Unashamed (21 page)

“Well, Doug had this book and it talks about anal orgasms and all kinds of stuff. I read it while we were there.” As she spoke she was hesitant and used a lot of broken voice inflections that were not natural in conversation.

From these reactions, the truth was exposed, but I accused and asked her anyway. “Oh my God, you let him poke you in the butt, didn’t you?”

“Well, we were doing it and, since I was reading the book, I told him I wanted to try it.”

I was flabbergasted. “You guys were doing it? How many times did you do it?”

“Twice, but once in the butt.”

“You
did?
I can’t believe you fell for getting the old butt-fuck!” A giggle fell out of my mouth.

“Shut up, Emma. I liked it and I want you to do it to me.”

“Fuck you in the butt? Whatever you want baby, I’m down. I got a two-hour shower rule when there is asshole play involved, just so you know.”

“I’m clean,” she defended.

“I’m just saying,” I clarified.

As the holidays approached, the complexities of my relationships with Doug, Patty, and Zelda overlapped, which drove me deeper into the bottle. My typical “two drinks and a water” tab was a distant memory. My average drink request became two double shots of tequila before I hit the dance floor with a Long Island iced tea in tow.

I was on the edge of alcoholism when I reported to military school the day of my ninth anniversary with Doug.

Chapter 12

The National Guard wanted me to become a computer geek, and the school where I would train was in Georgia. Housing was billets designated for those who were retraining. The building was a twenty-minute walk to the barracks for soldiers fresh from basic training. A huge football field with a track around the perimeter separated the two areas of lodging. Faintly, if you listened hard enough, you could hear soldiers repeating a cadence of the drill sergeants from the back door where I used to smoke.

The computer geek material was a little too deep for my technically retarded brain to grasp. Switches and networking is the ultimate bore, but it would pay my bills.

Although my responsibilities and obligations led me to Georgia, my priorities remained focused on the world of sexual discovery. The first thing I did when I found out we were released for weekends was locate the nearest gay bar. Determined to take advantage of freedom from the trio back home, I kept limited communication with them. My weak cell phone signal aided as the reason not to call every day.

Being alone in a new place didn’t bother me. My extroverted personality helped me make quick friends. My first weekend out, I met a lesbian soldier who drove me back to post after the club announced last call. She was nearly six feet tall with a medium build and curly jet-black hair.

My standards for accepting meaningless sex were as follows: You like? I like. Let’s poke. So, that is how we had our sexual fling in an apartment that was not hers. Days later, I waited for her to pick me up for an official date while on a phone call with a fellow student. In anticipation of her arrival, I watched her park and get out of a clunky, rusted mid-size sedan from my fourth-floor window.

“Peter, oh my God, she’s here. What the fuck is she wearing? Holy shit, I’m going on a date with the Matrix! Have you seen that movie? This bitch has a black leather jacket down to her ankles, black leather boots, black sunglasses, and her hair is slicked back into a ponytail with…holy shit, Peter, the back of her hair is gone, like the bottom three inches is shaved off! Well, not completely, it’s like an inch long under the ponytail. What a twat!”

Peter mocked and pieced random quotes together from the movie. “Are you ready for the truth Neo; the green pill or the red one?”

Loud noises cut my laughter off. “I gotta go. I can hear her clod-hopping boots stomping up the stairs.”

When Matrix knocked on my door, I tried to wipe the disappointed look from my face and open it with a genuine smile. She was respectfully greeted as I tried to think of the best way to mention her apparel. “Wow, I didn’t know where we’re going and it seems that I am underdressed.” I pointed to my graphic t-shirt and jeans.

She grabbed me in true butch form to pull me into her leather-covered arms. In an instant, the stink of cheap cologne swamped my senses. “Do not worry. This is the nicest jacket I have because I wanted to take you to a nice restaurant.”

“Oh, do I need to change?” I looked down at my outfit. “I thought this would be casual, and I didn’t bring dressy stuff here to training.”

“It is inside the mall. We can go shopping afterward.”

In my head, the four-year-old version of me threw a temper tantrum. What nice restaurant could possibly be inside a mall, and how could I act my way out of being embarrassed? The prospect of a free meal and possibly more sex made me seem gracious as I grabbed my jacket and bit my lip.

