by Dano Bowen:
I’ve been in a relationship with another boy for over a year now. It’s wonderful and miserable like I imagine most other relationships are. I don’t feel like a minority or a victim though I realize that maybe there’s a little more pressure put on a gay couple. It took awhile for us to get comfortable. There’s a power dynamic that has to be satisfied. I imagine it’s why heterosexuality is far more common than homosexuality: roles in a relationship are very strongly influenced by our gender . My boyfriend and I had to figure out who was going to be the girl and who was going to be the boy. Even though our genitals very strongly suggested that we both were men, a provider and a receiver had to be established. I’m not talking about sex, I’m talking about who gets to bitch about nothing and everything and who gets to shut the fuck up and listen. This distinction is easy for some but it was hell for us.
I’m the sort of person who’s attracted to protection and power. I attribute this to my scrawny stature and wet-noodle arms. Biologically and evolutionarily it doesn’t make sense for me to be the warrior, so I seek out a figure who loves me enough to protect me from big bad things that could pound me into oblivion. This said: I never wanted to be a woman. I am no Carrie Bradshaw so when it became clear that I was to fill the submissive position of “girl” I didn’t really know what to do. When I say submissive I mean little spoon; I mean the one who thinks too much about phone calls and texts all the time about nothing. I’ve always been an empath, so it was easy for me to be the one who knew all about feelings and had WAY too many of them.
Our relationship hit a brick wall when this became apparent: He didn’t know how to be a boy. He wanted to be the girl too. Two submissive people in a relationship SUCK at solving problems. They hang on every syllable, dwell on every hint of body language and cry all the god damned time so we had to take turns being the emotional psychopath. Relationship failure became very apparent to our friends when we got drunk. We’d giggle and snuggle for the first two shots and then whoever downed the third Mojito would sob his eyes out in a corner because his emotional needs weren’t being met by his boyfriend who has conspicuously lost his mojo. The other party recognized this immediately and donned the hero cloak that never quite fit his scrawny shoulders. He carries his soggy burden awkwardly to bed and quietly shuts the door. If I’m lucky, it’s me. Then he holds me, all night and I don’t mean to take this as an incentive to cry but can’t help it. There’s never any question of sincerity; it’s reactionary to weep when you’re confused about how to fill a gender role that doesn’t match your genitals. Tears also seem to make your boyfriend more of a man for you.
The battle of too many feelings continued until a routine became hardwired. Eventually I established myself as the one to be cared for and I didn’t even have to cry to be little-spoon anymore. He climbed on top of me without me begging him. He was even starting to get some muscles from carrying me to bed all those nights! I had forced my man into being a man. There was only one problem: nobody wants to be with a needy manipulative cunt. Well I shouldn’t speak for everybody, but he didn’t.
I of course felt his attraction slipping from me. I tried over and over again to give him space; to be less of a leech. I found words falling out of my mouth before I could catch them. I got upset when he didn’t call me so he stopped calling me. I stopped talking about anything but how he made me feel. I didn’t talk to any of my friends about anything but my feelings about him. I found my eyes couldn’t stop turning into faucets. It was too late. I had undergone an emotional sex-change and to my own amazement my brain was bloated with estrogen. When he finally told me, “I’m not really into whiney girls”, that was all it took to flood back my testosterone and restore some joy to our relationship.
Since this necessary confrontation my hormones have been much less commanding. I am no longer fixated on constantly receiving any kind of attention. Our relationship is perfectly ridiculous: I am not quite a boy and I am not quite a girl, and neither is my very loving and endearing boyfriend. There are enough boys and girls as it is.
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MY THOUGHTS AND OTHER RAMBLINGS:
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i don't know about you but i was thoroughly enthralled (to be pretentious) by the entire story and even learned a little (though i already knew, but in vague specks here and there) about gender relationships, both the hetero- and homosexual one. and best of all, about the human condition. NO IDEA WHY, BUT I'M SO FASCINATED BY THE HUMAN CONDITION LATELY. i mean, most (maybe even all) of the stuff i write relates to the human condition even though i tend to steer towards the personal level of it (and if i were to be more specific, it's mostly about love) but this, this makes me understand more of it. and i was so excited when wikipedia said:
The study of history, philosophy, literature, and the arts all help us understand the nature of the human condition and the broader cultural and social arrangements that make up our lives.
HEY! that's pretty much what i study! actually i only study lit from the aforementioned. BUT, i'd like to think that i have a keen interest in the other 2. besides, i learn geography and i think the human component of it's pretty human psyche related eh?
and to clear things up, i am not a hopeless romantic in my writings. i mean, i am one but i usually mix the cliche with the unconventional. was wondering if should post a piece that made me feel really proud about myself. still wondering.
and this is the gist of it to show you how i like to mix it up a bit:
the setting is the 1960s-1970s, maybe around the 2nd-wave feminism period? the location is very classy. i imagine it in black and white for some reason. but anyway, the two characters are in bed, with the woman, a marilyn-monroe inspired character with a fag in her mouth. she is awake while her gorgeous lover, shirtless, lays asleep on her lap.
in her head is a mesh of chaos. she feels betrayed. betrayed because this man on her lap is still married and has lied to her that he would divorce his wife for her. he did not and she is a scornful woman.
she thinks of independence, she thinks of an angry speech, hell, she thinks of murder as her hand rests on the scruffy, diamond-cut she fell in love with on a surreptitious night. but then he stirs and their eyes meet. one look and she forgets all the disdain she has.
OKAY END. i realize this post is a little heavy on the word count.
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