BUT I DON’T LIKE YOU
I had a dollar for every time I've heard, “But, I don’t like you
like that,” from a guy. Surely by now, at age 45, I would be rich
enough to support the lifestyle I live, but can’t afford. When it
came to sucking or fucking, I was just their type, willing and needy.
But then, what would you expect if you were born with Spina Bifida?
Never heard of it? I will spare
you the medical jargon: you grow to an adult height of 4’11”, maybe
a little taller if you are lucky and the SB isn’t as severe as mine.
My misshapen body looks as if someone has taken a rubber mallet
and pounded me on the head, thus, squashing my upper torso. I have
no bowel control whatsoever, because I have no anal sphincter; I’ve
got a urostomy, too, which is an opening in the abdomen that looks
like a cherry with a plastic pouch worn over it to collect urine.
My atrophied left leg ends in a club foot. The bright side of all
this, if there is one, is that I’m not paralyzed, I can walk on
my own, and I am sexually functional, which is a blessing and a
Having read that, you can surely
see what a kick in the head it was to discover at age 5 that I was
gay (my mother always told me I was “different,” she just didn’t
know how “different”). I honestly thought my attraction for boys
was just part of my Spina Bifida; I had never heard “normal” little
boys say anything about liking other boys. To further confuse me,
I was brought up in the Church of Christ, which my grandfather founded
when my mother’s family moved to Henderson, Texas from Paris, Texas
during the oil boom in 1930.
So the hellfire-and-brimstone
preacher in the pulpit pounding his bible as he spewed scripture
had me convinced that God had made me like this because I was a
sinner! I left that church when I was 18 and it took years to free
myself of all the guilt. For years I hated God for making me this
way and, when I wasn’t blaming Him, I was blaming my mother.
Because of all my “special needs”
I attended first grade at a private school with three other boys
(they were there only because their birthdays fell after September).
It’s amazing that this school, in a retired teacher’s house, existed
at all in our little one-horse East Texas town. At recess, the other
boys would play army and I would be their nurse, taking full advantage
of the situation by making my “wounded soldiers” take down their
pants so I could check for broken bones. I never could get them
to pull down their briefs, but I got enough of a thrill feeling
their crotches, until they pushed my probing fingers away. Guess
it scared them when their little pricks got hard from my warm touch.
the hellfire-and-brimstone preacher in the pulpit pounding his
bible as he spewed scripture had me convinced that God had made
me like this because I was a sinner!
My favorite part of the day was
after recess, when we four boys went to Mrs. Hoover’s bathroom to
wash up. Little did the kindly, blue-haired lady know what a treat
she was giving me! Of course, I could never use the toilet in front
of the others for fear they would see my cloth diaper and plastic
pants and pouch, but I got an eyeful of their pissing little peckers.
I was awed by their ability to urinate on command, the golden liquid
streaming from their penises instead of draining from a stoma into
a bag like mine. It made my body tingle all over and my little organ
hard as a rock. I suppose that experience was the first time that
I realized just how “different” I was.
I attended public school after
Mrs. Hoover’s, but I never used the school rest room the entire
eleven years. And, unable to take Phys. Ed., I missed out on watching
all my smooth-skinned, preadolescent peers undressing. I really
began to notice what I was missing in junior high, when I had my
very first sexual experience. It was the summer after the sixth
grade and I camped out in my playhouse with a cute neighborhood
boy my own age. Something told me this was the chance I had been
waiting for, so when my naive mother told me to “be careful” because
sometimes little boys liked to do “nasty” things, I knew that I
had hit pay dirt!
That’s when I put my plan into
action: I challenged John to a game of Old Maid (of course I had
marked the Old Maid card to guarantee my victory). When I lost the
first game I told John to “make me do something terrible.” He suggested
that I walk down to the abandoned pasture behind my house in the
dark, alone, which really would have been terrible! I pretended
that that was no big deal, as if I did it all the time. John looked
surprised as he tried to think of something worse. “Hey, I got it,”
I piped up. “Make me suck your dick.” “Damn, gross,” John mumbled,
yet with a curious glint in his green eyes. “Why the heck would
ya wanna do that? Only queers do that shit.” I panicked. “You’re
right, think of something else.” “Hmmm, let’s see,” John said, as
his hand slid down his lean, bare chest and concave belly. “Damn,
my dick’s hard,” he murmured with labored breath. “I wanna see it.”
I knew once John took out his prick I had it made.
Reluctantly, he unbuttoned his
denim fly and pulled his cock and balls out above the elastic waistband
of his white briefs and, boy, was I surprised! His penis was bigger
than my dad’s, wreathed with a patch of black hair. I touched it
gently, making John flinch; I caressed it, making his glazed eyes
roll back in his head. “Suck it,” He hissed through clenched teeth,
getting up on his knees. I noticed, as I gently began sucking it,
that it tasted sort of like . . . cauliflower. I wondered what would
happen if John came in my mouth ... could I get pregnant? The rest,
as they say, is history: John was happy, and I was in love with
We continued like this for the
rest of the summer, but, by the following year, John had found a
girl who was free with her favors, so I lost outonly the beginning
of many disappointments. The rest of junior high and high school
were meaningless, painful, practically sexless years, except for
occasionally running across a horny guy on the prowl when he and
his girlfriend had broken up. And it wasn’t only sex I wanted or
missed, I wanted to go steady with a guy like the girls did.