Politely, she escorted me to the car with utmost respect and made sure I was seated comfortably before she gently closed my door. She played music at the opposite ends of the spectrum to be accommodating. Other than the Queen of the Dammed wardrobe, she was doing everything right.

We pulled into the mall with bass so loud it shook the rearview mirror. If that wasn’t enough to grab common-folk interest, her stereotypical vampire attire most certainly pulled them in. To fuel the stares from other patrons, she was overwhelmingly polite. She opened every door, guided me through them, ensured I walked first, and pulled my chair out. She was the perfect respectable gentleman.

The way she carried herself was reminiscent of proper wealthy kinsmen of the 1800s, always one step ahead of her fair lady’s needs. Her control was intimidating with an undeniable sensitivity. In her long leather jacket, she seemed to glide across the mall tiles as if she was, in fact, undead. Her humanity became evident when she removed the jacket to expose a thick rainbow bracelet that tugged at the sleeve. It matched a colorful handcrafted necklace and one gaudy earring.

That is when I noticed her fingers were adorned with oversized gothic metal rings, which shimmered as she handed me an opened menu. She was irrefutably visually interesting to look at and embarrassing to be associated with. I deeply questioned whether a free steak and sex was worth all of the appalled looks.

To her credit, it was a decent restaurant; low lights, a water feature, good music playing overhead. Just as I began to relax and enjoy myself, things took a twisted turn when she suddenly divulged that she moonlit as a dominatrix for two faithful customers. This may or may not be winning first date conversation, but she used big words so the impression I got was that of an intelligent, independent, albeit slightly socially inept woman. Matrix was definitely unique. There were a million questions to ask, but she was very patient. The first one, of course, was about sex. “No, I do not have sex with them. They are into humiliation. I verbally disrespect them, make them lick my boots, and step on their testicles. The usual.”

“I did that to a guy at the strip club! He paid me forty bucks for six minutes. It’s nuts. Ha! Get it?” I laughed, but she smiled graciously.

“Yes, it is crazy. I think you would make a fantastic dominatrix. I can see you doing very well within the subculture.”

“I don’t think I could do it for a living. I mean, I dated this girl once and really laced into her. She said her jaw was tight for two days. But that was because I loved her. I couldn’t do that with anyone I didn’t love, respect, and trust. I mean, I swear to you that she had an emotional orgasm if that makes any sense. She cried a deep, pleasurable, transcending cry, you know? I’ve never heard anything like that before.”

“Perfect sense. That is what I do. Sadomasochism is not solely about physical pain. I knew you were a ‘Dom’ when I met you. You are a strong woman.” Matrix smiled.

I must admit, the conversation boosted my self-confidence and got me thinking about the possibilities of opening many sexual doors. No wonder men paid her to break them down. She somehow allowed them to rebuild themselves in a different kind of way. This is the power of the dominatrix, not the leather. Lesson learned.

As eye-opening as our discussion was, I simply forgot about Matrix by the time the weekend arrived. In fact, I had no plans to ever speak to her again. Although interesting, she was a little too… Matrix for my taste.

Charlene and I met on karaoke night at the gay bar, which was more my style. She was an older lesbian who was probably a hot mullet-wearing dyke in the eighties. But as she sat at the bar enjoying a drink and listening to people sing, she initially seemed worn down. Life had happened to her, and from the looks of things, it had not been kind. Strangely, when she turned in the light of the bar, her face morphed between tired hag and sexy older lady. Similar to those cars with opal exterior paint—one minute they are blue, the next green. To be perfectly honest, no one could tell if she was pretty or ugly. At the end of the evening, my conclusion was undetermined.

Either way, her personality was vivacious and warm. She was an upbeat woman, unafraid to shake her ass on the dance floor. We became beer friends because Charlene was freaking awesome. We slept together because we were freaking drunk.

Charlene rented a room from another older conservative lesbian who frequently entertained her very young girlfriend from time to time. The younger girl was also a soldier on the same installation, so the four of us soon started hanging out.

My twenty-eighth birthday was around the corner. We were making plans for a huge gay party, until I got arrested for stealing. Only the Lord himself knows what possessed me to take that pendant with eighty dollars in my pocket, but I thought four years of financial struggle in Las Vegas was to blame.

