Ekyd
I used to think I was a lesbian. Now, regrettably, I love a man. And I’m afraid. Afraid he’ll want something I don’t want to give. So I don’t know how to be when we’re alone.
What do I have to give him? Not the pride of my sexual conversion, for we are not lovers. But his looks do stir something in me. I love his physicality: looking at him leaning against a door frame, or sitting back in an armchair, or coming into a crowded room.
When we’re walking together late at night, I feel safe with his arm around me. I desire him when we’re not touching. But contact brings an easy comfort, like hugging a Teddy-Bear from childhood, or putting on a pair of well-worn jeans.
What have I to give him? Not a real part of myself, because he only arouses intellectual passion in me. We are a meeting of minds: similar in so many ways. We talk a lot. Sometimes intimately, sometimes about a film we’ve seen. He pays for the cinema.
Kate always hated me being chivalrous: holding open doors, paying for meals, doing up the back of her dress.
What does he have to give me? Kindness, kisses in public, marriage. But I don’t want any of them.
Perhaps I want to be him. Not for his thoughtfulness or good conversation – I already have those qualities.
When I used to walk down the street, packing, people would look at the bulge in my trousers, my flat chest and think “man”. Then they would see the softness of my skin, hear my female voice and think “dyke”. My arm around Kate’s shoulder wasn’t protection, it simply invited trouble. I couldn’t feel the sensation of penetrating her with the prosthetic between my legs.
I so often see things through his eyes. When we finally go to bed together, I will imagine I am him, fucking myself.