“I was sexually abused,” said my boyfriend M. “And … I’m bisexual.” I instantly burst into tears.
I was speechless. Suddenly, it all made sense. Since meeting M, I knew something was off. He was obsessed with oral sex and constantly spoke about past experiences with other women. Nothing I ever did in bed was ever good enough. I needed to learn how to deep throat. I wasn’t enthusiastic. I was beginning to feel inadequate at times wondering if he even cared for me at all. Yet at other times he showered me with love and affection, holding me tight and telling me I was the best thing to ever come into his life. When M accused me of not enjoying oral sex (not true) and therefore not liking him, I decided to finally confront him. I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t know what it was. I sensed M’s obsession with the perfect job was less about personal preference and more about an issue burbling underneath the surface. So when he came one evening, I confronted him. “Is there something wrong you’re not telling me about? I feel like you’re on edge and picking on me and I don’t know why.”
And that’s when he told me he had been abused.
He told me he had always liked girls up until his abuse and never once thought about guys. He was sure his abuse had caused him to become bi. He watched gay porn from time to time. He had experimented before. Yet he thought the idea of dating a man was “disgusting.” And kissing a guy? “Gross.”
Ideally, he wanted us to have a MMF threesome together so he could have a release that didn’t involve cheating on me. And no, he hadn’t been to therapy. Suddenly the ground felt like it was falling out beneath me. My beer-swilling, Playboy-reading, ex-football player boyfriend with a penchant for hunting was telling me he had been sexually abused and had experimented with men; and wanted me to participate.
This was the same guy who loved going down on me and was constantly feeling me up every chance he got. This was the same guy who stared at me with googly eyes when I was doing something as simple as making a pancake. My stomach rose up into my throat. I was scared. What did that mean for us? Would all of his unresolved issues come racing out later in life like demons from hell? I didn’t want to date a man who was bi (just my personal preference), but I intrinsically sensed that his “bisexuality” had less to do with orientation and more to do with the effects of abuse even though I had no proof. I couldn’t wrap my head around what I was hearing. I loved him to pieces and didn’t want to let him go. My heart broke for the little boy who was hurt so badly and for the pain and confusion he must have gone through. But he didn’t want any of my sympathy. As far he was concerned, he was fine. So I was forced to keep my sympathy to myself, lest he thought I pitied him.
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