Unashamed (5 page)

Rachel looked at me through the dark, waiting for anything to happen, for me to fetch the toy as she held up empty hands because she threw it and really meant it; no tricks.

But the boy who cried wolf too many times was eaten in the end because nobody came.

And that is exactly how I felt. Somehow, this thought gave me the rush of adrenaline I needed to confidently tell her that too many tricks on my people means nobody comes. In the most delicate yet stern manner, I leaned into her ear and cracked the syllables in each word. “Your roommate is
right
above us.”

My enunciation was perfect with an additional pop on the
t
when pronouncing “right.” This was very intentional to make it feel orgasmic.

Then I panicked.

My confidence diminished when she assured me the girl above us was sleeping. Fuck, I couldn’t win with her because again, she was dead serious. Was this a new game? As her chew toy for months, my first reaction was that she was crying wolf again, only in another language.

Then any doubts about her intentions clearly ended when she said, “I want you to touch me; it’s okay.” Yet I lay with her, unable to move. The torment of rushing chemistry burned my skin. She will never know how she reduced me to a pathetic mass of flesh stupefied by her forwardness. I remained motionless as she took each breath near my ear in anticipation. We fell to sleep in this position, waiting for the other to make the first move.

The flirting ended after the sleepover, as did the smoke breaks. We didn’t talk anymore, and, before the week was up, Rachel left for her first duty station. I searched for her at the bus stop where all the newly trained soldiers stood waiting to begin their journey into an exciting life of being all that they could possibly be. A recruit next to me read the name on my uniform and asked, “Hey, you’re Emma?”

“That’s me,” I replied.

“I have a message for you from Rachel; she left a half hour ago. She says goodbye and that you had your chance, whatever that means.”

My jaw dropped and my eyes widened with that universal surprised look. I didn’t know what to say or think, so I just turned and quickly headed back to the barracks as I mumbled to myself.

“What a twat! Are you kidding?”

It was the final “ta-da!” for Rachel to send me such a message after the behavior she demonstrated over the months. The salt in the cut of the finger, if you will, the wind-resistant candle on the fucking cake. It shouldn’t have felt like such a shock for her to tease me beyond the last moments of her stay. You just know she was on the bus smirking at her vixen reflection as she shifted in her seat. My immediate reaction was to tell the lesbian the final dig of the she-devil. Her last comforting quote to me was, “That’s fucked up, but you’re not even gay so don’t worry about it.”

Rachel never became my third heartbreak. She did, however, earn her medal of “Best in Show” for her dog-like behavior, a crowd favorite in the final lineup. She was the most agile, quick witted, cunning, beautiful bitch I ever saw. If anything, the Pavlov dogs and I go way back because of Rachel. She had me conditioned to salivate at the wink of her eye. She was
my
bell to stimulate arousal rather than hunger. My body reacted in the same fashion every time she looked at me. Unlike the Pavlov dogs, I didn’t get my treat after each ring. When she rang, I became hungry for her and she neglected me. This is cruelty at its finest. I’m turning her in. The ASPCA should get my letter with her name on it in seven to ten days.

Chapter 4

Poetically speaking, the rainbow colors on my heart faded as military bearing played a role in the person I was becoming. From the bubble thong incident to Rachel, my identity became more defined, but my responsibility was to perform my duties over any struggle with sexual orientation.

At eighteen I had to portray myself as a respectable soldier, but, let’s be honest, deep down I was a lost Midwestern girl and on my own for the first time in Arizona after my job training. There was a false sense of liberation being so far away from home. Sure, there was money in my savings account and a new car, but my interest was in doing what I wanted, when I wanted,
if
I wanted. It was all about me.

The whole gay thing flew out the window for a time when the discovery of legal drinking for under twenty-one was allowed on post. My mission in life was to dance until my heart exploded every weekend. Club Ozone was a utopia considering the only bar I had known was a shack surrounded by cornfields, downwind from a pig farm. The Ozone was newly built and frequented by single soldiers and new recruits still learning their future military occupations. It was like controlled spring break every weekend. There was drinking and dancing and sex and barfing until the hangovers came every Sunday.

Young soldiers knew the drill, as did the seasoned ones, who had to endure the aftermath of alcohol coming out of their pores on Monday morning runs. Hell, they did it too back when their livers could withstand the abuse. It’s part of an unwritten initiation process of a buck private.

In my early days of partying, I never let myself get intoxicated to the point of wearing it as a perfume the next morning. It was, however, my excuse to sleep around. Women were not a part of my promiscuity, but a few close friends knew that I was
that way
.

Annica, my roommate at my first duty station, was one of the first military friends I came out to. She was open and very frank; of course, it could have been how fast she spoke. By the time she knew what she was saying, it was already eight paragraphs later. She was a hyper girl with glasses and had a slight stutter to make it worse. We used to joke that I was the only one who understood what the hell she was actually saying other than her mama and God. She was bold, too. It was typical during a tirade about cooking meat properly to suddenly hear some unexpected shit that made your head spin.

