Skeleton of myself (story form)

**I shared this story at the Voices Heard: First Time event on August 21, 2019**

My wife was soft in all the right places. She was beautiful, with long hair cascading down her back.

As she undressed, in the Romeo and Juliet suite, I gave her a reassuring smile, as it to convey how interested I was in her. My stomach churned, full of vinegar, and I felt the need to rush to the bathroom and relieve it, but I stood there. This was our wedding night, what we had both been waiting our entire lives for. We loved each other. We had chosen each other. This is how it was supposed to be.

We married on June 17. Six months earlier, I had found Maggie in tears, wondering if we were ever going to get married. We’d been dating off and on for six years, she said. We loved each other, she said. What was holding us back, she said. That night, I swallowed a stone and finally told her the truth. I’m gay, I said. I’m attracted to men. That was the night of my first kiss. I was 27 years old.

Maggie and I had done things the right way. We had saved ourselves for marriage, and married in the temple for time and all eternity. We knelt at the altar, wearing those bizarre white clothes and hats and green aprons, and saw our reflections in alternating mirrors, making it look as if we extended forever.

But once we were in that hotel room, there was no more hiding. I could no longer use the excuses I’d been using for years, to avoid physical contact with women. I couldn’t say I was focused on school, or that I was trying to be a good Priesthood holder, or that I didn’t want to rush things. This night, above all others, I had to man up, show myself that I could be the type of man she needed me to be, that God required me to be.

And so we undressed and kissed and touched and explored. We used our hands and mouths. Our bodies pressed into each other. We took a break to grab the bottle of lube that a friend had slipped into my pocket earlier (along with a note that said ‘trust me, you’ll need this’). I’d never been touched like this, never been naked in front of anyone like this before. And I discovered quickly that I could keep that sour pickles look off my face if I pictured attractive men in my mind.

And then, just like that, the mystery was over. A few thrusts, a wet explosion, and then a change of sheets. Sex is much messier than they ever tell you in the movies. There was blood and lube and ejaculate and fluid, and the entire process felt… sinful.

That night, Maggie fell asleep in my arms and I lay there, awake, for hours. I’d kept a lamp on, not able to bear being in the dark that night. I lay there, and I wept. I considered praying, asking God why, after all my efforts to be righteous, I still wasn’t straight. But I knew he wouldn’t answer. And so I lay there, with the woman I loved, knowing that I could never do enough to be the man she deserved. I twisted the new ring on my finger in anguish, pulled up the covers, turned out the lights, and went to sleep, my pillowcase soaked in tears.

Six years went by. I bought a home and got a dream job. After a few years, we had a baby. I taught Sunday school, paid tithing, performed baptisms. I gained and then lost 80 pounds. I had the picture-perfect life on the outside, and felt dead within, like happiness was something that was meant for other people. For me, it could only come in some mystical afterlife, where I’d be honored with happiness because of all of the years of sacrifice. Sex held no joy for me and no pleasure. I found every reason to avoid it, and got it over with as swiftly as possible when I couldn’t hide. It churned my stomach that I could see such a perfect life from the outside in, and yet it hadn’t been enough to change me.

And then everything changed. I went on a business trip and there was a man there. Doug. He smiled at me. He flirted, and I found myself flirting back. Our legs touched during a seminar and electricity shot through us. My heart quickened. He offered me a Hershey’s Kiss, and instead I asked for a real one. My real first kiss was at the age of 32. We found a quiet hallway and made out like teenagers in the back of a car. My hands found his waist, his chest, his hips. He bent my neck back and pressed me up against a wall. We pushed our bodies against each other and fumbled our way back to my hotel room. Clothes were tugged at and removed. His mouth moved across my skin, my hands clutched at his back. I lay back on the bed and he sat on top of me and I watched his eyes roll back in pleasure as he began rocking back and forth. Afterward, we lay in each other’s arms and he dozed briefly. I was at peace, my skin still electric. And then the tears came again, but for entirely different reasons this time. I realized that I felt whole. Despite the fact that I had just cheated on my wife, everything felt right. I realized that for the first time in my life, I had just orgasmed and not felt ashamed afterward. My stomach wasn’t churning. This, this felt like the Hollywood movies, with passion and hunger behind each movement. This felt right. There was no going back after this, no way I could return to my previous life, no way I could ever feel broken again.

 

Skeleton of Myself, a poem written to God

 

I reduced myself before you.

I sucked in my stomach and puffed out my chest,

Seeking to be both small and strong.

 

I lay at your feet and cried

At my own unworthiness.

 

I raised my arm to the square

And demanded you notice me.

 

I ignored your harsh words,

Convinced they were only for my good.

 

I took on a new name

And thrust my hands in the air

While I begged you to hear the words of my mouth.

 

I listened, ever so carefully,

So sure that in the silence

I would find you.

 

I walled off entire sections of me,

separating them from the rest,

forgetting that they were there.

 

I held my breath

Until I forgot how to breathe.

then turned blue from the cold.

 

I tried anger, pain, depression, apathy.

I tried being a martyr.

I gave two years. Ten. Twenty.

I placed a ring on my finger

And made promises I couldn’t possibly keep.

I contemplated death by my own hand.

 

And as the years passed,

I slowly, ever so slowly,

Withered away,

Becoming the skeleton of myself

That you expected all along.

 

And then one day,

The sun hit my skin just right,

And I realized,

With finality,

That you were there all along

For you were never there to begin with.

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