I’ve been telling this story ever since it happened. This
story is when my father told me the truth for the first time in my life.
I arrive at the Chicago O’Hare airport. The time is 12am
Christmas holiday rush. Its lightly snowing out and the loud noise and chaos
that is the arriving gate at an international airport on this 2010 Holiday
evening seems to vanish around me because of the vivid thoughts of that
mornings orgasms cloud my mind. I can smell her still on my fingers and in my mouth.
I lived in Chicago for a summer internship in 2008 and had
visited family every year since I was a baby; it was as if I was going home for
the holidays. Except this time, I had the biggest secret of my life and all I
wanted to do was scream it out at the top of my lungs.
As I wait for my father’s
bright yellow car, his favorite color to come up from the freezing cold
Christmas traffic, I am cleaning my brand new Black/White Chrome Messenger bag
from her after spilling a juice inside. I am almost in tears after discovering
this mess. I am frantically cleaning up in the ladies bathroom while my phone
is going off with the name “Baby” displayed on the screen. I answer it and
immediately break what tears I was holding back. “Hi! Baby, I spilled on my bag…”
After having a loving calming conversation; she always knows how to make me
feel better, I gather my things and head to the Arriving platform to continue
to wait for the yellow car. He is always late. I am about to her back a text
Message appears “baby I miss you and I love you” is displayed on my phone
screen and as the cold breeze comes barreling through the frozen crowd I feel
nothing except warmth throughout my entire insides. My butterflies tingle my
grown and all I want is her kiss. She is beautiful and I did love her and we
broke each other’s hearts but that is for another story. This story is about
another person’s journey of homosexuality. Someone that I at that particular
moment never thought would reveal such a hidden secret.
I was 12 when my father and mother were getting a divorce. I
remember sitting on a couch up in Yosemite at our lake house that we as a
family got together to have family vacations at. As they both sat me and my
sister down to disclose what they were about to do, I interrupted them and
panicky asked, “ You aren’t getting divorced, are you?!” They both looked at me
with tears in their eyes nodding yes and struggling to find the next words to
calm my already trembling body.
Never thinking it was possible my parents would ever split
after being raised Catholic and being told is was a sin to divorce. My father
was a devout Catholic and mother was more of a free spirit in her 20’s and run
away protestant from a farming family in Michigan. After getting married she converted
to Catholicism once they decided to have children. My older sister Sarah was
already out of the house by the time my family split down the middle.
Eventually I went with mom and Dad moved to Phoenix where Sarah was going to
school. My High school experience was pretty typical, growing up bullshit of
being too upset over things that absolutely do not matter. Pretty typical girl
having crushes on other girls, being A-sexual but kissing everyone. Telling
girls I had feelings and then having my first girl on girl experience at the
age of18 with my 29-year-old dance teacher, Andrea. She wanted to know what it
felt like to go down on a girl for about 3 months. This ended quickly and I had
my first broken heart. That is also another story for another time. Like I said
this story is about the man that I am waiting for at the O’Hare Airport.
David Francis Clark. Born November 11, 1949. Ginger head.
Bullied, beat up and molested by a shrink at the age of 12 and ran away at the
age of 17.
These are all stories that were told to me throughout my
‘out’ stage of my 20’s. I would rather
him tell you the details and hopefully in this story we will be entertained by
his elaborate nonfiction writing. He likes to extend the truth, makes it sound
better.
As I was saying, David Francis Clark. Born November 11,
1949. Ginger head. Bullied, beat up and molested by a shrink at the age of 12 and
ran away at the age of 17. He is my father. Grew up in a privileged home of
upper class Chicago. His nannie, ‘Rosie’ an African American women with her own
mouths to feed back home was feeding my fathers mouth and his 5 other brothers
and sisters. Scott, my uncle died last year at the age of 65. Tragic plane
accident where Scott, the captain went down with the ship. Still a suspicious
accident if I do say so myself. See, Scott was always talking about his own
mortality and how he was going to die before everyone else and what a better
way to go then doing what you love. Dad got the better end of the deal because
he had a life insurance policy out on Scott for about 5 years. When dad got his
half a million dollar check, lets just say he had no more hard feelings for all
the agony and hurt that his older brother put him through out my dads life.
David Francis Clark, 63-year-old man living in
Andersonville, Chicago is where you can find him today. Living a homosexual
life with his live in life partner Patrick. Their relationship is a bit less
than ordinary, even as a gay life style. Dad pays for everything and Patrick
fucks around. My father is in love with this man, nice man but taking a bit of
advantage of my fathers kindness. But, that is neither here nor there and
doesn’t have anything to do with what this particular story is all about. But,
it does however show you the kind of life my father has lived and a reason why
he has kept it hidden for so long.
Reality really hits you when your parent acts as
prepubescent child when; we cry alone in our rooms for another’s affection.
Yell and scream when we don’t get our way and break apart as if we were
shattered glass when our hearts are broken.
