I had accepted that I was one of those people burdened to be a ‘late bloomer’ due to the awkwardness of trying to find people who would understand my unusual needs and be able to help me explore them.
Even my masturbatory fantasies were largely unexplored, because I could never make myself orgasm.
I could certainly get aroused, and I knew where everything was and what was needed to climax, but I could never figure out how to get over that line that separated physical arousal from physical release.
So I fantasized a lot, and spent lots of time sexually frustrated, recognizing that there was a complicated need buried within me that I couldn’t even explain to myself.
Not even Cindy, my best friend on the planet, knew about my feelings or needs.
She just assumed that my focus was on school, like hers was. We’d been friends since we were little kids, so spending time with her socially was a natural fit, that no one really questioned.
The only issue in my life was Cindy’s mother, Isabella Foster. Her parents had been divorced for years, and her father was remarried and lived in California. The issue started during Christmas break of our senior year.
I’d started working at the movie theater at the start of the school year when I turned eighteen, and after work one night I went by Cindy’s house after a closing shift to pick up my phone charger.
It was after midnight, but she’d promised to leave it on the front porch for me.
But when I drove up to the house, I saw Mrs. Foster on the front porch with the girls swimming coach. I’d just kept driving and pretended not to have seen them.
But I had not only seen them, I had also seen what they were doing.
Mrs. Foster was standing behind the other woman and had a fistful of her hair and jerked her head back just as I pulled to the curb. And then she kissed her, while pushing her other hand down into her pants.
But it wasn’t just a kiss. It was aggressive and hungry, with her hand wrapped tightly in the other woman’s hair while her other hand explored her body, and it did something primal to me.
I drove home soaking wet, with the image seared into my mind, where it would stay for months.
After that I couldn’t hang out at their house without feeling awkward around her.
Without wanting to stare at her.
Without wanting her to kiss me.
Without wanting her to make me kiss her.
Without wanting her to handle me.
All she had to do was walk into the room and my panties would be drenched.
I thought about her all the time, and no matter how much I tried to ignore my feelings for her, they seemed to get stronger over time instead of fading.
And my fantasies about her became intensely specific.
I would daydream about her catching me naked in her house and taking me in her arms and holding me. I spent weeks thinking of that scenario, lying awake for hours wondering how it would feel.
And then one night while I lay in bed thinking about how I could possibly make it happen for real, I was hit with the realization that most people would be angry to find someone nude and uninvited in their house.