Delilah – more from “…flirting with girls”

Here’s the next excerpt from Sometimes I think I’m flirting with girls:

This one was about Delilah and would have been a bit of a retrospective. She was from my grade school/middle school years. I think she had a significant influence over the development of my sexuality. I don’t mean my sexual orientation, but my sexuality. (More on this idea later.) Here it is as originally written:

Delilah. There’s so much to tell about Delilah and I. For two years she was absolutely everything to me. She was my best friend and we had a good friendship. We shared everything and talked about anything and did lots of things together. Everyone knew we were best friends. We were constantly joking about sexual things together. Most of the time she was joking with me and I joked that it was turning me on. Often times I talked to her about it but she either didn’t understand or ignored it. I never knew. We had serious touching like hugs in the morning and hair touching and I often rubbed her back. These things were nice and made me feel good. But it was the sexual jokes that excited me. I looked forward to them and they happened all the time. Sometimes they were verbal or expressions. Sometimes they were touching. Most of the time they were made obviously a joke and other times they weren’t acknowledged. In art class I remember almost every time we were cleaning up I made sure I went to the sink before her. She would then come up from behind (a very weak side of me) and put an arm on either side and stand against me to wash her hands. Sometimes she’d even blow in my ear or make fake moaning sounds. My reaction, like my usual reaction to her joking, was an embarrassment for her behaviours and a squirming or I’d say, “Oh Delilah, will you stop it!” But I waited for these times. I loved it.

One time she made an entire sandwich with me pressed against the counter like that. At the same time I thought the sandwich would never be done, I didn’t want it to. We used to wrestle a lot too. She always won. I don’t know if I could have beat her because I never really tried. After a small struggle she would have me down on my back and she would sit on me and hold my hands above my head. This was winning. She’d hold me there for a long time while I was supposedly trying to escape. This was a major turn on for me.

One time she hand-cuffed me to my bed. I couldn’t believe it! She just tickled me to death. Often times when we were sitting in silence she would throw herself back and say, “Take me, I’m yours. Do what you want to me.” I always felt a lot when she said this but never said anything unless I was joking back.

Joking one time we decided to make a contract up about that. I wrote it neatly with a calligraphy pen. It said, “I hereby promise to allow <my name inserted here> to do anything she wants to me.” Then she signed it and it has been a reference for joking ever since and I used to read it over and over.

There is a section here that I will re-tell in greater detail later.

Three specific times I almost lost control of myself. Once I was playing a card game with her and her mother and she was sticking her bare foot up and down my pant-leg. Another time she pulled me off the floor and held our waists together and ran her hands up and down my thighs a few times. Another time I really lost it was in a movie theater. We were with a huge group of friends and the movie the others wanted to see was horribly boring. Well, Delilah started blowing in my ear and touching my neck and asking if it was turning me on. I kept trying to get away from her by leaning way over to the other side and ignoring her but then she’d just lean over too and get louder. That was really embarrassing because the people around us were noticing. I’d whisper that to her and she’d just laugh. She didn’t care. She’d just pull me back over to her side and continue teasing me.

As I read this now and write it down here I can’t help but wonder how I continued to take full responsibility for the “real” sexual energy between us! Clearly she was a participant. Well, not only a participant – but really the instigator! Because she was so “boy-crazy” I guess I continued to blame myself.

Sigh. Those sure were good times though…

The Green Sweater

The Green Sweater was my favorite. I suppose it was the color, the material (something really soft) and the way it clung to her breasts. She just glowed in it – like life itself. She already had the most beautiful eyes I had ever looked into. Something about them held wisdom and playfulness at the same time. This sweater only intensified them.

Sometimes I was lucky enough to watch her get ready for school in the morning. Sometimes she came to pick me up for school. Either way, there was always a moment just before seeing her where I held my breath waiting to see what she was going to be wearing that day. Not that I really paid that much attention to clothes. I’ve definitely never been into fashion. But certain colors, materials, and shapes help bring people’s beauty out. Maybe they feel more comfortable in some things and so they are more of their authentic selves. Maybe they just feel sexier. This sweater was like that. Maybe it was her choice of bra. This is something I barely know anything about. My partner wears “sweater bras” and that seems to do something I like, so who knows. Anyway, I’d see that sweater and think, “It’s gong to be a really hard day.” You might be thinking, “Why hard? I thought you liked the sweater!” Yes, I loved it. I wanted her in that sweater.

Now, when I say “wanted” it’s kind of funny. I know what that means to me now, but what did it mean to me then? I honestly did not know. I really didn’t. That’s what I find so fascinating about it! No explicit sexual fantasy filled my head about her when she was wearing The Green Sweater. I just couldn’t wait to touch her and my body was on fire all day, all the time, just thinking about the possibility. I just craved being entwined with her in such a big way – I just burned inside. I pictured it over and over in my head just to get that rush.

I can remember climbing the stairs to her room barely able to walk. I would be trying to talk in a normal voice, I would be trying to keep my ears from turning red, and I would be trying to keep from moaning out loud. Each step was harder and harder as I followed her up what seemed like an impossible flight of stairs. I remember getting quiet. Sometimes she would poke at me to try to get me to laugh. Sometimes she would get angry thinking that I was cutting her off. Sometimes she would just get annoyed with me.

We were heading to her room to “study”. I would pray equally for two things: please push me away so I don’t have to feel this exquisite and excruciating pain; AND please stay connected to me so that when we get inside that room, you will close the door and hug me.

And then the hug would come.

She smelled like flowers and felt like a perfect pillow – soft but not too soft. She was taller than I so my face pretty much sunk into her chest. I just wanted to melt into her. I tried to just melt away. I was always sure she could feel me tremble. The neurons would be firing off in every direction and I would go weak in the knees. Then the blood would rise all the way up my body until my eyes started to burn, go blurry, and then – I would start to cry. What else could I do? Come right then and there? Maybe – that would have at least made more sense to me!

But, no, I just wondered what the hell was wrong with me. How could it hurt me so much and yet I continued to want to do it over and over again?

After I don’t know how long, we would somehow let go of one another. I’m sure I was extremely careful to be the first one to let go or at least act like it the very second she started to. Then, we would go on with our homework. Often we would try to “process my feelings” but I didn’t know what my problem was, so I usually just pushed her away. At that point we might even have a fight.

That night I would lay awake just hoping we would “make up” the next day and that someday – very soon – she would wear that sweater again.

Welcome to The Crushed Out Project!

I will use this place to collect my thoughts, stories, and musings about crush. This project will be about everything related to having crushes, feeling “crushed out,” and unrequited love.

What I’m most fascinated by is the time before I came out as a lesbian. I’m calling this time period my “pre-coming out” days. This was roughly between 1980 and 1989. I’m really interested in examining what was going on for me. Where did all of those feelings come from and what made them so incredibly intense? Before really getting that I was gay, I seemed to express (over and over) my devoted love to my best friends. Then I would wait in excruciating pain for them to return my love. Mostly they did not, but almost always my love was accepted. Afterwards I felt a sense of relief for not being rejected, but because the intensity was not actually returned I never felt the other kind of Relief. So, then I guess I felt crushed.

Everyone has crushes. Everyone can relate to the exquisite pain and pleasure experienced in the yearning that comes along with unrequited love. Share your stories with me. If you’ve got something from the 80s please be sure to include a relevant song. No doubt the music of that decade was made for sappy, nostalgic lovers like you and me!