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I - here's the thing - my Ex was a self-hating queer man, and he tortured me over it for the better part of a decade.
When we started dating, I was happily out as bi - I'd stayed up late one night reading Ginny/Cho fic on Into Raspberry Swirl and had no problem assimilating the information that I could like girls as much as boys, I was a virgin, I wasn't a Christian, everything was possible and none of it scared me.
He told me that he used to scourge himself with a belt when he masturbated, and I think I still believe him. Anyway, he never criticized me for being bi, but he worried at it constantly: how was I so okay with it, how did I know?
Probably, he's bi too. We liked each other, but both could have paired with same-sex partners as well. None of this was ever a problem for me, but it fucked him up but good. When I was about nineteen, he started doing this "testing" shit, where he would look at gay porn and then straight porn and depending on when he got hard he would either chill or freak the fuck out. When I was home from college, having sex with me was a more intense version of the same thing: if I aroused him, everything was all right, but if I didn't there was gonna be hella drama. Obvs, put that kind of pressure on arousal and it's not going to happen nine times out of ten, and the whole gig really messed with my head and heart; it felt like rejection, but he would be crying, and I would have to reassure him that it was all okay.
I remember this one night - it was summer, and we'd rented Kinsey on DVD to watch at his ratty little rental house. I'd been looking forward to seeing the film, because Kinsey had been a girlhood hero of mine. Watching it, he had a panic attack, a sobbing session on my shoulder, and then a nosebleed that ended up all over my neck and chest and the sofa and later the bathroom and we'd had the lights low so suddenly I'd looked down and there had been glistening wet dark blood all over everything. It was like something out of a dream.
He was brought up Catholic, not Muslim - but from the outside, gotta say, all Abrahamic religions look just about the same. Variations on a theme, like.
Sometimes I feel bad for the nice older poz guy I finally unloaded him on, but mostly I'm so grateful I could kiss the man's feet, because I got out thanks to him.
I am feeling so fucked up about the Orlando shooter, the self-hating Muslim queer man, and his abused girlfriend who dropped him off at the club door. This is where toxic masculinity becomes tragic, and I am strangled by pity and disgust and rage in equal and conflicting measures. These poor self-hating queer men - and the way they can make other people fucking suffer for it.
I don't mean to suggest that any of these things are on the same scale. Mostly I'm just wailing.
When we started dating, I was happily out as bi - I'd stayed up late one night reading Ginny/Cho fic on Into Raspberry Swirl and had no problem assimilating the information that I could like girls as much as boys, I was a virgin, I wasn't a Christian, everything was possible and none of it scared me.
He told me that he used to scourge himself with a belt when he masturbated, and I think I still believe him. Anyway, he never criticized me for being bi, but he worried at it constantly: how was I so okay with it, how did I know?
Probably, he's bi too. We liked each other, but both could have paired with same-sex partners as well. None of this was ever a problem for me, but it fucked him up but good. When I was about nineteen, he started doing this "testing" shit, where he would look at gay porn and then straight porn and depending on when he got hard he would either chill or freak the fuck out. When I was home from college, having sex with me was a more intense version of the same thing: if I aroused him, everything was all right, but if I didn't there was gonna be hella drama. Obvs, put that kind of pressure on arousal and it's not going to happen nine times out of ten, and the whole gig really messed with my head and heart; it felt like rejection, but he would be crying, and I would have to reassure him that it was all okay.
I remember this one night - it was summer, and we'd rented Kinsey on DVD to watch at his ratty little rental house. I'd been looking forward to seeing the film, because Kinsey had been a girlhood hero of mine. Watching it, he had a panic attack, a sobbing session on my shoulder, and then a nosebleed that ended up all over my neck and chest and the sofa and later the bathroom and we'd had the lights low so suddenly I'd looked down and there had been glistening wet dark blood all over everything. It was like something out of a dream.
He was brought up Catholic, not Muslim - but from the outside, gotta say, all Abrahamic religions look just about the same. Variations on a theme, like.
Sometimes I feel bad for the nice older poz guy I finally unloaded him on, but mostly I'm so grateful I could kiss the man's feet, because I got out thanks to him.
I am feeling so fucked up about the Orlando shooter, the self-hating Muslim queer man, and his abused girlfriend who dropped him off at the club door. This is where toxic masculinity becomes tragic, and I am strangled by pity and disgust and rage in equal and conflicting measures. These poor self-hating queer men - and the way they can make other people fucking suffer for it.
I don't mean to suggest that any of these things are on the same scale. Mostly I'm just wailing.