible things to our relationship, I now found myself in a very strange situation.
I still loved Adrian to an epic extent. I would still die for him. I still liked to snuggle with him, hold his hand, kiss him gently now and again, still wanted to spend my life with him, still wanted to be his best friend and so much more...to be his everything. Yet now I also loved this other lass. No, it wasn't the same soul-deep bond as Adrian, but it was love, and deep friendship, and sexual attraction at a level Adrian and I could not even imagine.
I loved him. I wanted him. I loved her. I wanted her.
I was torn in two.
Finally, it was Adrian who decided matters. He pointed out that there was nothing that I was enjoying in our relationship that had to do with sex, and when you remove sex, then we're not really left in a romance any more. True, it's deeper than any conventional definition of friendship, and true, we love each other and want to always always be there for each other, but getting married just plain doesn't make sense. He doesn't want to close me off from the sexual part of my life forever, to deny that which is a part of me. So we're now agreeing to be the dearest of friends forever, to even try always to live near each other, but I am going to pursue my romance with this lass.
I will never stop loving Adrian. I will always love him in a way that is deeper than words and so much more than friendship. But it's not sex, and to fulfill that part of myself, I need a lass. And I can love that lass, and just because it's not the SAME way I love Adrian doesn't make it any less, nor does loving her sexually and not him make THAT any less.
And suddenly, today, I realized that this made So Much Sense in terms of the Sam/Rosie/Frodo dynamic. Sam loves Frodo. Loves him tremendously. Loves him so much that it transcends all our cultural understanding of love. He's probably even had sexual experiences with Frodo, and probably enjoyed them. Certainly, one's own pleasure completely aside, there is also huge pleasure in bringing pleasure to one you love, and I know that a LOT of what Adrian and I did was just me enjoying pleasing him far more than his doing anything to me. But Sam can also love Rosie. And enjoy sex with her so much that they have thirteen children almost as fast as is physically possible. And be torn between the two of them without loving either one less.
I only wish that the 'move us all into Bag End' was an option here. As it is, all of the 'real-world' options still contain degrees of Suck that I don't much like.
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