Part of the required procedure for prosecuting soldiers charged with theft is mandatory counseling. During my first session the psychiatrist told me it was a mid-life crisis after asking my age. He claimed he was writing a book about it.

“Are you also dating women?” he asked frankly with a pen in his hand, ready to write my answer down.

“Excuse me?”

He looked to me to explain with a crooked smile. “The demographic for my book is women between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five. They seem to go through a mid-life crisis between these ages and do things they wouldn’t normally do. Like sleep with other women. You are married, right? And are you sleeping with women?” His hand and pen went back to the paper in preparation.

“I’m open. Listen, what does this have to do with determining my mental stability and punishment? Am I getting kicked out of school or not?”

He diverted. “Would you answer some questions for me? For the book, of course.”

I answered three or four questions before the pervert-meter reached maximum capacity and I refused further queries into my sex life. His evaluation rendered a demotion one week before my upcoming promotion. I received extra duty and was restricted to my room in the barracks on my birthday.

It was embarrassing to tell Douglas and Patty later that evening. They offered words of encouragement and tough love to get my shit together. My arrest was briefly mentioned to Zelda, but she couldn’t have cared less; she was too excited to tell me how much money she won at the tables. She made arrangements to fly to Georgia for a visit and promised she would make up for my missing birthday party.

Ironically, Matrix called the day of my birthday to wish me a happy one, which was nice of her and much appreciated, but it made me very uncomfortable. “How did you know it was my birthday?” I questioned.

“You told me when we spoke of horoscopes.”

“You remembered that?” Admittedly, I was impressed, but not enough to involve myself with her again.

“So, you got into trouble? Well, how about this, I will stop by and we will have a little mini party in the dayroom. I will bring the cake. It’s not a problem at all.”

God bless her beautiful face, she drove to the barracks within an hour, complete with a meal from Arby’s, a card, birthday cake, and candles. It was sweet, but a bit peculiar to share my special day with her and strangers in a community room. Every passerby was staring at the light from the candles in the top bun of the burger—not in the cake—and Matrix in her faux jacket and half-shaved head. We must have been quite a spectacle. She did not stay long, but, when she left, I watched her drive away from the window in my room. As my nose pressed against the cold glass, my breath fogged the pane. “You are nice, but, please, don’t call again. Fucking weirdo.”

Although my infatuation with Zelda dominated most of my thoughts, there was interest in a young student from my class. She was nerdy, blonde, butch, and fresh out of basic training. Peter teased relentlessly, calling her a “baby dyke,” and poked fun of my reaction to her as she walked into the classroom. My advances were ill-spent. She was clueless to my attraction. When finally released from restriction, I bluntly asked little Private Marche to go to the bowling alley with me. She accepted my offer as her face flushed and she nervously pushed up her glasses.

Most of the students frequented the bowling alley because drinking was legal for eighteen and up. Marche was a month from her twenty-first birthday. Inside the alley, in a separate room, was a bar complete with pool tables, a back patio, and volleyball pit. We shared a wonderful evening, even though one of her scandalous friends begged me to fuck her behind a fence surrounding the volleyball court.

After last call, Marche and I stumbled back to our barracks completely drunk. We stopped midway behind a dark building so she could release the fluid in her bladder. She was youthful, full of energy, and seemingly carefree, but she was a bit of a wallflower; socially reserved, if you will, until you made her comfortable. Part of my drunken conversation on our long walk was about my attraction to women who were confident and bold. She listened intently as we staggered home.

As our night came to an end, our paths, quite literally, divided. We found ourselves standing under an intensely lit streetlamp that seemed to be the brightest one on the road. It lit the intersection of a four-way stop where we said our goodbyes. This was where we prepared to split directions to our designated barracks. I headed left; she turned right. However, just as my first step hit the road, she grabbed my arm, spun me around, and kissed me for all to see. Right there on a well-lit corner of a military installation.

She backed away with the biggest smile. “Text me. I have to run, seriously. Text me!” She ran toward the football field a little faster than normal because she knew I was watching.

Once comfortably tucked into bed, we began our onslaught of text messages. She explained how she cut her leg jumping through the window of her room in an effort to elude the drill sergeants. Completely charmed, I found myself giggling out loud in the dark.