True love is just another fairytale that mothers tell their daughters to get them in bed each night. “One day you’ll fall in love with the right man, and you’ll get married and have children” she would say. Making sure that I knew that the man would be “a good Christian man”. It wouldn’t matter to my mother what race he was, since she herself had married a white man. I wondered how that would work out, since ever night I dreamed of luscious women who surrounded me with titillating chests and slits warm with love. Still, I tried to belong in the dream of a man who would sweep me off my feet and cover me with beautiful kisses the kind of which would wake even the dead.
When I was fourteen I began to have annual dream in which my beloved and I would find each other. Once a year I traveled to places I’d never been, frolicked and fucked, only to wake up only with the promise of my future. Who was that person who came to my dreams? Faceless, I knew him by touch alone. Yes, that was the most surprising bit, that he was not a she. Probable effect of being socialized in a homophobic society, I convinced myself.
As I explored my sexuality I realized that falling in love with a man was not that implausible. I became aware that one does not have to prescribe to just one sexual orientation; instead I could fall in love with anyone I chose. From the man I kissed last night to the woman I crushed on every day at work, the possibilities were endless. With that endless attraction came confusion and slight pits of despair that popped up after I continued to make my way alone.
With the expansion of potentialities, the odds became lower that the match would be made. Seems as if lesbians don’t date bisexuals, and neither do conscious straight men.
So I remain, waiting. For him, for she, for you.