I’m a seed. That’s what I’ve learned. I’m a seed that’s been planted in Seattle. I’ve taken root. I’m in a spot I can maintain, at least for now. Even more than that, I have garden space to plant more seeds. Enough room to house someone I really like. Though, not many people fit that description. But if that someone wanted to give Seattle a go, I’ve got a place to temporarily house them. Most of the people I like could even get a job at the Space Needle. To start, at least.
Right now this list only has one person on it. They know who they are.
I’ve got stories to tell but the live audience doesn’t get to hear the best ones. That’s for reading. For the book. Telling stories in a forum where I’m literally judged is one of the most grating experiences of my life. I’m not trying to beat anyone else. It’s my story. No one else can tell it. I tell stories in person because sometimes I hit a chord and someone responds to what I’m saying. It hasn’t happened in Seattle until recently. I’ve touched a few people multiple times, most often one on one.
I’m the worst case of middle child syndrome. I’m the second child that tipped the scales. I was held in comparison to my older sister throughout my life. Everything different about me was accentuated, probably for her as well. I’m only guessing. I haven’t asked but it feels natural to assume she was under pressure in our youth. The traction against my being had to be pressing against something. Whereas my anxiety caused me to eat and drink everything in sight, her nerves caused a stomach ulcer her late teens, if I remember correctly. We all bear our cross.
When I described it to Ian last night I said, “My older sister, Margaret, is the golden child. She was the first. She fit the bill and followed orders to a T. Cameron is the youngest and she got to know my parents when they were older and more relaxed.”
“Those are the parents I know,” he interjected.
“I’m the one representing all of my mother’s self-hatred. I was essentially the nexus of everything wrong in her life. I tipped the scales and made family life too complicated to handle. I was taught to dislike myself simply because my mother, my role model, was dead set in her own narcissistic perspective. I can’t even blame her for the abuse. I’m almost certain she has no idea. In her mind, she is protecting me from the harsh judgement of her own childhood. Growing up in a world that didn’t allow an opinionated woman to exist. I’m sure her sisters all have similar neurosis, considering how my cousins turned out. Unquestioned white privilege in the 20th century American South was deplorable.
I want to love my biological family based on blood relation but the only person I really felt close to died young. She talked to me about things I could relate to. She understood the dynamic in Memphis with a keen eye of objectivity. She confirmed everything I was thinking as a teenager and helped me find kinship in my family tree. I’ll always miss Katie. I have other good relatives and under different circumstances I might have been friends with some of them. As things stand now, I’ve got one sister that shares my DNA and 6 other members of my family. People I can really count on when I need something.
Last week, I told a story that almost got me crying on stage. I know I trembled. I know I stumbled. I barely got the end of what I wanted to say and I know I repeated a phrase at least twice. It wasn’t even the most important phrase, though in some ways it was. “I was only 15.”
I let a guy titty fuck me when I was 15 and enjoyed it. It’s a thing that came up during our make-out sessions in the back of his Isuzu Trooper during drive-in movies. Then, in his bedroom after watching a movie on his computer monitor. Eventually, anywhere we could get horizontal featured that particular kink. High school teenagers in the summer, we spent all of our days together. I almost never voluntarily stayed home once I learned to ride my bike across town. Dating a guy with a Trooper meant not having to ride home that night.
The first time we did it, it was kinda hot. I have sensitive breasts and pinching my nipples against his belly while he rubbed his cock between my D-cup breasts was very arousing for both of us. Especially when we made out for over an hour beforehand, groping and moaning and heightening the sensations with anticipation. I liked the sensation then and still do now – under the right circumstances.
In a time when sexual exploration as still above the belt for me, it became a prime feature in our sex life. Unfortunately, as with most relationships, after a while our sex life became something practiced and mundane. Over four months, our sexual encounters devolved to him laying on top of me dry humping my breast bone while I turned my head to the side waiting for his hot come to hit my chin. Not the kind of hot I was looking for. The problem is, I didn’t know how to say, “No.”
My original consent I signed a tacit agreement to something that changed over time. I was just something we did. I don’t know if he even enjoyed it because neither of us ever asked. I think this is why I established my marriage on a renewing contract. I am acutely aware how some things change over time. The job I love now won’t capture the same affection in six months. My enjoyment of anything typically diminishes over time. In this case, I’m not so certain. Anything seems possible in this Brave New Pacific Northwest.
Anyway, that’s off topic. One this is certain after this amazing weekend in my life. I’m not alone. Not by a long shot.