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“I have something to tell you”
December 28, 2004
There was just no other way to begin the conversation.
Until this afternoon, I’ve kept James (my ex, who I only just now am naming) in the dark about what I half-jokingly refer to as “my secret life.”
James and I met when we were both 17, on a retreat for the “gifted and talented” organized by the school district in our home county. We were both editors of our respective high school newspapers, misfits and smart asses: a perfect match. We were together throughout college, lived together, and then woke up in January of 2003, looked at each other and said: “What are we doing? We’re 22. We’re making each other wretched and for no reason other than that we both need to grow into our individual skins.”
So we broke up and both felt lost, but lost in the throes of discovering ourselves. Over the last two years we’ve both found ourselves in a big way, and rediscovered our friendship.
We share lots of things with each other, but though I’ve shared some of my dating stories and my adventures in polyamory with James, I’ve kept certain details from him.
The reason for this is that although we’ve shared so much, there has been a sharp degree to which he has judged me in the past. For instance, as we divided our things during the break up, he tossed a dildo and harness in my direction, and said “I don’t have any use for these, you’re the perverted one.” Not the nicest thing to hear from someone you’ve loved for several years.
There have been other instances too – but recently I’ve been taking stock of these things, and putting forth the question: what is the worst that could happen if I told James? He could disapprove, but he would not stop being my friend.
I got the honesty fetish itch, and today as we drove to the city together, I told him about almost everything: the blog (though not its address), the smut, the writing, the fucking (only a little, as I sensed he didn’t want details). I left out the sex work – it just didn’t feel right at the moment. But that may come in time.
After I fessed up, he said he knew something was up when I changed my voicemail so that it didn’t say my name. He didn’t exactly seem surprised by the whole thing, and he basically let me yammer on about it all. As we sat at a light on Second Avenue, he turned to me and said, “You know there isn’t really anything you could do to make me not be your friend. As long as you are happy, in control of your life and not being exploited, I will support whatever you’re doing.”
A little misty eyed, I had to come back at him with, “What if I killed your family? Would you still be my friend then?”
Posted by Dacia at December 28, 2004 07:52 PM
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