THE BAD’S GOT TO FIX ITSELF, CORRECT OVERTIME

It finally happened.

By “it” I mean two things: a) I met a girl who’s adorable AND really into me, and b) my mom finally said what she really thinks of me, 8 months after my coming out. This weekend delivered a grand fucking mashup of emotions in a variety so disjointed it puts Cubist art to shame.

Let’s start with Saturday night: the date I wasn’t all that excited about. It really had very little to do with the girl – she made my heart flutter the first time she responded to my message on Tinder – it was just the fucktastic hole of depression I’d sunk into that had blinded me from anything else. (I’m terrified of the moment she finds out this is part of who I am…don’t even get me started.)

I decided to drive that night because the neighborhood of choice was not easily accessible by my beloved 22 bus, and taking an Uber would have been a tad bit of an unjustified expense. (SPOILER ALERT) In the end, I was glad I drove.

My date (let’s call her Sofia) was absolutely head-to-toe, radiantly, genuinely adorable. She’s 5’2” (Sara Quin’s height, don’t judge me for noticing) and moved to the U.S. two years ago from Mexico. For those two years, her English is admirable – far better than my Spanish would likely be in reverse circumstances – and she possesses a sense of honesty that’s refreshing. One day last week, she freaked out and texted me that she had to tell me something: she dates both men and women. I laughed and told her that I also had a confession: I’ve never had a girlfriend before, and this whole dating women thing is still less than a year old for me. If she’s OK with my lack of experience, I’m OK with her diversity of experience. She was relieved, and we bonded before even meeting. She’s just, well, sweet.

So we had our first date. It started with dinner at 7 pm – we couldn’t figure out what to order because we were too busy looking at each other and smiling shyly over our menus – and then we walked down a block to get donuts for dessert. It was colder than I prefer outside. But the damn cold was my friend, because all of a sudden the beautiful girl next to me was holding my hand. I was so surprised a silent squeal made its way to the base of my throat and hovered. There’s something gloriously free about walking down the street holding hands with a pretty girl, smiling like an idiot, not caring what the people think. (I did feel like we got some stares. But that was probably also because we were both smitten and tripping over our own feet.)

After the donut shop, we camped out in a bar with ambiance (a very cute ambiance during the evening, but a very bitch-slappingly drunk ambiance beginning around 11 pm, when the straight girls start making out with each other and the guys start Snapchatting themselves dancing with bottles of beer) for approximately 4 hours – yes, you heard me right. I did not get home until 2:30 Sunday morning. This was a SEVEN-HOUR FIRST DATE. You know what that means.

She was so easy to talk to. This is how the seven hours passed; they slipped through our fingers like water. We were racing to finish our mojitos – we’d decided earlier in the week that our first date should involve a race of some kind, and the winner gets a kiss – when she put her face close to mine, just enough that I could feel her breath on my skin, and said, “I really like you.” It was enough to make my bite my lip imagining her lips on mine.

I quickly finished the mojito and slapped the glass down on the table. “Done.”

She gasped. “You must have cheated.”

“I didn’t. I won.” I glanced at her flirtatiously. Then the room spun. I told her so.

“We’re waiting until you’re completely, 100% sober before I let you drive home,” she said.

“Fine,” I replied, and we sat there until I was well past sober.

“Do you want a ride to the train station?” I asked her, finally, when the night was winding down.

She looked down the street. “I mean, it’s just right there – “ She caught my eye, and amended her decision – “Okay.”

We got into my car. We sat there for a moment. I wanted to be a baller, say something romantic, kiss her. My heart dropped to my toes and I heard a sound like the ocean in my ears. I couldn’t.

I went to put on my seat belt.

“Wait!” she exclaimed.

“What?”

“I have to do this, or I’ll regret it.” She leaned over and suddenly her mouth was on mine, and the way she moved her lips made my brain fly out of my head and into the night sky, and simultaneously melt into soup. If they gave doctorate degrees in kissing, this girl would have one. It felt like all of the kisses in my life were lined up and revealed to be ugly little stick-figures of kisses compared to this one. It’s said among lesbians that “kissing a girl is 100% different from kissing a guy.” They’re right. It was fucking magical.

It was magical for about 2 seconds, until a truck came roaring around the corner and we were blinded by headlights. We stopped kissing, laughed our asses off, and resumed kissing. 10 minutes later we decided we should probably get to the train station, because it was almost 2 am.

I was double-parked on a busy street in front of the train station, but still she was kissing me, even though cars were honking at me to move and people were staring for real now. It was amazing. I haven’t felt so alive in months.

