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He filled me, at times, with repulsion for myself. Often I would go directly from the tree house to the shower, and arrive at the dinner table freshly bathed, flushed and ashamed, making small talk with my family who thought I was being rebellious if I used my fingers to eat directly from the serving bowl instead of spooning the Tater Tots onto my plate first.
Other times we would lie in each other's arms with a tremendous amount of tenderness, and sometimes our kisses were very sweet. I could never really tell if he was actually kissing me or if he was kissing some fantasy that he had made up in his mind in order to make what we were doing more justifiable in his own head. True tenderness or love were two things I couldn't allow myself to recognize at the time. It was part of the deal, part of making it acceptable. Having been told how wrong what we were doing was, we thought there was no other option but to cling to our shame. Part of that shame required tacit disgust with each other. There was no way that we could possibly be friends or be seen as having any sort of affection toward each other, so our hatred remained as strong as our lust. Until that equation changed, nothing else would.
- Justin Vivan Bond
The Feminist Press at the City University of New York