ItGetsMoreGay

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 5^th 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.

by: Timothy Lalowski

Sometimes two people are meant for each other and sometimes they’re not, and sometimes, only one is meant for the other and not the other way around. For some of us, we’re cursed with the blessing of too much love to offer. We’re cursed with the ability to be perfectly happy with someone other than “the one,” because there are so many of fish out there that are just right enough.

Now, maybe I’m crazy, and maybe I’m a little fucked in the head, but never could it be said that I don’t understand Love. I’ve been in Love before. Actually, I’ve been in Love several times, and I’ll continue to be and fall in Love. However, I have never been in Love with. They have all evaded my entrancing glare and my amorous aura. The big fish have always gotten away.

I spoke with one of these fish recently, and in some sudden burst of hope, I expressed my true thoughts to him. I expressed that as I’ve gotten to know him throughout the time we have spent apart but not away, that I have come to realize that my feelings have grown stronger. Regardless of our official relationship status, my feelings have become to reflect how I perceive his character.

However, my hopes were in vain, and he indeed did evade me. He is just another big fish that got away. So here I stand, friend-zoned.

In my past, I’ve dated plenty, and each one has always had a different way to deal with break-ups and rejections. Most common: loathing and avoidance. I’ve never tried it, and I don’t believe I ever will; I’ve just always believed love and compassion were much more fulfilling life choices, but I tend not to experience so much of the latter. Some people live their whole lives acting as if ‘bad’ breakups are the only breakups, and I ask, why?

He got away. I’m not going to marry him. Okay? Move on. I still enjoy his company. I still believe he is a good person. Nothing has made me feel otherwise. I want the best for him, and if that’s not me, okay.

This latter mantra has revolutionized the way I live, the way I date, and the way I love. I have unlocked a capacity for Love that I never thought possible. I feel as if I’m a secret box, kept locked tight and handed to a little girl for safe-keeping, but one day, curiosity got the best of her and she opened that box, and instead of all the evils spewing out into the world, a brilliant glow emerged and Love was born.

Now, I’m not going to lie and fake that it doesn’t hurt to look into his eyes and picture the near perfect life I could have had with him, that I’ve accepted all his flaws, that I long for all his Beauty, because it does hurt. It hurts like a million tiny daggers piercing into my scalp as I try to raise my head to look him in the face. It hurts like a bolder dropped on each of my hands, preventing me from reaching out to feel the warmth of his skin. It hurts like all my vital organs falling from my body as it claims to be dead. It hurts. It hurts, but I still do Love. I am a body of Love.