We’re doing a second date soon – possibly tomorrow. I feel like I can be myself around her. And I feel like it’s going somewhere.

Sunday morning (OK, it was noon, you got me) I woke up feeling different. Something had changed. What was it? Oh yeah, I remembered, and a giddiness came giggling out of me.

I went shopping – I need clothes for the next date – and amidst a fury of adorable texts from Sofia, I noticed an email from my mom. It said something about dates for a sibling hangout in Chicago, so I opened it immediately.

AND THEN THE BOMB DROPPED.

About a week ago, I asked her when my brother Liam gets out of school for the summer. I’m scheduling the rest of my days off till June, I told her, and I’d like to finally have the chance to spend a few days with him, just the two of us. I had lots of ideas: we could go shopping downtown, visit all the technology stores he’s been wanting to see, go to the beach, eat junk food, watch HGTV on my giant-ass TV, just hang out like we used to.

I didn’t explain all those ideas, but perhaps I should have, because based on my mom’s email I feel like what she thinks to be my list is as follows: get 15-year-old brother drunk, bring Liam to a gay club, send him home with a guy, have a huge homo party in my home and fuck a girl in front of him.

Her response to “May I have my brother over for a few days? I’ll pay for his food, pick him up and drop him off” is as follows (edited down to save space):

 

“I’ve been thinking about your offer to show Liam around Chicago. I’m sure he would love it. What days were you thinking about?

As parents we were responsible for everything we allowed you to do when you were still under our care.  We are currently responsible for Liam. One day we will stand before God and be held accountable for how we raised our children. It says in Luke 17:2: It would be better for them to be thrown into the sea with a millstone tied around their neck than to cause one of these little ones to stumble. We are NOT perfect parents. We are just trying to do our best. With that we have a few requests/comments.

First of all, we would request that you do not drink alcohol while he is with you.

Second, put away any gay magazines, books, etc. and please do not discuss this issue with him.

Third, we do not have a lot of money, so we are not able to send him with much.

Fourth, we would like it to be just you and Liam and not anyone else that he does not know. If your aunt and uncle, or Mark (editor’s note: the self-same boyfriend with whom I was living in sin just over one year ago, and she wouldn’t let him visit us when we lived together) come along, that’s fine. He knows them. 

Fifth, I would like to know what your plans are each day. Keep in touch. Maybe take some selfies and send them.

I hope you will not be offended by these requests/comments. We love you both so very much and want this to be a wonderful time together. It’s very sweet of you to spend some vacation days with your little brother.”

 

I might as well have been slapped in the face by my own mother in the middle of the store. Note to self: don’t EVER read emails from your mom in public anymore. You never know what delightful horseshit they may contain.

It’s possible I may be overreacting, but WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.

No alcohol? FUCKING OBVIOUSLY, HE’S 15.

I have to put away my gay items?! What exactly does this include? I don’t have a whole lot. I suppose my Tegan and Sara merch is out of the question! EVEN THOUGH WE LISTEN TO THEIR MUSIC IN THE CAR TOGETHER AND HAVE BEEN ALL FUCKING YEAR.

I have to “not discuss” my being gay with Liam? News flash: I’m already out to him. Once you’re out, you’re out. I’m not going to pretend to be straight to protect their comfort level.

And I have to send her my plans for each day, and send selfies to prove it because otherwise, you never know what sort of buttfucking might be going on around here.

And who is this “we” she refers to? Because I’m 99% sure my dad had absolutely nothing to do with this email, in fact if I had a relationship with him, I’d consider forwarding it to him and asking if he agreed.

And on top of it all, I’m not allowed to be offended by any of this.

FOR CHRIST’S SAKE.

The whole thing was pretty much a list of ways in which I’m a failure of a daughter and a person, ways in which she doesn’t want Liam to grow up to be like me (there was more, but I don’t feel like getting into it here, not yet). We return to a basic question: does she think “gay” is contagious? That by spending time with me outside the realm of her absolute mind-control he will suddenly become attracted to men? Or, worse, he might grow up to be open-minded… When “liberal” is the worst thing your kid can grow up to be, you know you’ve got issues. It was then that her absolute homophobia struck me. She’s literally afraid of my gayness. The idea of me not enjoying being rammed with a dick makes her so uncomfortable that she’s willing to put our relationship on the line for the sake of it.

The idea too that she can do “damage control” on Liam’s future, “save” him from turning out like me by controlling his environment through censorship and essentially controlling his mind is getting more and more tiresome – and slightly creepy. She wants to control what we talk about, label certain issues “taboo” because I have different opinions from her on the matter. She performs random inspections of his phone (he outsmarts her and hides all the apps) because she’s absolutely paranoid that he’s watching porn or being solicited by male sexual predators, or, you know, viewing the word “shit.”

