“Because I like girls?” I made the statement a question, unintentionally showing her how vulnerable I was.
Amber flipped her blonde hair again as she turned another page, never looking up from the naked women in the pictures. “Are you gay?” she said frankly as she scanned the glossy pages and made a comment about one of the model’s beautiful heels.
“I think so. No, I’m bi,” I corrected and plopped my ass on the bed next to her. We sat together, skimming its pages and taking note of a few exceptional models that really did something for me. As I pointed to the girls I liked, it dawned on her that I wasn’t kidding and I really had a thing for the same sex.
“Wait, you don’t like me, do you?” she asked and laughed like she already knew the answer.
“No, you jackass. You’re not my type.” I pushed her shoulder unexpectedly and scrunched my face at her as if she disgusted me. Her leg lifted from the floor to balance her weight and prevent a fall off of the bed.
Her eyebrows hit the ceiling as we turned red with laughter. Amber tried to shout through her amusement, “That’s fucked up!” but she couldn’t quite catch her breath and choked on her spit. That only sent us into a hysterical giggling fit. When she finally got control of herself after coughing into her fist, she genuinely said, “I don’t care what you are, you’re just Emma to me.” She was sincere; she was direct and held eye contact with me as she said it to let me know that whoever I turned out to be, she was supportive.
That being established, her curiosity reared its head, and she asked if I had ever physically been with a girl.
That’s when my confession of Angel and the details of our night together occurred for the first time, including the phone call the next day. When my eyes became misty, I diverted her attention to a story about a girl in our class who was also our mutual friend. Amber was jealous of this girl, so when her name was mentioned, she listened intently.
The girl’s best friend recently confessed years of love for her, so she was considering a lesbian relationship. The juicy part was that I was interested and wanted to be more than friends. It was shocking, but Amber was so fascinated by the drama she didn’t care about the dynamics of being gay or bisexual. It was the sensational details she wanted to know more about. I indulged her with answers to any questions that followed, none of which ever became an issue again.
Once Amber knew about Robert and Angel’s rejection, and the love triangle, she completely understood why it was important to get the hell out of Ohio. She knew the quickest way out was to join the military.
CHAPTER 3
It was difficult holding back my sexuality after coming to realize who I was. It’s like trying to announce the cure for cancer in a whisper. Typically, when gay people come out of the closet, they become flamboyant with their newly discovered or accepted identity. Some own all the rainbow trinkets and make it obvious that they fought to be themselves. It’s a rite of passage in the community.
My inner confidence was gained by owning the title of true bisexual. I use the word true to establish credibility for the label. It sets apart the stereotypical girls in college who finger their best friends on a drunken horny rampage from the bisexuals who struggle early on. Inner confidence, however, did not earn me sexual freedom. Inhibiting myself was essential to enter the realm of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell,” so I could be all I could be. Definitely some irony to be noted here.
In basic training there was a very good-looking girl bathing directly across from me in the community showers, claiming to hate gays. “Olive Oil,” dubbed so by the drill sergeants for her thin frame and slicked black hair. She was just the girl next door until the bubble thong incident. She became my living entertainment after she doubled up in a shower, giggling loudly that, not to worry, she was straight. Immediately my eyes scanned the area, scouting for the girl who made the comment. I never would have looked twice until she unknowingly challenged me with those words.
After that, my gaze intentionally lingered over her smooth perfection as my way to counterbalance her hatred for that which she claimed to have knowledge. Olive babbled about how she would know if a girl in the bay was a lesbian. On and on she spewed as she scrubbed the shampoo through her hair, causing her perfect size Cs to bounce in rhythm.
While “listening,” I wondered what she would do if she knew I was lustfully looking at her body. A giggle pulled me out of my trance in just enough time to hear her say, “I’d kick her ass,” before she trailed off again into blah blah blahs. My smile was timed with everyone else’s, but secretly she transitioned into my personal porn.
The shampoo slid down her sun-kissed curves. It began at the nape of her neck, over her shoulders, and through the center of her chest. It split into two foamy lines at her navel. One fell straight through her pubic hair; the other followed the contours of her hips to the back. I stared too long and became red-faced with embarrassment, but no one was watching me to notice my reaction. The girls were far too enthralled in Olive’s story on being anti-gay to see just how simply erotic she looked in that bubble belt. When she turned to wipe the soap from her eyes, the shampoo followed her spine directly through the crack of her perfect eighteen-year-old ass.
The bubble thong incident let my inner confidence on bisexuality grow into that cure-for-cancer whisper. A rainbow began to appear over my heart, but there were no pride parades for me that year.
After boot camp, I trained to learn the job I would eventually perform in the military. At that point my sexuality was set in bisexual stone. However, my attention was gravitated toward the only known lesbian within the first three days of being at the school. My bisexual proclamation was mentioned freely so the “rumor” would get to her.
This passive aggressive way to show interest was worse than sending a message by carrier pigeon. Only God knows if she heard any of it at all. If she did, she was absolutely, one hundred percent indifferent. She was blinded by lust and doted over her roommate, aka “lover.” She remained infatuated and called it love.
My first time meeting her was after overhearing girls chatter in the hall. Initially my intent was to shut them up, but the lesbian was sitting, crying in the doorway of a room with five nosey girls surrounding her. Anyone with a curiosity bone would have investigated the scene as quickly as I did. The snot was oozing from her nose, but she was too upset to care and never bothered to wipe it away. Slurs through her beer breath had all of us standing close enough to comfort her, yet far enough to inhale fresh air.
Between sobs, the lesbian managed, “I mean why? That bitch, I did everything for her. Gave her anything she wanted!”
Her head fell back in desperation or exhaustion and hit the doorjamb. She didn’t seem to care about this either. With a sudden burst of anger she yelled, “Fucking dick! She went for a dick!”
The six of us listened to the obvious pain she was going through. A few paid attention with curiosity rather than compassion until she mumbled, “I love her.” Then they tilted their heads to the side and swooned as if they really understood. She cried with her head between her knees as we all hovered without a shred of advice to give.
Rachel, a short black-haired beauty, was the first to say anything at all and the first to help this girl to her feet. She spoke with a smooth, even tone as she looked to me, silently asking for a hand in guiding the lesbian down the hall. My place at that moment was under the arm of the broken hearted as we carried the lesbian and the weight of her burden successfully to her room.