This is My Own Story

11 Dec

You may notice some similarities with my writing style and that of Edmund White’s in my life story. Unfortunately that is unavoidable, there is no way I can reflect on the life I lived without sounding exactly like White’s unnamed protagonist. Here I am sitting typing thinking about my experience writing about my own experience, that mess of emotion unfortunately comes out the same way White’s tale does. Despite the similarity in style there are differences in detail, for one I am not unnamed, I’m Cal, secondly what I’m writing in this life-story is the truth, it is not fiction, I wish it was though. Despite my hatred of sounding exactly like him stylistically; that is something I have to live with in order to tell my story. Here I am hoping my life is totally unique but as soon as I pen a single word I go back to sounding exactly like Mr White, to top it all off my first sexual experience was with a hustler as well. In my head a song plays but it is an old familiar song, I am sure you know the words; I thought that my song was an original master piece turns out it’s all been sung before.

I haven’t told anyone about my first sexual encounter, but here it goes. One night I was bored (boredom makes me do stupid stuff) and I looked through the adult section of a local newspaper. I saw an ad for M2M sex, and I sent the number an sms asking how much. R250 his message replied. Feeling extra adventurous on that night I told him that I had nothing to give. He then asked me what I looked like. Heart racing I replied that I was tall, coloured and had big hands and feet, he was interested in meeting up. I sent him my address and he came to pick me up. He took me to Florida Lake, where I gave him a blow-job. That was it. Only a blow-job; we didn’t go any further because I was ashamed of myself. Not ashamed because I performed a sex act with a total stranger and a male prostitute to top it all off, ashamed because I was the loser I was. Afterward despite him saying we should meet up again I never called or text him. That was my first sexual encounter, it was a thing of shame. Surprisingly I didn’t feel anything wrong about my actions. I held on to that secret without feeling shame, or any negative affect towards myself. In my eyes that act was nothing to be ashamed of. It was a good natural act, in fact I believed that doing what I did made me: more human. That act didn’t cause sleepless nights or make me hate myself (even though I still hate(d) myself) that act gave me power, it made me alive, it was nothing to be ashamed of. Because I sucked a hustler’s cock I was elevated from my sub-human status to being one of the ordinary folk.

You may be asking why I hat myself so much? To be honest with you I don’t know but it started a long time ago. I have always had this feeling that my life is empty, that I was nothing. I am Hollow Man except for the fact that I’m completely visible. People can see me, they can mock me, yet still I’m hollow and nothing can fill the emptiness that was\is my life.I’m writing this blog-post knowing no-one will read it and know my secrets, and in a way I’m kinda glad no-one is out there yet. But as soon as I have readers I hope you can see that this is a cry for help. I feel so alone despite the fact that people around me say that they care. There is nothing out there for me, nothing to make my life better, so I write, that’s all I do, I write.

This is my Own Story despite it’s queer similarity to White’s book. This is real, there is really someone out in the world who hates themself as much as I do, and no I will not stop writing about it. Edmund White’s character wrote from an empowered position, living his fantasy life in France, here I am living my shitty life writing about it. Most art seems to have an element of triumph to it but I am stuck. In art there is always some catharsis always a way to be freed from your situation especially art about depression, they make it seem as though no-one can be stuck in a state of melancholy, some how you can overcome all your troubles and step out. But stepping out is not an easy walk. I feel bad for lying to my psychiatrist, I should have told him that the only reason I felt better in the psych ward was because for once in my life I didn’t feel alone, the nurses were forced to watch and care for me, but out in the real world I am all alone and totally depressed again.

It’s hard for me to explain why I feel the way I do. I can’t articulate it but I can try. I guess I’ll use my first sexual encounter as my example. It did not hurt me to write this story down, I don’t feel anything about it, it is just a story. It doesn’t make me feel anything, nothing, nothing at all. It was just a thing between me and a guy whose name I don’t know. The only part of the story that actually does embarrass me about it is that I couldn’t give a fuck. It hurts me to admit that I am the guy to have sex then not care in the morning, and it is scary telling you about it, still here I am penning and typing my life and my cold emotionlessness down.

I feel done with all my crazy right now, tomorrow is another day and I have even more to tell. That is if you don’t hate me now. Still I think it’s impossible for anyone to hate me more than I hate myself.

AnotherWannabe (full of self-pity)

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