We unfortunately as humans are not only a sponge for
experiences but reactions. We are molds of what was geometrically ingrained in
us as children and only lucky if you are wise enough to grow. We are sponges of
life, culture, animals, music other humans, experiences, hopes, dreams and to
be everything we see on TV. That is life. We choose, right? We choose what we
become? Who we are? If you are so lucky that is. The choices that we make are
made from our sponge. Do we choose what we are as sexual beings? That question
I cannot answer. I refuse to let anyone answer that actually. Who are they? Did
they choose?
David Francis Clark, age 63, born November 11th
1949. It was a Friday. The moon was in Scorpio.
George Orwell’s book Nineteen Eighty-Four is published, 45rpm discs are
introduced. First Polaroid Camera sold, Frank Sinatra stars in “On The Town”
with Gene Kelly. Rogers and Hammerstein debut the musical “South Pacific” on
Broadway and the first Volkswagen Beetle sold in US. Truman was on his second
term in office and the cold war was at its prime. A flight from Paris to New
York went down in the Azores Islands of Sao Miguel where Violinist, Ginette
Neveu and boxer Marcel Cerdan both died.
The last U.S troops withdraw from South Korea and the first television
western, ‘Hopalong Cassidy’ airs on NBC. My father was born amongst three boys,
two girls and leaving him to be the black sheep as the middle child, a burden
on its on.
I see my breath go in and out as I shiver in the -10 degree
weather that is Chicago at Christmas time. The crowds are no less strained as
families go in and out of taxis and SUVs with loads of luggage and finely
package holiday gifts. Child bundled up with warms things and parents arms
wrapped around them tightly. I catch myself starring, remembering my Christmas
long ago by my father and my mother by his side.
My Christmas gift from her hangs from my right shoulder.
Barely worn, strikingly new Chrome and feels to be a part of me, an extension
of me. She is a part of me, an extension of me. Mine. My first. My first time
waking up in the morning before her only to watch her chest rise up and down as
she calmly sleeps. My first eye opening kiss in the shower as we wash one
another, slowly. My first orgasm. My first orgasms. My first conversation of our
lives, love, future. As I thrust in and out of her she grabs my face and
whispers in my ear “ I love you”. The heat from the sheets and the wetness of
our naked bodies take over the endless passion where time just stood still.
Days, months went by with out a thought. We were in a state of complete
enrapture. We were about us, about pleasing one another, surprising and
showering each other with gifts and endless sex.
I don’t think I will ever forget. Maybe it is because I wont
let myself forget. Today, 2013 after being in other relationships since and
loving others since, I still think of her. I think of what we said. I think of
what we did. I think of the private moments that I will never reveal and the
promises that will never be. The truths, the lies, the bruised faces and the
scared hearts will always be a part of me. She was my first. The first to say
“I love you” and the first time I said “I love you too.”
What happened after took place so quickly it is as if our
love affair was only a fairy tale once told in storybooks. The obsession of one
another faded and reality of life and everyday life pushed its ugly head
through the truth. Our passion became violent and physically painful. She hit
me. Several times. She hit me hard enough to bruise my check and ruin
everything we felt for one another.
As I sit on my fathers couch with vodka soda in my hand
later that evening after being picked up for the O’Hare Airport, my father sits
across from me. His eyes seem to be fixated on my bag. As my father takes a sip
of his drink he casually asks, “ That’s a nice bag, is it new?” “Yes,” I said
as an image of she and I on her bed. My eyes closed, as she demands that I shut
them because she has a surprise for me. I feel a large item placed on my lap
and as I open my eyes, they fill with slight tears, as it was the gift that I
was asking for months before this life-changing event. I look at my gift giver
with deep and utter pleasure and kiss her passionately. As my memory continues
in my head my father continues his thought, “ Is it from your girlfriend?” I
said “yes,” just as easy as that, “yes.” The secret was going to reveal itself.
My secret. The secret that I so long have kept from the world and even worse
from myself was about to spill out of my mouth as easy as the word “yes.” “Its
okay, I am gay too,” my father quickly replied.
I am sorry. I am going to have to stop you right there. Did
you hear what my father just told me? He is what? The man that raised me
catholic and made me go to Sunday school? The man that was married to my
gorgeous mother for 11 years and when they divorced it was because she didn’t
want to continue the strict catholic life style, as she said at the time.
David Francis Clark, age 63, born November 11th
1949. It was a Friday. The moon was in
Scorpio. George Orwell’s book Nineteen Eighty-Four is published, 45rpm discs
are introduced and I was sitting in a living room with a man that told me the
truth in a very, very long time.
As hundreds of thoughts and questions were running through
my mind my father started revealing stories and ideas as well as consoling words
love towards what is now socially an alternative life style. I have never felt more connected with my
father in my entire life. That moment when he completely opened up to me about
his sexuality changed my life. That one moment changed the way I feel about my
own sexuality. He and I become family, alike a true father and daughter moment.
Before I would cry or get emotional at a drop of a hat whenever he spoke to me.
