Good Girl's Aren't Gay
Prologue

Today

I can't believe I'm smitten by her. Me, a thirtyish professor of psychology at a prestigious liberal arts college—smitten—of all things, by a young counter girl just out of high school.

"May I help you, Miss?" she asked in an inviting tone. I stood silent and frozen, staring like a cougar. In her early twenties, the young counter girl looked like an angel. Almost old enough to be her mother, I felt stupid.

After the usual pleasantries, I gathered my keys and belongings, heading to my room. Reaching my room, I sighed, waiting for my lover and considering my life over the past year. We took the trip to spend some quality time away from the hustle of academia. I looked forward to sleep, hours of sleep...

and of course, hours of sex.

I've always known I'm gay, but I locked my secrets away at a young age. My parents burned the entire conservative protestant dogma into me like a brand, making it impossible for me to consider any other public option except the pretense of heterosexuality. Good Christian girls weren't gay, and given a choice between heaven or hell, I steadfastly chose heaven.

"Will you marry me?" Damn, I said yes, marrying Bernard twelve years ago in a vain attempt at normalcy.

"What the Fuck!" he yelled. The poor guy, it upset him so when I came out, but at least now we can carry on a reasonable conversation. I'm sure he knew a few screws rattled in my head, and a loony bin waited for me around the next corner. I rarely fucked him, drinking when I did.

Even after masturbating regularly for twelve years, I basked in a public denial, making my mental state a mess. I even tried believing my lies, saying I loved Bernard, but we both knew otherwise. I fooled no one. My body wanted women—my mind couldn't cope with the world knowing a lesbian existed in my body.

No kids resulted from the difficult union. I didn't own the desire for a baby after what happened to produce my only pregnancy. Losing my virginity in a very miserable manner, I feared sex with a male. The hymen breach of that male's penis resulted in a deep wound. I later miscarried the child. The rape left me paralyzed with fear, and I found myself institutionalized for six weeks. Finding Zoloft, and a few years later, vodka, I existed for years in a broken state of equilibrium.

Most refer to me as plain, with long black hair. I'm a bit taller than the average woman and keep my figure fit with daily workouts at the gym with my friend, Rachel. Fortunately, I have no weight problem and consider my legs and bum my best assets. They're pretty sexy for a frumpish professor.

I have a frightening scar running across my left wrist, covered by my watch. The scar resulted from an attempted suicide at eighteen. Yes, it was because of the aforementioned rape and loss of the baby.

My lesbian experiences before the freshmen amounted to fooling around in a few sleepovers at my best friend's house in high school. The nights with Jaime left me uncomfortably happy, and I looked forward to staying with her often. I still think back to those first few nights of exploration with fondness and a twinge of guilt.

One might think I'd accepted my queerness and the entire public identity issue. It would've saved many people much heartache. I later found out Jaime was queer like me. We're still good friends.

I guess you might have a little idea about who I am, one fucked up college professor, screwed on so many levels. This story is going to help me sort it out, but not many will care. I mean, it's not like a great opus or anything. It's certainly not going to make old Hemmingway wake from the dead. Perhaps some secretive lesbian will read it, and it may help her.

Chapter 1 »