I stared at the pictures for hours and fretfully tried to organize them into categories and sub-categories that Martha Stewart would be proud of. There were pictures of me as a baby, as a young tot with pretty hair and a foppy collar shirt. It's evidence that I experienced the 70s in my formative years. I found photos of my high school days, of me standing in my immaculate, decorated teenage bedroom with black, lacquer furniture and a gallery of classic Hollywood cinema icons. I was wearing purple jeans, tightened with a peace sign buckle on a policeman's black studded belt.
It was a very early- 90s gay look which is why I was surprised to realize I was barely 16 when the photo was taken. I thought it perfectly natural that someone coming across the character in the picture would instantly read him as gay. But the twink in the photo was me. I had a hard time believing that I ever fostered notions of oblivion regarding my sexuality. My sweet sixteen and seventeenth years were full of angst ridden strife typical of any teenager. The belt buckle in the photo reminded me of those depressive rainy years I endured in
Seattle when Kurt Cobain was still just another geek from the boondocks.
More pictures abounded and overwhelmed the square footage of my carpet as I tried to sift through tons and scads of gender-fuck. I was a fancy, frivolous fag in college and beyond. I channeled Neely O'Hara from Valley of the Dolls and wept for the love of Sharon Tate and Jennifer North.
I wanted to look like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. I spent hours and oodles of time shopping for stripper lingerie at the famed Frederick's of Hollywood on Hollywood Boulevard.
I remember Kylie Jean Lucille, the first dragon I encountered in the gay bar ozone. "We'll age you," she said. I was barely 21 and my sparkle was fresh. I had shopped at Playmates, a stripper shop with a big picture window that featured mannequin show girls snorting cocaine in their dressing room while they prepared for a stage entrance. Bijoux Deluxe, my confidante and closest friend worked in the store and stole a few minutes of free time whenver I popped in after clocking out from the sycophantic hysteria of "cinema". A glamorous, grind, it was, albeit daily. My closet was full of lace lingerie, feathers, fur, faux fur handcuffs, stretchy bustiers, clear lucite high heels, slinky black stilletos and bright, shiny baubles to wear for flair. I spent up to the limit on my brand new Capital One credit card as if tomorrow would never come.
We talked about upcoming auditions and what to wear and which clubs were happening in the coming week. Sometimes, I would show up on a Saturday morning with a list and have my hair-fall styled and set by the time I had to jump into my S10 Chevy Blazer and vroom off to an event with high heels stuck under the brakes. When I was inevitably pulled over for erratic swerving, I swore to never drive in heels again. It seemed natural that I could wing it as a woman. I was basically living as fulltime fish because people assumed I was. I wore the same amount of makeup in drag that I was wearing while "not in drag" or as a boy. I shaved my body with a barely used razor originally intended for a beard. What then was the signifier that qualified me to be officially "dressed in drag"?
My understanding of the social world and gender context were broadened to the point that I do not identify with the androgynous, gay, girly pretty boy in the pictures. I turned 34 last month as a completely different person. It's the strangest phenom I've ever encountered. I am a dual-diagnosed, MSM, PWA, IDU. I am a man. I am an imposter. I have grown out of my rail thin frame and no longer sport the heroin chic aesthetic. They tell me I'm handsome. I used to be pretty. I look in the mirror and see a man. People used to assume that I was in transition for a sex change. I never felt the desire to go in that direction. I was happy with my spot on the great gender divide. It confusd people. It fucked things up. It roared the adventure to film and 16 minutes of fame. I was always me as I am me today. I lost myself in a void and a Major Depressive Episode. I am barely beginning to pick up the pieces of my old self as I discover the parts of nouveau moi. I don't want to obsess or let my mind run amok.
I channel Liz Taylor's character in Suddenly, Last Summer. "There's only one operation they do in that hospital. It's called a LOBOTOMY," she wailed to the post-car-wreck Monty Clift. I imagine my own biological mother living out a similar scene when she was a patient at Agnew Insane Asylum. The study of mad women is of interest to me for reasons clearly obvious. Think Rosemary Kennedy, JFK's tragically tormented older sister as compared to Edith Bouvier Beale, the eccentric spinster cousin of Jackie. Christine Ebersole's portrayal of the Edies on Broadway brings me to my knees. The marble faun is a staunch character like me. I can't wait to see what happens next. Wear a revolutionary costume for the day.

Like attracts like and on the food chain of friends, my contemporaries are tantamount to a mirror. I've always alternated between being a loner and a freak. As a steadfast advocate for the underdog, I empathize with those made vulnerable by the effects of their choices.
In high school, I ate lunch alone and then by senior year, with a gaggly group of girls. In college, I alternated between hanging out with people from school, Hollywood bar trash and an extravagant flock of starfucker drag queens. The latter was a case study in double personalities. A person's given name was usually a secret while dropping a stage name with a club doorman could get you free admission or fifteen minutes of fame.
