The Crush as Separate

Someone recently suggested to me that one thing that might be so compelling about crush is that it is, by definition, separate. Having crushed out feelings allows me to have all the positive feelings about someone – admiration, idealization, lust – without any fear of merging. I am clearly separate. (See post about yearning.) I can stay with my feelings without getting wrapped up in the other person’s feelings. Sure, I fantasize about their feelings. I try to imagine what they are thinking, what they are feeling, but that’s just it – I’m able to have all kinds of imaginings not really based on reality. As a matter of fact, it’s true that once the confession (in high school) occurred and their response was real – I tended to move along to the next. Hmm… is there something in that? Is that laying the groundwork for serial monogamy?

In Bed With Meckenzie

I just found a jewel. It’s a notebook I kept in high school my senior year. I’m sure I referred to it as my “gay notebook”. It has all kinds of fliers for events, articles, and stories I wrote. I can’t wait another minute to add this one to the blog. Much of this story is true. I did end up in bed with Meckenzie, giving her one of my famous massages. Her back was bare and I was touching skin. The rest is, well, imagined…

Driving her home from school was the one regular privileges she allowed me, although she had to know some of the others I hoped for. She had me feeling hot that day so I was conspictuously checking her out. The outfit she had on was my personal favorite, and made her even more gorgeous – if that was possible. The black shirt with the high frequency blue jacket almost covered her extremely short black skirt. As she angled her legs against the dashboard, her skirt doubled up almost to exposure, causing me to stare. She flipped the mirror down, checking her hair and face with a dissatisfied pout. Slowly, she applied a bright red lipstick from one corner of her mouth to the other. A quick glance just as she licked her lips wet made my stomach roll.

We pulled up to her house and as awlays I took my time gathering myself so I could watch her climb out of the car, revealing the back of her legs and their muscle. Then I trailed behind her feeling my usual insecurity about entering her house. As soon as we got through the door she ran off to the bathroom. This gave me a chance to take a few deep breaths. I plopped down on the floor in front of the T.V. in a ray of sun coming through the window. I took note of the scratchy rug where it had been dried by the heat. She returned and sat on the far end of the couch as she always did so that she could offer the seat next to her, which I never accepted. She picked up a Cosmopoliton and started thumbing through it as we sat in a thick silence. I just watched her read. A few times she peered over at me and smiled, knowing I’m sure, how much I wanted her but trusting me all the same.

Finally in her pleading voice – the one that makes me go weak – she asked me if I would do her a favor. I knew exactly what she meant. It’s what she always wanted and I always tired now, and my hands hurt from writing so much in English today.”

“Please? You can’t be in that bad of shape. I feel so stressed. It would feel so good.”

It’s the way she says, “Soooo gooood” that gets me. My cheeks get instantaneously red and hot and I know that if I try to fight it anymore I will only embarrass myself. A sharp pain of pleasure pierces me as I stand up. I half stagger over to her. She is carfeully positioning herself on her stomach so I can sit behind her and still reach her back. I sit down and deeply inhale her presence. It takes so much will to reach out to her that first time. My hands are trembling. I am warning myself the whole time to behave because I’m afraid I’lll just start running my hands all over her body. It’s like being afraid that you will pull a fire alarm just because it’s so compelling not to. I simply start massaging her and she responds instantly by groaning. My heart leaps. I hold my breath. She starts thanking me in the way she knows I want to hear.

“Oh God! That feels great. You are so good. Thank you for doing this. You don’t know how good that feels. Oh yes – right there. Up a little higher. Oh, yes that’s it.”

Part of me wants to tell her to shut up. I can’t take it. I can feel my temperature rising, and the quick desiring throbs from between my legs starting. I try concentrating on what I’m doing instread of what my body wants me to do. My hands find their second wind and I know I will be able to rub her as long as she wants, without getting tired.

I know her back so well. It’s the only part of her I have ever touched. The upper right shoulder balde is a sensative spot. I know she will reward me with gasping sounds if I touch her there. I usually stay away from her lower back. I know that she is tense there, but she never responds so I don’t know what she thinks of it. It’s almost like she freezes up. But this time my hands seem to follow my eyes and there I am. This time as my hands approach her waistline she clutches the cusions on the couch and holds her breath.

Abruptly, she sits up. “Enough already?” I try to ask in a not-so-disappointed voice – my hands aching as she pulls away from me.

“No. I’m just not very comfortable here today. Maybe it’s what I’m wearing. Wait here and I’m going to get out of these clothes and get into my bed and then you can come in there and finish what you’ve started.”

‘Out of her clothes’?! There was something in the way she said it too. My insides were starting to flip-flop. She got up and just smiled at me for a long second. I must have looked terrified or stunned or desperate. She let her hand slide across my shoulders and neck as she turned and walked off to her room. I was paralized. What does she mean? What is she doing? I can’t deal with this! Oh God. I’m dying. I’m dying. If she calls me in there I’m going to have to say no. It’s too risky. I want her so badly. And I don’t trust myself.