Side note: I’m not advocating a childhood sans rules or technological restrictions whatsoever, but you’d have to meet my mom to see what I mean. When I was a teenager I wasn’t allowed to talk to a new friend because he was Catholic and not Evangelical Free and therefore his views were different from theirs. I was only allowed to listen to Christian music, only allowed to hang out with Christians, only allowed to read books approved by her.

That was a long rabbit trail…

Anyway, I’d like to tell her that I’m incredibly insulted, that until she’s ready to acccept me for who I am, get educated and acknowledge that gay  irresponsible perv, then I don’t need to be part of her life. I’m done bending over backwards to visit all the time. I’m done taking her shit.

I don’t want to lose Liam, though. I haven’t said a word to her since Sunday – just deleted every one of her texts. This morning she accused me of having stopped loving her, to which I also have not responded. She should fucking know better.

I’ve been attempting to balance these feelings from hell with the euphoria of meeting Sofia for the past few days, and it’s been really, really weird.

Final note: Sunday night, I texted Sofia about the email, just to let her know why I wasn’t responding right away, apologized if I was telling her way too much after only one date. She was incredibly sweet and supportive about it – “Are you OK? You can call me and talk if you need to, I’m here for you.”

I’m trying not to get in over my head, but I think I might have found myself a keeper.

 

WHAT RUSHES INTO MY HEART AND MY SKULL

A prequel to “I Kissed a Girl (and I Liked It)”

So, it happened. This weekend I went on a beautiful date with a beautiful woman.  One wine bar, two restaurants, a trip back to my apartment for an impromptu wine tasting, and 4 perfect kisses…my head is still spinning.

I’ve been on a few dates since putting up a profile on New Year’s Eve. They’ve been OK. Genuinely nice women – women I want to be friends with, but I didn’t feel much chemistry for, and judging my the interaction, they didn’t either. That sort of thing is always awkward, and I suck at follow-up. So yeah.

Let’s call her Liana. I can’t really describe how gorgeous or amazing or smart or funny she is without dissolving into a puddle of sap, and since I want to keep my readers, I’ll refrain: but she is all of those things and more. To be honest, I feel like she is completely out of my league. It’s a miracle she responded to my message in the first place, let alone thinks I’m any kind of special.

We texted for two weeks before meeting. She appreciates wine and beer in the same way people who go to art museums appreciate art. Incidentally, she also appreciates art and has a thing for artists. I confess that I considered leaving a little paint on my hands before the date. (I didn’t.)

I started a painting Saturday morning because of her. It wasn’t presumptuous: even if we didn’t end up going back to my apartment, I would take a picture of it and show her what she inspired. Is that presumptuous? Perhaps it is. When I ended up showing it to her in person, she looked at it adoringly, and it was all worth the effort.

I wore a black button-up shirt, skinny jeans and short beige boots. And unfortunately, since it was twenty degrees outside, an enormous black puffy coat that screamed snowman wearing a garbage bag rather than baller. The cold turned out to be more badass than my leather jacket.

Where was I? Oh yeah. Entering the wine bar, shielding the bouquet of “No Pressure But I Think You’re Beautiful” mini roses that I’d cradled like a baby for 8 blocks. I was early. I felt a little ridiculous entering an empty bar at 7 pm by myself, accompanied by roses, but the bartender glanced at me with a knowing “Aha, I see you’re waiting for a hot date” wink, and poured me a glass of wine.

When Liana walked in, my heart stopped. I won’t get sappy here, I promise – but please imagine the most gorgeous Asian girl ever, with eyes like diamonds and hair like a velvet curtain, and that’s pretty much her.

It seems to be a tradition to start and end a lesbian date with a hug, regardless of if there’s any kissing or other physical activity involved. (Look at me, I’m an expert after exactly 4 dates.) So we hugged, and when I gave her the flowers, she was speechless, and blushing, and adorable – she thanked me for them at least 5 times and I was very pleased with 3-Hours-Ago-Jenny for deciding what the hell, let’s buy the flowers.

“Is this the first time you’ve pulled the flowers-on-the-first-date move on a girl?” she asked.

I blushed. “Um, yes.”

No worries. She was thoroughly impressed – and perhaps a bit charmed that she was the first girl I’d done this for.

I’d been worried she would think my bar of choice was lame, because I knew before going that we would be the only 2 people in there at such an early hour – but she said she loved it and that it was the perfect no-pressure zone to get to know each other before heading to a more noisy venue. My thoughts were,

Nailed it on the flowers.
Nailed it on the bar.
Way to go, Jenny.

