The first time I realized girls were beautiful was when I was ten years old. I grew up in Texas, stuck in a sometimes-liberal family. It was horrible. If I had an abortion, they would have supported me, but being gay? That was just too much. I couldn’t tell them. My sister was the worst. She went around the world introducing me as “This is Lena. She’s a lesbian. Lena-Lesbian-Tits McGee.” She didn’t even know. She just pulled this shit out of her ass, and god, I wish I had said something.

I was liberal. Real liberal. I never said anything about it. The rumors got really bad. Really bad. The parents asked me if I was having “sexual relations” with the best friend ever. I wasn’t. I said as much. They didn’t believe me.

I wanted to die, to change who I was. It didn’t help that a person I’d rather forget was there, holding things over my head. I was in denial until I was fourteen. At a sleepover, I met a girl. She was beautiful, seventeen, and bi. We talked about Harry Potter porn and didn’t sleep. I confessed that I was Lesbisexual, not quite sure which. She said she was bi, and that I was hot. I told her, thank god. you’re beautiful. three days later, we were dating.

it was the best time of my life. we never said anything, but sent eachother gifts and long emails. She was my first kiss.

We broke up. We were getting too close. She was turning eighteen in three months.

As of now, I still have my back to the closet. Thankfully, things have gotten better. My parents/family don’t know, but my friends do. My life is back to normalish, I can laugh off the comments, and no one has tried to pull anything. I’m lucky.

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