by: Timothy Lalowski
Writer’s warning: Not for all types of innocence levels. This is a looking glass into the fucked up world we call my mind. I suggest to my relatives, and any others who wish to perceive me as perfect and innocent, that they refrain from reading.
I began masturbating at age 7. I didn’t know what sex was, and I sure as hell couldn’t ejaculate, but I was able to reach climax. From what I can remember, I don’t even believe I could get a full erection at that age, but when I touched it and moved it around a bit, it felt good. Later, I would call it “hand sex”, because masturbation wasn’t a term introduced to me by my conservative town until I hit high school.
Now, I didn’t come out to myself for another nine years, and even then I came out as bisexual, but I should have known from age 7 that I was really only interested in penis. There were just many too many signs from very early ages, yet I still remained ignorant to this ideal, mainly for the lack of knowledge on its existence.
At age 7, I figured that boys had pee pees and girls had some type of hole. That was pretty much the extent of my sexual organ knowledge. Somewhere along the line, I came to the conclusion that one fit inside the other. Luckily for me, I was correct, or else there may have been several very long and awkward conversations with my 5th grade sex education teacher.
Before the concept of sex could be introduced to me on a factual basis, my mind had already created scenarios in my head where the one would go in the other, and this got me aroused. I somehow knew, because of my biological reaction to these thoughts, that I was at least partially correct.
However, I quickly came to realize what type of scenarios would arouse my little ‘bits’ the most. I soon began to involve more and more men and generally a singular, possessive and powerful female figure. This leather clad dominatrix slowly evolved from a large chested ponytail sporting girl similar to my hero, Laura Croft to a whip handling abusive male slave owner. She surrounded herself with a growing number of men, and the most identifying characteristic of these men was in fact, their own little ‘bits’, or should I say, gargantuan ‘bits’. She required men of great ‘talent’ in her slave mansion. Then there was the abusive nature of this character. No man’s penis was ever large enough for her liking, and in order to achieve her desires, she had several lines of action, many seemingly painful. Details on these lines of action are unnecessary and likely more crude than need be.
As I grew older, the world showed its cruel face, and I became aware of this to a large degree. Sexual deviations became a concept of sin, hatred, bullying, beatings, and deaths. Televised images of homosexual and transgender corpses, speak of ‘Gay-Related AIDs’, and general hateful speech made my feelings and thoughts cower within myself.
I should have known at age 7 that I was different. I should have realized my disphoric nature, but for me, many years went by before I would even acknowledge differences, and many many more would go by before I would accept these differences. Now, I look back and I have a stronger understanding of my youth depression and my constant nagging feeling of not belonging. I understand now how desperate my subconscious mind was to be able to express my true self, my true gender, and my true sexuality. I understand the hints of masochism that my youth expressed greatly, but I do no longer. Self-hatred can have a great effect on your mind and how you interact with the world around you.
Today I identify as queer because my identity is too complicated to explain and not worth defining. I shift genders. My sexuality is ill defined. What remains true is my past, and I can only hope to understand it in my future.