My thoughts are interrupted. “You can come in now if you still want to rub my back. I feel much more comfortable now. Are you coming?” I couldn’t feel my knees as I stood up. I walked down the hall wiping my damp hands off on my jeans. I felt my face. I was hot. I got to her room and looked in through the half-opened door. I froze. There she wasy lying on her bed. There was her beautiful bare back. No bra. Nothing. My eyes following her spine down to the edge of the covers. A teasing trace of lacy underwear stuck out perfectly, as if the covers had been placed there with great care.

I was not only shocked, but I was scared. What was I supposed to do? I hadn’t felt her skin before. I had only dreamed of how soft it must be. She turned her head to look at me. I suddenly realized how long I had been standing there staring.

“What’s the problem?” She asked in a teasing voice. I couldn’t believe my eyes or my ears! I did not answer.

Somehow I walked over and crawled onto the bed, took a deep breath, and just touched her. She shivered. I folded my leg beneath me so that I could sit on it, applying pressure between my legs. I had to control myself.

I began to massage her. I sat far enough away from her that I had to extend my arms all the way out to reach her neck. Every time I stretched to reach her I became more excited. I rocked on the heel of my foot, and approached her body with mine – just before the point of contact.

I started to lose myself in all of the excitement and my hands slowed down unconciously. My squeezing turned to stroking. I started to breath heavily. Then I realized she was breathing with me. That’s when something shifted.

In gasps she told me to sit on her lower back. She mumbled something about applying my weight to a spot where she needed it most. I agreed because I wasn’t reasoning anymore.

I moved on top of her. The blood rose to my ears, and I was now tingling all over. My strokes covered the full length of her back. There was nothing but intensity.

Without giving it a thought, I slid back further onto her butt and let all of my weight flow into her. I could feel her every muscle tighten and relax underneath me. I tensed and relaxed with her. It took everything not to moan, not to scream, not to cry. I shut my eyes tightly and hoped I could keep myself from wimpering and just enjoy the ride.

Then the totally unexpected happened. She asked me to lift up for a second. I did. She rolled over. I froze. I looked at two perfect breasts. Then a wide smile. It was somewhat mischievious.

Then our eyes met. Hers were soft, yet exctied. They knew more than I did. Had she planned this? She touched my hands that were still holding me up and sked me to sit down again. I started to move away. “No. Please stay on top of me. Don’t you want to?”

“What? Why are you…”

She reached up with both arms and pulled at my neck. Her eyes remained friendly, but her face became stern. “Kiss me now.”

As I leaned down her nails slid down my back. I lightly brushed her lips with mine, but she wanted more. Her nails dug into me as her tongue plunged into my mouth. I was surprised at the strength of her lips and kissed back with equal force. I tried to keep silent, but to no availe. When I started to moan her nails dug deeper and I knew there was no going back.

I slid my legs from her sides and stretched out fully on top of her. She reached under my shirt and lightly stroked my bare skin. I felt her open her eyes, so I did the same. We stopped kissing. I leaned back to look at her suddenly frightened again. But she didn’t stop touching me. “Are you okay?”

I nodded, but she saw my vulnerability. “What are you thinking?” she asked quietly.

I tried to find my voice. “What am I thinking? I’m… I don’t know. I’m shocked. I feel…” I clamped my jaw shut and looked away. Her stroking stopped but her hands remained on me.

“Am I doing something you don’t want me to do?” I turned red and almost giggled. If she only knew how I had dreamed of this!

I looked back at her. She was looking hard at me. “I want you.” She was serious. I opened my mouth to speak, but I couldn’t think of anything to say. I couldn’t think at all. Her knee rose up bewteen my legs and pushed me up towards her again. We both groaned. Her arms encircled me tightly and our mouths met again, with even more hunger this time. Our bodies began to move together.

This is how we made love.

 

 

Straight Girls

What was in it for me? What was in it for them? I could almost ask those questions in the present tense, but in keeping with my theme I’ll (try) to stick to my “pre-coming out” days because I think the answers would be somewhat different if I asked them today.

For me:

Of course if a girl was straight… wait a minute! Before I came out they were all straight. No, really, no one was “out” at my middle or high schools (that I knew of). I’m not saying there weren’t gay people, obviously. As a matter of fact, when I did come out my senior year I wrote an article for our school paper explaining that – according to the predominantly accepted 1 in 10 stat (at the time) there were 71 students and 5 faculty at our school. As you might imagine, a very lively debate ensued after my English teacher let me print that, but that’s a story for another time…

A straight girl was clearly into boys. They were clearly unavailable to me. They were clearly not interested in me in “that way”. What an easy recipe for unrequited love, or mixing up a crush. It was practically guaranteed. And there was no shortage of ingredients. I could find at least one girl in each class that let me touch her hair, stare at her, or send her notes. At least one girl that would return my smile and lock eyes with me for as long as it would take for the yearning rush to come in waves up my body until I started to blush. I could often hold that high until the next class, the next friend was spotted, or I could write my next note. (How I ever managed to get A’s in school is beyond me!)

