I was never straight. But I was never gay, either. Both of those finite declarations of sexuality silenced me. For years, I choked down my own developing lust because it couldn’t decide if it wanted pretty or handsome. The little lady of my loins needed to make up her mind (and fast) because my nipples were no longer sitting dejected on my flat chest. They were downright jovial on these mounds that I could not contain in my training bra anymore, but I was not going to tell my mom that I needed an actual, grown-up bra now. No indeed. Not after she threw a party for my first period during which she served a cake shaped like a vagina, complete with sprinkles for pubes.
Besides there were more urgent matters at hand - like trying to figure out why my classmates were suddenly feeling the urge to play tonsil hockey all throughout the hallways at school. And why was the staff always so eager to give me demerits for my untucked shirt or wearing my hoodie on my head, but they ignored all these barbaric public displays of affection?
You know, I spent most nights during 8th grade looking at the same two issues of Playboy and Playgirl to see which one I liked more. But 9th grade brought me Clementine - the most offbeat character I’d ever met, the most bewitching lady I’d ever love, and the one who helped me learn that I didn’t have to choose.
Copyright 2019 Tommie Jean Loftin