“Blah blah, check it for blood, blah blah temperature should be blah blah, barbeque sauce blah blah, like a dick on your face blah blah, if you are into incest and that sort of thing.”

What? Wait. What the fuck?

“I’m just saying the f-fuckin’ place up the street didn’t cook my steak right, and it’ll be a cold d-day in hell when the cows jump over the fuckin’ moon before I go b-back there again.”

During one of her infamous rants she blurted, “You like girls, don’t you?” in such a matter-of-fact way that arguing or hiding the fact was pointless. The shocking boldness of it required the truth. Her evidence to the claim was that many of the images of singer Tori Amos I hung that were most provocative and that straight girls typically did not paint sexy figures of women and hang them.

Annica pushed the bridge of her glasses to the back of her face. “My friend came over here yesterday and thought I had a male roommate. He said that he t-thought the photos of you were my roommate’s girlfriend. I just told him you liked Tori Amos when he asked if you were gay. I don’t want to t-throw your business out there…I got you, girl.”

Rather than take a breath after the sputter of words, Annica took a drag from her cigarette. She was a chain smoker, the kind that smack the alarm and knock the damn thing over trying to feel for her pack and lighter. Observing this every Hangover Sunday was my morning ritual. She would open her eyes only after the cigarette was placed in her mouth and she needed to light it. She never sat up until it was down to the filter and burning her fingers. Then maybe she would adorn herself with glasses so she could see.

After she protected my secret, all that could be said was, “Thanks,” while analyzing my clothes, posters, and displayed pictures. What about those things gave the impression I was a man or gay, for that matter? There had to be other girls who owned photos of themselves and friends randomly pinned to cheap message corkboards, other girls who liked female singers and taped them to their walls and lockers. I had a photo of Angel and me in our Secret Garden costumes making silly faces, my arm around her shoulder. But how was that gay?

When Annie was at work, I removed the gay posters and my drawing of a female silhouette embedded within a pair of red lips. It was terrible anyway. I peeled a magazine page that read, “Men are from Mars, Women are from Mars. Any questions?” off the wall above my desk. Was that gay?

My hand brushed the dust from the frame with Angel, and I immortalized in that happy moment before gently placing it in the desk drawer, face down. Next was de-gaying the cut photos on the corkboard that were taped and push pinned to fit.

After scanning each picture, replaying the moment it was taken in my head, I began to see with new eyes. Each photo was of me with friends—female friends. They wore makeup, had long hair, and were usually giving me a kiss on the cheek. There was the occasional boob grab accompanied by a ghetto fabulous pose and/or someone giving the universal sign for lesbian with the tongue between two fingers. This was the kind of immature thing any girl of eighteen does when they have a girl’s night out. How does this normal act make me appear gay?

I stood and analyzed the photos for quite some time, before peering over to the drawer that wasn’t quite closed. The back of the frame to the overturned photo haunted me. I could almost hear a voice coming from the darkness, which repeated, “Lesbian” over and over and over.

Looking deeper, the tomboy with little makeup and short hair was me. There was an uncut centrally placed photo that dominated the board. In it, I was seated on my plaid chair, leaning forward wide legged, with my elbows on my knees and a bottle of some alcoholic beverage dangling in my fingers. No posing, just me in my favorite chair waiting for my friend Lynn to get ready for the club.

She was the friend in the photos always pretending to lick her fingers and touch her nipples, the one doing the infamous tongue through the peace sign at the camera. She was the one who snapped the photo of me and Annica after she told us to do the same. Lynn was the one who told me how good I looked in that central picture; I counteracted the compliment by saying it must be the chair. Is that gay?

I was wearing a brown button-down shirt with a pair of jeans and my 1930s newsboy hat, smartly purchased at the thrift store. Bringing back old styles was trendy. My makeup was overdone with dark colors, lipstick, and glitter, via suggestion from Lynn. A cross necklace dangled from my neck. My smile was big and happy. This photo of me was perfect. It just looked like me, very comfortable, and that’s why it was celebrated in the middle. With my new eyes there was an unfeminine tomboy beneath the makeup, sitting in that chair. This was very different from Lynn, who had long, curly hair and never went a day without lipstick or jewelry. My look was boyish even under the face paint—or was it dyke-ish?

I began to question the presentation of myself. Did I want people to notice subconsciously, or was there serious ignorance to how I portrayed myself? The query hit deep just like the pushpins used to poke through each of my red eyes. This anonymous friend who judged me didn’t know me but saw all too well.