On my other dates, I’ve been nervous like nobody’s business. So nervous I could barely talk, or find anything to talk about. With Liana, even though she was the girl I’ve liked the most, I felt comfortable enough to let my personality through. We talked naturally. We never ran out of topics. In my humble opinion, we’re a good match.

(Side note: if you’re nervous on a date, try pretending she’s a hot coworker that you’re trying to impress at happy hour. You don’t know if she’s gay, so you’re just trying to be cool. This usually works for me.)

After a glass of wine – not quite a glass, for me, since I didn’t want to get drunk on the first date with this goddess – we hit up a little Mexican restaurant on the corner of my street. Dinner was wonderful. I’m pretty sure the waiter was trying to figure out what our deal was. LMAO.

After this, we decided we had just enough room for a small dessert – so went next door to a little bakery, where we shared a cupcake. (Romantic, right?) I was so entranced by Liana that I forgot to check the closing time on the bakery, and after 10 minutes a tired-looking employee started sweeping around our table with a broom and glaring at us.

“Oh my god,” I gasped, “They’re closing.”

We scrambled to finish the cupcake and get out. We found ourselves sitting in Liana’s car and wondering what to do next.

“Well,” I began awkwardly, aware that I only had one chance to not fuck this up, “I have a bottle of Rioja back at my apartment, which is right around the corner…”

I could tell she was nervous, because her voice trembled a little when she said, “Sure, yeah. That sounds good.”

I’m really glad she grabbed the remote to my TV and made herself at home. To have not had the guise of Netflix and chill would have made the whole thing 100x more weird…so there we were, watching Friends, sipping wine (she loved it, by the way) and making small talk while pointedly sitting at opposite ends of the couch.

And then she did it: asked if she could kiss me.

There were fireworks. It was like no kiss I’ve ever had with a guy. Oh damn, I thought, I’m super gay.

Her texts are measured now. Careful. Hyper-aware. I think it means I’ve captivated her somehow (though I’m still not convinced that this is possible), and that she wants to do things right, take things slow, not fuck things up. I’m trying not to come on too strong. Trying to let her text me first (at the same time as she is trying to let me text first, which does not work, LOL).

I haven’t felt this way about someone in a long time. I’m flinging my heart open to the heavens with wide abandon, hoping for love and not rejection. Cheers to that.

I KISSED A GIRL (AND I LIKED IT)

It was almost midnight – midnight, like her hair, like her eyes.

She turned to me and said, “I should probably get going.” My heart fell.

Then she blushed and added, “But before I go, I was wondering…could I get a little kiss?”

“Of course,” I giggled, and turned the volume down on the episode of Friends we were “watching.”

And suddenly the whole universe was quiet, and the quietness of the universe rushed my ears with a sound like the ocean, while I found myself face-to-face, lip-to-lip with ridiculous beauty. A weakness shivered from the back of my head to the depths of my knees, and reverberated back up my spine.

Hers was the leaning forward, hers the cascade of midnight-black hair falling in her face: but mine the hand that brushed it aside, mine the unskilled kiss that made her pull back and gasp a little, hiding her moon-face behind perfect lily-white hands.

Mine the self-conscious laugh that wondered if I had done too much.

But I had not done too much, because she asked me for another: and another: and another.

“You make me feel like I’m in high school again,” she laughed. (I think that’s a good thing. She was smiling when she said it.)

When I checked the time later, the entire thing happened in less than 5 minutes, but those five minutes felt like 5 hours. I have kissed girls before, but those kisses were different: “Let’s see what it will feel like to kiss a boy someday” and “We’re both drunk, let’s have a threesome” do not count in quite the same way as this. I suppose this could be called my first real kiss with a girl.

It was quite redemptive, bringing me full-circle from my first kiss with a guy, and the sensation of feeling an octopus attached to my face, and the swollen lips I saw in the mirror the following morning.

Something caught her off guard. She suddenly picked up her things and said, “I need to go. You’re making me shy.”

I walked her out of my apartment and down a half-block to her car, and before she got in, she kissed me one more time with velvet lips before scrambling to get in and put a car door between us.

I stood there giggling like an idiot for about 30 seconds. When I turned to walk back to my apartment, I almost ran into a tree.

Not 3 minutes later, she texted me, twice:

“You make me ten times more shy than I already am.”

“You’re beautiful.”

 

More details to come.

