For Sherri: 5 of 6

Sherri’s Confession

 

What surprises me most about my life now is…

How happy I am. Really, more than not. Well, mostly.

They say it’s youthful folly, all that unlimited potential you’re certain to do great things, whatever they are. You’re so bright, so talented, so great, so special. Whoever can’t see that is a fool.

And you believe them. And you go on believing in the face of reality scary competition. People who don’t see you, don’t care, don’t want to care.

I spend three years vagabonding around Europe, then came back to the U.S. Finished my degree, went to work in television in Terre Haute, Indiana, where I fell on my face, where I didn’t fit in. Came running back to weird, safe San Francisco.

I did some work I hated, did some art, got into debt, wasted time. Felt angry, unloved, alone. Lonely.

And I had the handsome prince despite my feminist convictions rescue me after all. Nathaniel, my gentle, sweet, brilliant, oddball absent-minded professor.

        He grounded me, helped with money, gave me a home and a beautiful child. We have a pretty house on the hill overlooking Point Reyes and the Farallons. I am needed. I am loved.

        But I feel creatively stymied.  I chose, and paid a price, We all have to do that in this life. My choice was a good one, overall.

But I mourn for what I never have, will never be. I mourn for the creative work I find so hard to do, the places I will never see, the talents I lack.

My most obsessive thought is that time is running out. That, being mortal, I wont get to do what I want with the rest of my life. There are too many things I haven’t experienced, or seen or done.

And no matter what I do, there still won’t be enough time. I have enough dreams and places and goals and wishes to last several life times. No matter what, when I die, some goals won’t be accomplished.

When I die, I won’t be (especially) afraid. Death itself is natural, something that every living thing experiences, I’m not going to be afraid- more pissed off, regretful of anything I didn’t get to do.

Yeah, this is the human condition. I know that. That doesn’t mean I like it, or accept it.

As I tell everybody all I want in life is a gorgeous slim body, Stephen Sondheim’s talent, next week’s lotto numbers, and a date with Hugh Jackman.

        Instead, I settle for the fat body I’ve got, my own meager talents and finances, and genuine love from a good, true husband and daughter.

Can I do more with the life I have left? Will I find the strength to be creative?

This is my hope, my sorrow, my fear.

For Sherri: 4 of 6

Turning Point

 

My first love was someone who turned out to be bad for me. It lasted for years longer than it should have.

        Telling Kevin goodbye. No, not telling. Honest talk about our feelings was never our strong suit.

        Showing him goodbye. Walking away. That’s more accurate.

        I’d loved Kevin from the moment I met him, in our basic economics class at UCSC. I looked across the table of students and their notebooks and I saw him. He was sixteen and had beautiful russet brown hair, brown eyes, tall and pretty.

        We found a companionship there: I was the first woman he’d slept with. He was the first person I’d ever fallen in love with.

        And that love I’d felt for him lasted for years, long after we’d stopped having sex. Long after he’d come out as gay and I’d come out as bisexual.

We had years apart, and then we met and had years together.

        It started to sour when he went to law school and I’d resumed my studies at UC Berkeley after a few years of international travel.

I think that’s what did it. Mamas don’t let you babies grow up to be lawyers. (I know because I considered being one, once.) In law school, they teach you how to think. How to negotiate. How to maximize your chances of winning. It is the opposite of conciliatory give and take, compromise, and gentleness that a friendship needs.

        He loved me, but he was gay. I was bisexual and didn’t understand the key difference. He would confuse me… clearly, he was attracted to me. He said he loved me. We even thought about marrying someway.

        Then, Kevin met Tom. They fell in love. Tom was a genuinely fine man, bright and sensitive. There was no way I could ethically object to this relationship. And, the part of me that truly wished my friend well, was happy for him.

        But that left me in limbo. In love with someone who couldn’t give what I needed. I would date other people of both genders, and no would measure up.

        At that point, I don’t even think it was Kevin himself whom I loved. I had never really gotten over that first, blind passion. By the time we were older, I knew that my feelings weren’t based on reality. I’d created a pretty suit of clothes in my mind, and I put him in it, whether he fit or not.

        Not that was it was entirely my doing. Kevil would still act very sexual toward me, very much like he was still attracted to me. Often, while in conversations, I’d turn my head to find him staring at me. Usually at my breasts.

        The few times I called him on it, he denied it. Of course he told me I was imagining things. He was in love with Tom, didn’t I know that?

        I felt confused. I felt I was being gaslighted. I felt lonely, and alone.

The final straw came when my gynecologist discovered some irregularities in my pap smear. She sent me in for further tests, but she told me that cancer was a real possibility.

I called Kevin at work to tell him. He was away but he promised to call me back.

I didn’t hear from him for days. I had other friends who cared, who were there for me. He was gone – the news was unpleasant, scary, and he was too important to be there for me.

I left him behind after that. Too much disappointment.

It has been years since I’ve seen Kevin, but I still think about him every day.

 

For Sherri: 3 of 6

Tiffany

 

        I met my nightmare a few years ago. Who I could have been if the fates had been more cruel.

I used to model for art classes. A friend of mine got me started. She showed me Rodin’s sculpture portrait of Balzac. There he stood, huge potbelly, bearded, prominent penis! Proud, ‘look at me! I’m fat, I’m old, my complexion sucks, I’m a genius, I get laid all the time. I’m alpha.’

        If he could do it, I could do it. I found I like the honesty and the power of being the center of attention. It brought in a little money, too which at the time was welcome.

        Anyway, so, there at the studio I met Tiffany. She was sitting next to some guy (she said they were friends.) Silent, I forgot his name. Fatter than I was, wearing a loose flowing striped shirt, red-cheeked and laughing. She reminded me of the fat lady in the circus, there to be gawked at and exhibited.

        We talked. Rather, I sat next to her and she talked. About how she made a living modeling and “doing other things.”

        She asked me if I wanted work. She told me about the house parties she worked at. All big women and the men paying clients for our company, there was a hot tub and lots of bedrooms and very safe, no worries about violence.

        I asked “well, do I have to fuck them?” And she said “no, no one is forced to do anything. But, yeah, that was the general idea.” I told her I’d think about it. She gave me her number.

        The next time Tiffany entered my life was a few months later. My boyfriend and I rented a porn film; “Behind the Green Door II.” There she was, getting laid by four guys at once.

        Her best friend, I forgot his name, was in the film too. In the last scene, we find out THAT HE HAS A VAGINA! Surprise!

        My boyfriend and I broke up shortly after that. I guess that watching a porn film was okay; knowing the actors was not.