So Many Letters in My Acronym

Louisiana isn't the most liberal place to grow up. Despite the immeasurable amount of flashing that goes on during Mardi Gras, it's a pretty conservative place as far as beliefs go. The area I live is largely Catholic and those that aren't Catholic are Baptist. I was raised going to church every time the door was open, and to the preacher's house on some occasion when the church doors were closed. If my grandmother, who I lived with, didn't feel well enough to go to church, we'd end up watching someone like Benny Hen or Adrian Rogers. She was very conservative with her thoughts on homosexuality and masturbation, and she wasn't shy about sharing her views. It was a sin, no gray area, no questions, it was just wrong. There were several days that I'd be asked if someone had touched me or if I'd touched myself or anything like that, making sure that I knew that Jesus wouldn't be happy about it. Even school wasn't devoid of religion with clubs like FCA and FISH or teachers interjecting their personal religious philosophies into lessons. It's safe to say, I had my share of religious influence.

I must say that in high school, I was like most other girls. I had posters of Lord of the Rings, Orlando Bloom and Viggo Mortensen on my wall (it was 2005), some smaller pictures I'd printed out of Guns 'n' Roses, Garth Brooks, and Jonathan Brandis (RIP). One thing that a few of these guys had in common is they all had very distinctive eyes; brilliant shades of blue. ♥ Anyway, aside from those, I had a few pictures of an actress I had been watching since I was a kid, Fairuza Balk. She shared the same trait with these guys; her eyes were unique and beautiful. I didn't think anything of it other than I was a fan of a few of her movies. One day, I had a friend over, Justin, who took one look at my room and the first thing he said was, "wow, you're going to end up gay." I was horrified. Not only was I living in a small town with a very judgmental group of cousins, but there was that voice in my head saying, "you're a sinner and being gay is wrong, Jesus doesn't like this." Mostly, I was terrified he was right. Now in high school I didn't have boyfriends — friends who were boys, yeah, but I was always "like their sister." I was friend-zoned by every guy I halfway liked and liking a girl wasn't even an option. I barely liked the girls in my class enough as to talk to them on a regular basis. I didn't date at all. It wasn't that much of a loss, to be honest; I wasn't exactly what you'd call popular and I didn't fit in with any of the cliques.

After high school, I stayed with my aunt. I have lived with her since my grandma passed when I was 12. I didn't have much of a social life; I'd go to the local rock show every now and again but that was about it. One night, I was looking around the 'net for art, mostly gothic fairy tale art, and I stumbled across some paintings that amazed me. I'd never seen anything like them. After I found a link to his MySpace I decided I wanted to express how much I enjoyed his work. Now, being somewhat of an introvert I don't reach out to people much online, but this work moved me to the point of writing to this artist. Just a simple letter letting them know I was a fan and appreciated their work. Never in a million years did I expect a return letter and I'm pretty sure I turned 50 shades of red when I read the letter. It wasn't naughty, so don't think that way; it was just surprising. The artist and I wrote several more letters back and forth and we began telling each other our stories. Seeing as I wrote to him on Myspace, there were several pictures of him up. This is where I got slightly confused. His gender was listed as male but his photos betrayed that, or what I considered would be traditionally male, anyway. He wore top hats and cravats, referred to himself as a gentleman, but he looked very effeminate. I didn't understand, and this is me at 19, not understanding what I was seeing. However, we continued to write to each other and started to become friends. In one letter he told me how he felt that he should have been born a man but he did his best to give that genuine self his own identity, if it be a new hat or waistcoat; he never wanted to let what he called his genuine self die again, it'd taken him so long to find him. I think he told me for a few reasons; one, because he wanted to be honest, and two, he wanted to know how I'd react, if I'd be like a lot of the people where I live and just completely freak out, and honestly I couldn't blame him on either count. The truth of the matter, I wasn't sure how I was supposed to feel; I already loved him before I knew what his gender situation was. It wasn't about his body, though I will say he was handsome; it was about him. It was about everything that we could talk about that no one else could understand. It was about his encouragement of my writing and not judging me for having sad thoughts. He could create worlds and let you live in them, even if only for a little while. I could have almost swore he was magic.

Now, I'd met this amazing person whom I looked up to, respected, and can honestly say, loved. He was married and polyamorous, another thing I didn't quite understand but I was willing to try to understand it. His husband had no problem with him loving other people, he knew it was just part of who he was. But what did this say about me? I mean, he was physically not male, and at this point I hadn't admitted anything to myself about who or what I was attracted to. Was I gay, or was being attracted to him like being attracted to any other man? Did it make me bi? Mostly, the question I kept asking myself was what my grandmother would have thought? After a while, I stopped caring. I had more than a crush on him, I was straight up in love. I became his friend, his sounding board in a way, someone to talk to about his girl troubles and his husband. I never thought I'd have the chance to actually meet him. I live in Louisiana and I don't have money, and he was all the way in New England. It might as well have been a million miles away. One day, he and I were hanging out, talking on our favorite chat site, and he asked me if I'd like to come visit. My jaw nearly hit the floor and I was ready to pack my bag right then. It'd be the first time I traveled anywhere by myself and I was going to meet someone I could barely believe existed.

Another month had gone by and I was on my way, a layover in Atlanta and then I landed in New England just after midnight. I was nervous, shaking really, and then I finally saw them both waiting at the baggage claim. He was wearing all black, a lace cravat, and had the most amazing smile. A few days after I got there, we were hanging out in his studio, talking while I played with his hair, and something happened; I don't remember what exactly was in my head, but I just kissed him. Not on the lips, mind you, but I kissed his head, and he turned around and kissed me back. At 20 years old, I had my first kiss. We stopped before things got too far, but it was something I could never forget. We finished my week in New England by visiting some small historic villages, old cemeteries, a surprise trip to NYC to see Broadway, and he even took me to the place he got inspiration for some of his favorite characters. The trip was like heaven to me until the day I had to say goodbye and come back home. I didn't want to leave. So many things had changed while I was there; my vampire prince had come to life and he was real.

Ten years have passed between now and then, and he's not so much the prince that was in my dreams but a real person. Raw and human and complicated. Knowing him, I have found so many sides to myself; he's taught me to look deeper and I've discovered a masculinity that I hadn't recognized before. His name is Trevor. Trevor is the me I am when my female self can't be strong. I wake up feeling like him sometimes. Because I've found this side I identify not as a bisexual girl (I hate the word woman, always have), but more as a pansexual gender-fluid individual. When I met this artist, I wasn't sure what caring for him meant, but eventually his gender identity didn't matter in the least because I loved him as a person, not for his sex.

Since we met, we've been friends and lovers and promised to each other; he's been divorced, now he's remarried to the girl of his dreams and I'm still his friend, though now it hurts more when I hear about his troubles. I always ask, "why not me?" but in the end, I wasn't the one he needed. We are family still and I wouldn't trade anything we've been through together. In truth, he'll always be the one and I'll always be the one that will always be there loving him.