GO AHEAD, TRY TO FIGURE OUT WHAT MY FUTURE LOOKS LIKE

So, it’s January 1, and I’m sitting on my couch gulping coffee (that’s misleading. I’ve only had one cup and probably won’t have another, because it’ll fuck up my stomach if I do.) and trying not to think too hard about last night, about the 3 gin drinks and 2 vodka drinks and red Solo cup of wine I had. My head is pounding. I think I’m still a bit drunk. Yes, I’m a lightweight: judge me.

At some point during the week I spent at my family’s house for Christmas, my aunt asked at the dinner table, “So Jenny, what are you doing for New Year’s Eve?”

Forks clattered and eyes landed on me. The room fell silent. “I, um….I’m going to a party,” I stammered.

“Oh, nice!” she said enthusiastically. “Like a house party?”

I laughed. “More of an event. With tickets.”

“Ooooh wow,” she said (40% of which was nostalgic for her own party days,  30% was “I should ditch my own plans and join her!” and 30% was parent-like concern for my safety).

They wanted details. I didn’t give them. They figured out pretty fast that it was some sort of LGBT thing and decided they’d be better off not knowing the details.

My mom insisted still that I text her when I got home.

So yes. There I was last night, nursing a drink in the corner, shaking like a leaf, simultaneously trying to be noticed and trying not to be noticed. Wondering where all these hot girl couples had met, and why the fuck none of them showed up at the lesbian events.

It was a masquerade party. I’d brought a mask which looked surprisingly good with my Sara Quin getup, but I set it down on a table, and within minutes it was stolen by a cute blonde.

If anyone sees some bitch wearing this mask around Chicago, it’s mine.

Sara Quin would have fought the bitch tooth and nail for it and then asked her out.

I’m not that cool. I did nothing.

Honest confession: while blow drying my hair yesterday morning, I thought there was a possibility I might take someone home with me. I thought, at the very least, I’ll get a girl’s number.

LMAO.

In what universe?

The party was quite lame. At one point a new friend of mine turned to me and said, “Want to get out of here? We can go to this house party I’ve been invited to…”

Disillusioned by the lack of possibilities and the lame-ass straight girl music (DJ: “Cheerleader” is not a good track for a crowd of feminist girls who like girls, also please play “Closer” by Tegan and Sara), I said sure, take me anywhere.

So we left. And then I found myself sitting in the corner at some stranger’s house sipping wine out of a Solo cup and texting my friends, but not too much because I didn’t want my phone to die. Oh yeah, and I made an online dating profile.

Midnight came and passed. It was a sleepy crowd. There were quite a few lesbians, but mostly paired off and/or considerably older than me.

I’m a little disillusioned with myself. The most I can say for my dating life is that I’ve been pursued by a few weirdoes.

It goes like this: Show up at an event. Mostly weirdoes there (I am not normally a judgmental person, but I am not exaggerating: you have to see it). They eye me like a plate of brownies. Someone (or 2, or 3) comes up to me at the end and gives me her phone number. She mistakes my politeness for romantic interest and her voice goes all starry-eyed Ellen Page as she invites me to coffee right now/lunch tomorrow/dinner later in the week. I politely decline on account of busy-ness, but tell her I’ll be at the next event, why don’t we hang out there. And then the texting starts, and won’t stop, and I’m terrible at letting people down, so I continue the charade.

I think I’m going to stop going to these events.

I’m scraped too thin these days.

I don’t want a relationship. I want to date.

I want to bake cookies with a cute girl and run my fingers through her hair while she licks the spoon. I want to buy that giant rainbow umbrella at Target and walk down the street with her on a rainy morning after a night of, you know, sex.

I’m not looking for anything serious – but the right girl could get me to settle down. It’s finding the girls that’s proving to be difficult.

 

WOULD IT STILL BE THE SAME

On Friday night I had dinner with my ex-boyfriend. My first boyfriend. My college boyfriend.

I hadn’t seen Sam in 4 years. At that point in our lives, we were both devoutly Catholic. Our relationship of almost one year ended when he pressured me to get married, like, immediately.

That aside, we had been close friends before that, and our friendship was special for many reasons. I wanted to see if we could reclaim that friendship.

The dinner was awkward. (Expected.)

He hadn’t changed at all. (Expected.)

The ways in which I have changed disappointed him. (Expected.)

I told him the last time I went to mass was Easter 2 years ago.

I told him that the next person I date will be a woman, because I sensed that he was hoping for more from our meeting than revisiting our friendship.

These are some of the notes I took:

“Does that make you feel fulfilled?”

“It’s interesting how even in a gay relationship there’s someone playing the man and someone playing the woman.”

Used the words “phase” and “fad” a lot in reference to my interests

And lastly, perhaps most devastating – “It doesn’t surprise me that you’ve changed a lot.”