The skeleton in my closet.

2002-07-29 - 9:55 a.m.

So just the other day I was doing one of those online quizzes, this one a purity test, hoping to pass some time and I cam across the question, "Have you ever had sex with someone in exchange for money or gifts?" And I almost checked no.

It's only been 5 or 6 years, but I had almost forgotten about that period of my life, that man, and the person I was back then.

I had only been out to myself for three or four years, and had only been out to anyone else for half that time, and had just discovered the wonders of meeting men through the internet. By the time I met that man I had already cyber-sexed my way into maybe a dozen men's homes. I was promiscuious, I guess, when you compared me to the straight people in my life, most of whom had only had sex with one, maybe two partners before. I was a bit of a size queen, but really I wasn't terribly picky. I had just started my job at the grocery store, was in my first year of university and was angling to move out.

On the chat line (ah, irc...does anyone use that anymore?) I met a young man named O'Shea (not really O'Shea, but his name was really Irish. He was born Canadian, though.) He was nice, we had some things in common, and, at a year younger than I was, he was one of the closest guys to my age. He was a virgin and was trying to live in one of the more smaller townships of Nova Scotia, one of those quaint burgs where the population is measured in double-digits.

We arranged to meet, and he was quite cute. He thought I was cute, too, and we tentatively started dating, even though he lived a two hour drive away and neither of us had cars.

At the same time, or thereabouts, we both started chatting with an older guy, and he also seemed friendly, he had a car and lived in O'Shea's general area, but came into Halifax quite often. He offered to taxi us back and forth, presuming we met and trusted him.

I actually can't remember his name right now, which is unfortunate, because I don't feel terribly disposed to protect his anonymity.

He was in his 40s, was married, but with no kids, and a teacher at a community college. He had money to spare, I guess, and at first he seemed nice, at least over the chat. I'll call him Mr. Creep. Because I'm oddly not feeling terribly kind today.

We set a date, me and O'Shea excitedly worked ourselves into a frenzy of excitement, and then the guy drove us around.

Mr. Creep was tall, thin, and looked about twenty years older than he (said he) was. There was something about him that neither of us liked, but we couldn't put our fingers on it. O'Shea told me later that he had tried to put the moves on him. But by that time, Mr. Creep had already tried to put the moves on me, too. I don't remember any details from the drive home, except that after O'Shea was dropped off at home Mr. Creep started feeling my leg. I felt uncomfortable but didn't tell him to stop.

He dropped me off, and later on we all chatted online again. Mr. Creep proposed that maybe if he would let him give us blow jobs, he might put some cash in our pockets, as well as continue to chauffeur us. O'Shea and I talked privately about this, and since we were young, somewhat naive, and really hard up for money (minimum wage, what I was making at the time, in Nova Scotia was about $5.35 back then. Canadian. Which is about half the value of anywhere else. And I was only getting five to ten hours a week.)

It turns out that Mr. Creep was more attracted to me than to O'Shea. One time getting a blow job in the back of his truck turned into several times. Each time I ended up around $100 richer.

On one hand it seemed easy money. I tried to convince myself that it was just sex, that once I was making more money I would stop, that I was working toward moving out. Thing is, there was always more month at the end of the money.

And I started feeling really bad. It is never just sex in a case like that. I'm not sure what other people feel, but when you're forcing yourself to feign attraction in someone who is creepy, who has to pay you to have sex with him...it kinda takes you to a dark place. Every time was worse, but each time made me feel more helpless to leave.

I can't even really describe it, because I am so far removed from who I was at those moments. The closest thing I can come to remembering is a hollow, sour feeling in my chest. I don't remember the words I thought, how I rationalised it...all I can remember is this sinking sensation. Quicksand, but slow...

I eventually ended it. It was messy, and at one point I got rude, O'Shea and I stayed dating for a few more months, and until I met Pookie, his was the longest relationship I had.

I'm not sure how good of a thing it is that I forgot that time. I'm glad that it is a place I don't think I can ever go again - I'm innoculated against it - but it may also be a part of my history that's crucial to who I am today. It taught me some things. Lessons, maybe, that I didn't need to learn, and I can't say whether or not I'm a better person.

But I don't think these things go away, even if you don't remember them. I don't like the idea of such a skeleton in my closet, those feelings of self-loathing just waiting to re-emerge, maybe at a time when I don't remember how I got through them before. So now I have a (pseudo-) physical account, abbreviated, so now I can go back to forgetting.

Cheers,

The Magus

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