Oh, did I forget to mention, I
am a women imprisoned in a man’s body? So, I compensated by having
huge crushes on all the hunky football players. I fantasized about
going out on dates and to dances with them, giving in to their pleading
for my “perfectly formed girlish body” in the front seat of their
pickups parked on desolate, oil-topped country roads. My fantasy
world was a thousand times less painful than the real world. And
besides, being an Aries, I always got my way with my fantasy boyfriends.
three drinks, I could rip someone apart at 50 paces, reduce him
to tears! And the more I drank the meaner I became. The crowd
loved me, they really loved me!
After graduating from high school
in 1972, I had planned to attend college and major in interior design,
for which I had shown a natural talent. But I was so sick of school
that I decided to go to work as a freelance window dresser“visual
merchandising” they call it now. For my 21st birthday, my sister-in-law
took it upon herself to tell my parents that I was gay. My mother
cried and I heard my daddy said “god damn” for the first time. My
mother announced that she was going to write to the doctors at John
Sealy Hospital (now a branch of UT), where I had had all of my surgeries,
and ask them if they could “change” me. What amazed me most about
all this was that I grew up playing with Barbie dolls and going
to twirling contests; my room was every little girl’s dream: a canopy
bed, skirted dressing table, the works. Anyway, I waited for Mama
to tell me the outcome of her letter, then I finally asked her.
“He’s one too,” she said solemnly. “One what?” “What you claim you
are.” Reluctantly, she went
on to tell me that the psychiatrist had informed her that the problem
was hers, not mine.
It was now time to leave the nest.
I happened on a quaint two-room guesthouse with a swimming pool
behind it. The place had been a beauty shop, appropriately named
“The Go-Gay Salon” (where I once had my hair frosted, by the way).
My landlords, a charming couple in their early 50’s, were very open-minded,
unlike most of the bible-beaters here in the Southern Baptist Belt.
Finally, I was having a blast, a genuine social life, meeting all
sorts of men. One new friend and I became a team, using him for
bait when we went to rest areas and parks seeking sexual partners.
When we found someone we liked, he would fuck him and I would suck
him-a match made in heaven.
This new friend also introduced
me to a very special 15-year-old boy, John. Yes, another John, someone
I had been eyeing ever since he’d turned from a cute little boy
into a handsome young man. My friend brought John over one night
and we had a three-way. John’s tennis-player body was so hot! He
was willing to please, nothing bothered him, and he started dropping
by on his way home from school when he felt the “urge,” which was
often. John was the first guy that I rimmed. I had never seen a
guy’s asshole before and I was fascinated with the tiny pink orifice,
how it expanded and contracted when I swirled the tip of my tongue
across it. I saw then what an asset (excuse the pun) it was to have
one and just what I was missing!
I fell madly in love with John
#2, once again mistaking sexual gratification for love. It was during
this period that I went to my first gay bar, where I found myself
right back where I’d started, a gay world filled with gorgeous guys
and vicious queens. Most of my school classmates had grown up with
me and were used to my disability, but here, in a world where you
were ridiculed for wearing last season’s Ralph Lauren, nobody knew
me. I had to reinvent myself, I had to protect myself by becoming
wittier and sharper than those wicked, forked-tongue monsters. That’s
when I discovered the courage builder of all courage buildersalcohol:
that magical elixir, mixed with some joints and a little speed,
transformed me from a mild-mannered, sweet person into a queen bitch.
After three drinks, I could rip
someone apart at 50 paces, reduce him to tears! And the more I drank
the meaner I became. The crowd loved me, they really loved me! Over
time, it took more and more alcohol to get me to the desired state
of total bitchiness (my exits grew a lot less glamorous than my
entrances). The alcohol even gave me the courage for something I
had wanted to try ever since I saw a show in Dallas, Texasdrag.
It was the ultimate test, to see if I could triumph over those shallow
bar bitches and their prejudice about the way I looked and, by God,
I did. I was a smash! They loved me, they really loved me!
After three years of drag I had
accomplished my goal. I gave up drag, but not drink. But when drinking
began to lose its power, I learned to medicate with “things.” Every
time I got depressed, almost daily, I went out and bought another
antique or painting or knick-knack, filling my tiny place with wall-to-wall
furniture, covering every surface with more useless objects de
Did it make me any happier or
solve my problems? Of course not. It only made me feel good in the
moment, and, of course, propelled me sky-high into debt. Stress
from overwork and staying out all night drinking began to effect
my health. Still, with everything I had accomplishedor thought
I hadI hated myself more than ever. My list of sexual encounters
had reached about 30, but none of them cared anything about me,
and I was still afraid to let anyone see me naked.
Oh, a few were interested in more
than a blow job and I did have anal intercourse with two of them.
Mind you, it was in the pitch dark, I was wearing a robe, and drunk
out of my mind! By the way, one good thing about not having an anal
sphincter: no pain at penetration. I would be slurring, “Is it in,
yet,” after the guy had already ejaculated! Even if I’d shit all
over them, no matterI wouldn’t remember the next day. God
created blackouts for a reason. But all the money and all the things
in the world couldn’t buy what I really wanted: a man to love me.
Every time I got the nerve to tell my latest trick that I loved
him, I would once again hear, “I like you, a lot, but not like that.”
once in my life I could be anyone I wanteda tall, hunky,
blond with a huge cock, anybody.