Blame can be a distraction. Blame can be quiet and surface as passive aggressive. Blame is a waste of time.
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I look back at the specifics I remember from many decades ago, when I first openly fell in love with someone of the same sex. I had fallen for boys before, but kept those feelings to myself, or at least didn’t follow through. This was different. He was gay and we were adults. 45 years later and I’m still thinking about it. It, not him. A month into that friendship, he leaned over to kiss me and I froze. Later that same night, we moved to the fireproof cement stairs of our university dormitory and talked for hours. I may not accurately recall what he said, but the following morning, I awoke, smiled and embraced a personal epiphany. I could see clearly what was not important to me. I loved him, so I was all in. For whatever reason, he was no longer interested in being with someone who had no experiences. All of this leading to my blaming myself for not giving in to his kiss as the reason he didn’t want any part of it. I now believe that was not at all what he was about. It took me eons to see what I now recognize as the truth. Even if I had allowed the passion to flow, he and I would never have had some lasting romantic relationship. I’m not saying I was simply a conquest for him, but I had built up an entire lived life together and created the trajectory of how things might have been had I returned his kiss. Things would have unquestionably been different. But not in the way I reminisced for too many years. I may even have saved myself the inevitable heartbreak that often comes with the failure of a first relationship. Especially when something was as primally significant to me as coming out of the closet. As part of that generation (this was the autumn semester at college, 1978), I found myself trudging through a second adolescence, with my behavior arguably being as insipid as hormonal middle school students. Add to that, there was another man he had his eye on, but that’s a separate story. One whose details came to light years later, thanks to a nonpartisan witness. The reason I mention it is to highlight the kind of liar he turned out to be. And I being both naive and stupid. What a rich combination.
Yet here I am all these years later, looking back. At least the dwelling is now only occasional
and not accompanied by some delusional fantasy. But it does resurface with annoying strength.
He and I initially bonded over music. I was unbearably seduced by his incredible voice, as if he
was a curly haired blonde Siren singing only to me. It had gotten serious enough that we even looked at off-campus one bedroom apartments to share. Which was his idea, by the way. But I
don’t think he loved me. I was sure that the blame for our failed future was due to me, rather than on the back of a man who was a great pretender. To give him some credit, I think he started out having genuine feelings for me. Whether that lasted for days or weeks, I don’t know.
I look farther back to my high school days, before I was capable of accepting my sexual preferences. There were guys (multiple boys in fact) who came for me. Some who were out and
experienced, and others who wanted to fuck but keep things on the down low. I wasn’t prepared for either.
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My first year at NYU, before I came out, a guy asked me to dance at some school function. I even think he was straight. I got so freaked out, I not only refused to dance with him, I over reacted and became extremely defensive. Standing with us was a blonde classmate. She told him to leave me alone. I was grateful for the assist, though I didn’t like that she added, “he’s not there yet.”
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The following year, because of my feelings for the boy who tried to kiss me, I unceremoniously came out (except to my family). Whatever my behavior after years of self repression, I quickly
accepted who I was. Still, I wanted true romance and to be in love the way my parents were. Somewhat parallel to the plot of “Dirty Dancing,” my mother and father had met at a Jewish
summer camp in 1942. Dad, the poor boy working in the kitchen and Mom, a senior counselor, raised in a middle class neighborhood of Philadelphia.
The first time I had any kind of sexual experience with a man was six months after I came out,
with a very handsome green eyed stud with dark lashes and black hair, who lived across the hall.
He claimed to be straight but was perfectly happy to have me go down on him. There was no
relationship, though he did fuck me against my will a week or so later, when he came to my
apartment stoned on quaaludes. I never thought of it as being sexually assaulted since I was very
attracted to him and because it hadn’t occurred to me that a man could get raped.
I try to own current as well as past behavior. Rather than blame someone or something, I think of it as mistakes or failures, made in the name of adult growth. That includes no longer blaming myself. Separately, there are things that happen beyond our control where there is blame to be
assigned. Particularly horrors forced upon children or certain violent acts against someone of any
age. It pisses me off when people say, “they asked for it” when a woman — or anyone — dresses or behaves a certain way.
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More than half my life has passed. As dramatic as that sounds, it’s also a fact. I’d like to blame certain events on how things have gone south for me. That should also mean that I had better
give credit to occurrences and people who have gifted me the good and valuable parts of my time on Earth. It’s like looking in a mirror and only seeing what you don’t like about yourself.
Something I know I’ve done.
At this point in my life, the self imposed limits on how much I am willing to compromise have
made it relatively improbable to form a new and lasting relationship with someone, though I’d be
thrilled to be proved wrong. I do have long time friendships sustained through all my changes.
As trite sounding as a philosophical drugstore greeting card, I’d rather be alone than be surrounded by others in order not to be lonely. I have built an enviable retreat in my home, filled
with art and objects of my choosing. Though I don’t have the need to show off what I find
valuable in order to feel worthy. I may not always love myself, but I wouldn’t change who or
how I am.