He was never gentle with my emotions and or life choices because I was a
complete mirrored reflection of himself and noticeably struggled for sixty something
years to accept that he is gay himself. He saw it in me at an early age and
knew that I would have a difficult life ahead with social conformity. Our
similarities were as clear as our perfectly recognizable smile on our faces.
Why did he let me live with this closet for so long? Why did he feel he had to
hide anything from me? Who was he protecting? Himself or me?
There is a song called “When You Were Mine” by Prince that
says everything I feel, remember and cherish presently about my first girlfriend.
She wasn’t my first sexual experience however. Andrea. 29. Dance teacher. She
would go down on me every Thursday for three months when I was 18. I never
orgasm but the sensation of being wet while her cold lips pressed against my
hidden lips would awaken such a quicker through out my entire body that I would
crave like a drug. After every encounter even the quick make outs outside the
dance studio we would enjoy a cigarette together. My addicted grew into a habit
and eventually I had to go through withdrawal. An addict nightmare.
She danced with me in the dark and would touch me as I molded
to her shape and her fingers inside of me. She would lay me down on her
boyfriends couch and proceed to slip my damp underwear off with such conviction
as she had done so many times before. I close my eyes and feel the wetness, the
pleasure, the pain, the emotions that take over and the little voice telling me
this is what I am. Lu is my first love; my first lesbian relationship but
Andrea opened my eyes. I have so many words for Lu and our relationship but
then again I am speechless.
David Francis Clark, age 63, born November 11th
1949. It was a Friday. The moon was in
Scorpio. George Orwell’s book Nineteen Eighty-Four is published, 45rpm discs
are introduced and I was sitting in a living room with a man that told me the
truth in a very, very long time. Christmas 2010 was when I told the truth in a
very, very long time as well.
A truth in 2013 is that I am still in love. This is not the
kind of “in love” that most lovesick people will pine and want them back as a
mate. No, my “in love” is the kind only exists in memories and moments. I am in
love with what she gave me, something that I will always cherish, my first love
and loss. She was a teacher in my ever-expanding life as lesbian women. She was the pain, the sex, the truth and the
one that laid the groundwork for the women to come. She let me experience heartbreak and I in return
broke hers. We tore one another a part but only to find us moments later naked
in one another’s arms. I use to surprise her with crafty presents when she
would come home from school or work. Candle lit baths and after searching for
months the film “The Lion King” that she had been eager to see after an
obsession when visiting the Zoo.
Her apartment was pitch black and the music of the opening
scene of the “The Lion King” was playing in the background while I was hiding
in the other room with dinner prepared waiting for her to find me. With open
arms and a big kiss thrown on my lips we started to make love without a
distraction in the world.
These moments I would create over and over again. To be
honest I have never done anything quite at romantic for anyone since.
With hidden love notes thrown around her apartment and
memories of endless sex and happiness, that all quickly feel a part when life
took ahold and pulled me in a complete opposite direction that Lu refused to be
apart of. I started lying to her, keeping things hidden and filled my free time
with someone that “understood” my desire to be an actor. I emotionally withdrew
and found myself lusting after someone else. Without physically cheating I
emotionally dreamed of someone else. Talked to someone else about my feelings
and ended up writing a letter that revealed everything. The night I broke us
was a night I regret and eternally wish never happened. She found the letter
and I found her naked, sitting in her bathtub completely heartbroken.
Lu and I tried for 6 months to keep us a float but she had
found someone else by then. She had found someone that had already learned her
lesson in love and loss. A woman that once told me I had my chance and I blew
it. My relationship dissolved and disappeared as quickly as a pile of warm said
in the palm of a wet hand. The only sand that remains is the memories and the
lost words of love between us.
I recently saw her and Charlotte at a party in San
Francisco. I looked over and she stood up, gave me a hug and said “Its nice to
see you.” I said the same and tried to play pretend for sanity sake. It’s been
3 years since we were together. I live in Los Angeles pursing the thing that made
me lose to begin with. It’s dramatic, I know but you should see my writing at
the age of 17 with just a high school crush named Lydia.
I am turning 26 this year and as I write my tale of woe and
my endless love sick stories all I can say is that while I was sitting starring
at my father on that Christmas holiday, I could only imagine the stories of
love and loss in his own words.
We are forever growing, learning and experiencing even at
our older ages when we are suppose to wiser, greyer, experienced we just end up
reproducing ourselves. We must understand that things happen the way we create
them, if it being our fate or our intention. We are creatures of life and its
experience. Let go of the past. Let it be lessons, loving moments and forever
reasons to become who you are truly meant to be.
No matter what happens in my life or in my fathers, we will
never feel alone ever again. I will never feel like I have to lie, hide or be
ashamed. I am my father’s daughter. I see more of myself in him every day and
even though that scares me I am incredibly proud to me. Him.
Before my father decided to say this ground breaking and life
changing sentence, thoughts of Lydia, Andrea and Lu all started to cloud my
brain with voices, emotions, memories but all collectively settled and quieted
immediately when I heard
“it’s okay, I am gay too.”
