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Nurse Jones: Freak At Last
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage
From: [email protected]
Subject: Nurse Jones; Freak at last, freak at last...
>From Nurse Jones,
Someone called me a dyke last month. I almost reconsidered
whether it was wise to continue trying to get back to the Net. I
don't like being treated like a freak. Not that lesbians are freaks,
it's just that I was *treated* like a freak. Maybe I am one. But in
reestablishing my contacts here I have made myself vulnerable
again to assholes like the ... person ... that called me a dyke.
Not to mention the possibility of losing my job.
A dyke. I guess there has to be a first time for everything.
Before I start, I want to say something: this is not a surprise.
I know I've been way too sloppy about keeping my private life
private. It has cost me several times. So don't go saying you
told me so. And don't go sending me any "welcome to the wonderful
world of reality" e-mail, either.
Besides, I'm not a dyke.
I'm a perfectly normal heterosexual most of the time. Say, 80%.
Anyway, I could tell you a tale of frat boy mentality that would
probably send the Shining Armor Brigade on a straight-bashing
spree. But I won't. You all walk the walk. You don't need to hear
my puny little story.
My first reason for poking these keys today is to ask if anyone
knows the basis for a self-destructive tendency that I suspect I
share with a number of you.
Call it the Coming Out Urge, for lack of, er, imagination.
Certainly not for lack of urges.
I was approached in the fitness center a while ago by an ASB
lurker who had recognized me somehow. He knew about ASB and had
connected me to my pseudonym -- maybe from clues he read in my
posts about my shenanigans while working out. You would not have
been proud of me: I panicked and ran. I should have played it
cool and bluffed my way out by pretedding not to know what he was
talking about. As it is, I had to find another place to work
out. I'll miss it, too; I had worked myself up to part-time
aerobics instructor and got free use of the facilities.
I don't even know the guy and he could probably out me if he were
the type.
The point is, I have this urge to come out, and I leave clues
around for people like him to find. And then I panic when they
find them. All my experience tells me that coming out would be
self destructive in the extreme, given my job, knowing my boss,
and keeping in mind the fact that I live in the South. I'd
probably end up running the donut glazing machine at the Krispy-
Kreme. Like someone I know who came out and lost a good job. You
can probably tell we went to a gay/lesbian gathering recently. We
met a bunch of people who have paid a high price for coming out.
I really just went out of curiosity. That other 20% of me was
interested. Jay went, too. Talk about being the odd couple.
I would probably end up a cashier in a Hoggly Woggly. Or worse: a
Piggly Wiggly. Selling on comission at Carpet World. Miniature
golf caddy. The possibilities are limitless. Basically, I'm not
qualified for anything *but* nursing.
As it is, I feel isolated from most of the people around me
because I know how they would react to my sex life. I've heard
them talk about it in other contexts and I know what would happen
if a hyperbaptist got ahold of me. I'd either be "saved" or
burned at the stake. And I feel resentful because I feel I
shouldn't have to conceal my sex life from anyone in order to
keep my job.
So, paranoid as I am, I still have an unfortunate tendency to
drop bread crumbs that would enable people to track me back to my
sexual abode and find me if they had their antennae out and knew
what they were looking for. It's almost an involuntary thing. I
think I must drop these hints unconsciously because I want to be
open about what I do. And I'm paranoid because I can't be open
without giving up a lot. I have to *force* myself to be logical
and protect myself even when I don't want to.
Almost every time someone has found me it has been a disaster.
I'm sure many of the veteran ASB'ers have been through this. Some
lurkers are going through it now, I imagine. Do you find yourself
*trying* to come out despite the fact that you know it would be
self destructive? Despite the fact that you would get treated
like a freak? Called dyke?
I don't mean *wanting* to come out. I mean *trying* to come out.
Which brings me to the second reason for poking these keys today.
I saw a bird get hit by a car on my way to work this morning. It
broke it's wing. And that reminded me of some other freaks I know.
I mean besides Neets. Although I should probably mention her,
too. She feels like a freak sometimes. Because if her anorgasmia.
It seems to her that everyone around her is treating her as
though she were special, and she hates that. She keeps insisting
that it's no big deal. She hates it when attention is focused on
her because of it. Maybe freak is too strong a word. But she doesn't
like to be made to feel different.
Jay and I know a couple (from our days in Chicago) that has to
deal with the problem of being different in a very public way. Call
them "John" and "Mary." She has cerebral palsy. Not bad, but just
enough that you can tell something isn't quite right. Her gait is
affected a little, and the way she holds her hands sometimes
reveals her to be slightly spastic. In repose she is physically
beautiful though; slender, blonde, fragile ... and very fortunate
to be untouched mentally by CP. Not that she's brilliant or witty
or anything -- she's actually quite ordinary. They have a child,
perfect in every way. John is unexceptional in appearance but
very kind and attentive to her, and they both feel very lucky to
have each other.
They don't know about our sexual lifestyle. In fact, we got to
know them before WE knew about our sexual lifestyle. They'd
probably be horrified if they knew.
Anyway, I have talked with them about dealing with the CP, the
inlaws, friends, etc. "Mary" once commented to me that a lot of
people that don't know anything about CP ask if she was "that
way" when they got married.
They ask the question in a lot of subtle ways, but they are
curious, and they find ways to ask, and the question has some
nasty implications. Her reading is that they want to know if John
is a saint who stuck by her when this problem appeared or if he's
a weirdo who married her because of it. I was there once when the
question was asked and saw them look at each other. A little
light goes out in her eyes. His, too.
