BUT I DON’T LIKE YOU LIKE THAT

George Steven Powell

 

Wish 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 curse.

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.

~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!

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 John.

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 out—only 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.

~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!

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 builders—alcohol: 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, Texas—drag. 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 art.

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 accomplished—or thought I had—I 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 matter—I 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.”

~For once in my life I could be anyone I wanted—a tall, hunky, blond with a huge cock, anybody.

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