Annica understood where my comfort level was with regard to my sexuality, having pieced it together over months. She accepted and never judged me even when I slept with a different guy every weekend. On several occasions she consoled me as I wept about hating myself. She smoked through her counsel, which made me feel as if my actions were a normal part of finding myself. She made it okay to feel confused and understood my struggle. It was always Hangover Sundays, after she had put out her morning smoke and picked up the alarm clock from the floor, when I needed the pep talk from her. My tears would be fresh, hot, and somewhat cut with alcohol as I sat on the edge of my bed ashamed “I did it again, Annie.”

She never gave me the privilege of a morning greeting when Sunday confessions warranted consultation. She skipped that unnecessary pleasantry to “tsk me.” The only time Annica didn’t blurt out something without taking a breath was when she hummed “mmm hmmm” in agreement with my Sunday declaration of guilt. It was usually accompanied with a shake of her head and a puckered mouth. This particular Sunday was no different.

“Why do I do this to myself, Annie? I don’t even like doing it. I’m such a slut.” Snot fell from my nose and began to dribble on my upper lip before I wiped it with my sheets to reiterate another empty proclamation against being the barracks ho. “Next weekend, Annie, I’m not bringing anyone home. Fuck that. I’m going to go out and have a good time with you and the girls, and I’m coming back alone. And if you see me getting crazy and trying to do the dirty with some asshole, you stop me, okay, Annie?” She tsked me before we agreed on a pact that would secure my new attitude against men, which got me excited about going out again. That was usually the reason to consider it at all.

So after coming home and frantically pulling my boots off, I’d begin my ritual in preparation for the infamous girl’s night out. I’d eat a little something, clean my room, shit, shower, shave, and lay out clothes for the club; that was my routine. The music played loud as we painted our faces, traded jewelry, and shaped our hair to look just right.

As we walked down the hall, all of the other horny young soldiers doing the same thing made the atmosphere comfortable. Each inhale in the hall was the scent of starch from the guys pressing their shirts, aftershave that was overused, women’s watermelon body spritz, and burning hair spray. The doors were usually left ajar, so walking by each room was like changing the station on your radio. A different song spilled loudly from behind the wooden doors, making it a tragic situation for the soldier who just wanted to catch up on sleep.

The building was alive and pulsating until nine thirty when everyone gathered into their groups of five or more and headed out with one poor sap as the designated driver. Then it was as if there was an outbreak of scabies and an evacuation had taken place. Every swinging dick was off the premises miles from militant control. Stillness befell the hallway, broken by that one random song from the person who hadn’t made plans in time and was left to sulk in their room. The lingering stench of weekend party preparations hung low and melted into one unidentifiable yet strangely familiar smell. This was life, every weekend for the first year of my military career.

The Ozone was huge and clean and full of new recruits to choose from. It was really up to me to decide who I wanted because they were all pawns. Every guy, whether interested or not, was very willing to sleep with me. Each one bought drinks and left me alone if I told them to because they were trained that “No means no” by the military’s zero tolerance for sexual harassment rules. The club was at my control. I called the shots and manipulated the pawns in my favor. There was serious humor in buddies cock-blocking each other to gain my attention. But they stuck together like true soldiers should.

There was always a wingman to whisk away any girlfriend warning me of evil intentions. There was also that damn non-discriminating friend who didn’t care that Lynn was slightly pudgy; he would nail her anyway. Annica had her share of wingmen make-out sessions from trying to convince me that I was worth more than taking an asshole home. Lynn indulged in her share of non-discriminating-friend fucks in the back rocks behind the club. She liked to show me the embedded stones in her knees to prove it. We all got what we wanted and the guys did too—everyone seemed happy.

Other than the trickery of women versus men and vice versa, it really was up to me to say no; I just didn’t. Annica saved me from myself a few times, but I was stubborn and told her to kick rocks, too. It was two steps forward and one step back. You can’t win them all.

One Sunday after the tears and the smoking session, Annica told me that her friend Steven was coming over. He was the fucker who labeled me gay. She swore up and down that he was cool and it was a perfect time to meet him because she was sure that we would get along. To my dismay, an hour later he knocked at our door, and, after a brief introduction, I excused myself before he had a chance to sit down. I wasn’t interested in meeting the likes of him, even if Annica approved. I did, however, take note of his thick glasses and very pudgy physique in the brief minute of introductions. This only pissed me off more as I rushed down the hallway to leave because by all appearances, the guy who judged me was a nerdy fat ass. Those who live in glass houses… well, you know the rest.

After I left, Annica told me that Steven barely waited for the door to shut before he labeled me once again. “Did you see that paperboy hat she was wearing? She is a lesbian with a capital L.” But as she explained, he is harmless and invited him to come over again and again. What can I say, she was absolutely right. I did befriend him in the days after our first encounter, and by the weekend I knew he was the queen of denial.

He tried very hard to act straight around me and other soldiers, but the awkwardness behind it actually made it more obvious. I felt he needed to expel this demon, so as an obligation to help him come out of the closet, I boldly asked his sexual orientation in true Annica fashion. “Steven, you’re gay, aren’t you?”