She says her father is no better: he's very protective and still
hasn't learned to trust her husband. He's suspicious of John's
motives in marrying her.
And John hasn't helped matters much. He gets (understandably) a
little pissed that people would gossip and speculate about his
motives, the nature of his affection; he's done a lot of soul
searching and he is sometimes a little too brutal in his honesty.
When her father asked John how he felt about her CP -- a
legitimate question for a father to ask, I guess -- he told him
that most things about their relationship are more important than
her disability, but he also made it very clear that he loves her
because of the way she is, not in spite of it. Would he love her
more if she could miraculously be made perfect? No. But it would
change their relationship and he hopes he wouldn't love her less.
I've heard some thoughtless people say that a girl as beautiful
as Mary wouldn't look twice at a a nondescript guy like John if
she didn't have a disability. And I've heard them wonder why he
took a chance with his genetic future by marrying her. What she
has to offer ... what he gets from the relationship. Dark, unkind
speculation. They can't just take it at face value.
I asked her how she felt -- not so much about other people, but
about John. She says John needs to take care of a bird with a
broken wing. She understands that is part of why he wanted to
marry her, and she feels lucky to have found someone like that.
She's convinced he feels lucky, too. She believes him when he
says he wouldn't want to change anything about her. Of course he
would "cure" her if he could, but they both believe their
relationship might lose something if that were to happen. If
we're honest here, he might never have been attracted to her if
she hadn't had CP. Is that so terrible? Does it have to be a
symptom of something? Can't it just be? Does it have to make them
both freaks? If you get to know them, you realize they're not.
My sexual behaviour makes me more of a freak than either of them.
Sexual behaviour aside: in my own small way, I have a similar
problem. I have inverted nipples. Jay says this is a genuine case
where I have the option of considering them a "bug or a feature."
He says they're a feature.
But a few bad experiences with men made me feel a bit like a
freak when I was younger. It took Jay a long time to convince me
that he really does love them as they are, that he wouldn't want
to change them, and even if they were easy to fix surgically
without risking loss of function and sensitivity, he PREFERS them
as they are. He even says that if I had normal nipples and it
were his choice, he would prefer them as they are.
But I'm sure there are people that would think that is weird.
They think that Jay should want me to be perfect, or at least
that he should love me less rather than more because of this
defect. Feature. Or in spite of it. Certainly not because of it.
They really make me mad. I guess that's why I feel such a kinship
with "John" and "Mary". We really have very little in common with
them for any other reason.
Imagine a woman with beautiful feet married to someone with a
foot fetish. Marriage made in heaven? But she might wonder: if he
didn't have this quirk, would he even care about me? Is our
relationship based on a psychological quirk rather than real
affection and love? I guess that would be a pretty shallow
foundation for a relationship. Is it any more shallow than loving
someone for beautiful eyes or a tight little ass?
Jay says my nipples were part of my initial attraction, and that
our relationship is well beyond that stage, even if they were a
major factor in our getting together -- which they weren't. In
fact, they almost kept us apart, I'm so defensive about them.
I guess we're talking about initial attraction, here, which may
always be shallow. I don't know. Maybe there's a fear that an
initial attraction based on a fetish may be abnormal and
therefore never develop beyond the fetish stage.
But what if it was abnormal? What if it continued to be important
to the relationship?
What if it were important to John to have a bird with a broken
wing? Does that mean broken birds should go uncared for?
So anyway:
This morning the car in front of me hit a bird with it's
windshield. It was a red-headed woodpecker. I don't know what
kind, except it had a red head and black feathers.
The poor thing flopped up into the air and plopped down on the
yellow line between the lanes of traffic. As my car neared it it
fluttered a couple of times and discovered it's wings were
broken.
I know I'm reading more into this than the bird was feeling, and
a bird is just a bird, but I caught a glimpse of it after it
tried to fly and couldn't. It was a beautiful morning. Clear and
mild, blue skies...
It lifted up it's head and looked around at the woods on the far
side of the road, the perfect sky, all out of reach, and then it
bowed it's head; the point of it's beak touched the road surface.
Then I was past it.
Birds, after all, have bird brains. I can't ascribe deep emotions
to the damn thing. It's just that there was such sudden
resignation in the gesture. The bird slumped. I could see
recognition of the immensity of it's loss in that bowed head.
All this in just the space of just the few seconds between me and
the car in front.
It must have been a half mile before I got into the right lane
and pulled over. I never found it. I wasn't sure exactly where it
had been, even. Or what I would have done had I found it. The
only other hurt bird I tried to help ended up frantic and pecking
at me. Some birds just don't want help, no matter what.
Like Neets. She's a broken bird, too, I guess, but she'd blow her
top if she heard me say so. She hates it when we are careful of
her feelings because of her anorgasmia. She thinks we are
treating it as though it were a disease. She gets impatient and
says it's no big deal. Forget about it. Leave me alone. She
doesn't like being singled out any more than anyone else. So
after a while it becomes natural to ignore it. Sometimes her
frustration rears it's head anyway.
I don't know what the point is. I just think of all the broken
birds that are never found and saved. Why would anyone *want* to
label someone else as a freak?
Fortunately, my ego isn't as fragile as that woodpecker's wing.
When fratboy called me a dyke I told him that actually I was bisexual,
but that he shouldn't feel threatened because he didn't meet
either of my standards. But if it makes you feel more
comfortable, I said, my husband tied me to the bedposts this
morning and screwed the daylights out of me.
"Just think," said
Nurse Jones,
"... that was four
hours ago and
my sperm count
is probably *still*
higher than yours."
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