For them:

So, what did they get out of it? Why did they like to joke with me about being able to turn me on? Why did they touch my arm, hold my hand, invite me into their beds to give them back-rubs on bare skin? Why did they let me brush their hair? Carry their books? Watch them get dressed and put on their lipstick? Did they simply like the attention from someone “safe”? My attention was laced with flirtation, sexual hunger, and an appreciation for their beauty – and they didn’t have to do any sort of posturing for me. I just expressed my pure love – my desire to lavish them with compliments, love letters, and body rubs. Who would say no to that!?

Was it that simple? Or could it be that our sexuality is truly more fluid than we think and that before our “orientations” are formally named, there is a freedom that allows for diversity and exploration? Did these straight girls actually have feelings for me too? Did they respond to me because I offered it all up and handed them a willing playmate? Did they simply find themselves, later in life, on the higher end of the Kinsey scale – and therefore happy and satisfied with their boyfriends/husbands – never to look back?

Meckenzie – more from “…flirting with girls”

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

I flirt with Meckenzie by complimenting her all the time. I tell her how beautiful she looks and how much I like to hear her speak and how much I admire her. Once when asked how I thought she did during cheer-leading practice, I told her in a note that I couldn’t stop watching her because she moves so well. That was embarrassing and I shocked myself. She liked it, was shocked a little, but she seemed flattered.

She’s what I would call sexy. It’s mostly her manners and her personality. I think she’s pretty. She has very nice legs. I would watch her a lot in English and she knows it. She often turns and gives me the biggest smile! I love her smiles. I told her that one time. I also told her I liked eye contact so I think that’s why she looks at me so much.

My fantasy is not very intense but very pleasant: We are leaving History class and I’m ahead of her as usual. I look back at her one last time to see if I can get a goodbye and she says, “Hey, come here. I want to talk to you about something” Then she turns and walks around the corner of the building where no one is. I follow her very curious. When I get around the corner she takes my arm and says, “I see the way you look at me and I know you feel a lot for me. I really like it when you share your thoughts with me and say you admire me. Well, I feel for you too. I’m really attracted to you and I live to get a smile from you and that something special in your eyes. You say I’m sexy? Well, you are too. Anytime you want to get together and talk about it you let me know, OK?” Before I can answer she hugs me and bites my ear. Then she giggles and walks aways just leaving me there shocked.

My favorite part about this story is the fact that the climax to my fantasy is that Meckenzie is offering to “talk” to me about my feelings any time I want! This story just continues the theme of wanting my feelings to be accepted. In this case she admits to feeling for me too. I can still feel what it was like when she did take my arm while she was talking to me… *sigh*

Define:Yearn

I think crush has everything to do with yearn. I can identify feelings of yearning exactly by their location in my body. When I described this feeling to a friend – explaining the significant differences between the feelings of want and those of yearn – she said it sounded like yearning included the space between the sacral (or navel) chakra and the base (or sex) chakra. I think that’s it exactly.

If I want someone it’s a clear and direct feeling (you know, from deep inside that sex chakra). Generally it comes with a clear picture in my head of how I want them.

If I yearn for someone it’s much more complex. I feel the feeling of want, but along with it comes a burning sensation just below the sacral chakra. It’s a sensation associated with shame or exposure or vulnerability. It feels like hunger. It feels empty and full simultaneously. It’s swimming in need, but without definition. It hurts, yet feels like being on a high.

Here are some definitions I found for Yearn:

1. desire strongly or persistently (synonym) hanker, long (hypernym) desire, want (hyponym) ache, yen, pine, languish (derivation) longer, thirster, yearner

2. have a desire for something or someone who is not present; “She ached for a cigarette”; “I am pining for my lover” (synonym) ache, yen, pine, languish (hypernym) hanker, long (hyponym) die (derivation) longer, thirster, yearner

3. have affection for; feel tenderness for (hypernym) care for, cherish, hold dear, treasure

For me the yearning doesn’t seem to find relief. The wanting can be fulfilled, but the yearning seems to live on – simply changing its object of desire. Yearning seems to create energy for me. It seems to be a life-force behind my creativity – my desire to be awake instead of asleep. It seems to operate in my system like a drug; the more I feel it, the more I want to feel it. Sometimes I think I must be addicted to it. I guess I yearn to yearn.

I want the pain and pleasure combination that comes from feeling the yearn; from being crushed out. And I’ve been hooked on it for the last twenty-five years.

It’s like the flip/flop in the pit of my stomach when the roller-coaster is momentarily suspended in time, just over the crest of the tippy-top of the steepest hill. When the roller-coaster finally comes to a stop and I exit, I am in utter disbelief that I have I survived at all – thinking it was one of the scariest moments of my life. Then I amaze myself by racing back in line to wait for another chance flirt with danger. This time the body memory is fresh and morphs into another wonderful feeling – anticipation.

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!