Now, in my 30++ years, I can look back and remember many different friends. It was not until I came to San Francisco that I noticed my regular group of cronies was made up of a dodgy set. A dodgy, communal set of my own Armistead Maupin variety. San Francisco is said to reflect human values of acceptance and less restrictions.
As I am presently temporarily unemployed and loath to drink I do not bar-hop with office boys or sit in stoic sober vigil. I have few vices but do allow myself the occasional shot. Rather than booze, I prefer to slam speed. This is something I have in common with most of the people I see around the city on a regular basis. An injection drug user or IDU exists on a continuum of shared social stigma. From my observation, speed injectors are more likely to partake on a recreational basis than those of heroin due to the substance's less addictive potential.
My friend Holly is testament to this theory. She is a 50 year old bleach blond bombshell with big tits bought from a benefactor. In another life, in a quiet Santa Rosa suburb, she is Rhonda. Rhonda is a divorcee with two grown children. The ex-husband was a verbally abusive man of French descent who openly chastised her in public at the restaurant they owned. Her daughter is a baby dyke of the Boys Don't Cry variety. I call her a girl named Jeff as inspired by the Brandon Teena bio-flick starring Hillary Swank. And her son is a strapping young heterosexual male. I think he's a chef. All are wont to pounce in judgement about Rhonda's new San Francisco life which includes participation in the oldest profession, a new look complete with piercings north and south and a full length tapestry of tattoos.
Holly nee Rhonda has a tendency to attract black men who wear bling-bling. Just the other day, having been forced to move from her South of Market single resident occupany hotel, she ended up on the sidewalk bereft of cab fare. As luck would have it, a kindly, black gentleman came to her rescue and lifted her to a neighboring hotel down the street where she is currently ensconsed. She said he was wearing bling (read: expensive) on every finger. Holly marveled at the kindness of strangers inherent in her supposed Streetcar Named Desire.
I am sensitive to her right to re-birth as a wanton woman. After the oppression she suffered as Santa Rosa Rhonda, the femme fatale persona born by Holly is like a youthful chirp in the bog. She does exude a hearty sense of executive sophistication and acts as a mother hen to Hollis, a girl that shares her choice of trade. The 25 year old working class Italian girl often often markets herself as second fiddle in a mother-daughter tag team on double dates. Her fantasy fullfilling postings on craigslist do not compete with the ones drafted by Kelly, an MTF transsexual former porn sensation. The easy money on the streets provides a stepping stone and security for a girl who never finished high school or learned to type. While Kelly is perpetuating a stereotype that transsexuals are prostitutes, she confirms the result of an existing cycle of poverty that limits opportunites available to openly gender-variant people. Holly, on the other hand is coming into her own as a strong woman who takes pride in her sexuality. She takes classes at the San Francisco Institute for Advanced Study of Human Sexuality and can cite Annie Sprinkle in her defense of sex work. Though prostituion, pilfering, philandering and street-walking are all considered vices worthy of arrest, a thriving subset of sex-positive workers has existed since days of Barbary Coast. The same goes for use of drugs, a behavior relegated to back alleys and secrecy. My purpose in pointing out these characteristics is not to exploit. I certainly do not look begrudgingly on the choice to engage in these under-the-radar types of behavior. As for drug use, Holly shares my firm belief in the principles of harm reduction. Eschewing the negative connotations of the word, "addict" which implies a loss of control over one's use of drugs, she identifies as a drug "user". A responsible drug user is entitled to the same human rights as those who do not engage. I accompany Holly to the various needle exchanges in the city where I sometimes work as an outreach worker and volunteer. Holly often assures me that everything in the unknown uncertainties of my future will work out. She says this with such a degree of authority that I am obliged to believe her. By stepping out of Rhonda's shackles, she bid adieu to the judgmental restrictions of her nuclear family and thrived as a result. She is one of the happiest people I know and if the glittery eye-shadow isn't an indicator, the va-va-voom is. She can stop traffic and incite a crowd to rubberneck as we gaily sashy around Union Square. I enjoy the attention because it's as if we are stars of the show.
Popping into Starbucks on a recent sunny afternoon, we individually took advantage of the locked privacy in the restroom to self-administer an injection, "shot" or "hit". When I emerged from the loo, I carefully dabbed at the trickling blood on my arm and joined Holly at an outside table to chat up and tete-a-tete with Frida, a fascinating, oblivious matron who regaled us a review of the matinee she had just seen at the Curran Theatre.
"Did you know that All About Eve was filmed at the Curran?", I offered in a desperate urgency matched by my rushing heart rate.
"Get slammed and talk to her-- fabulous"-- whispered Holly. I giggled and took a sip of my Tangerine Juice Frappocino, silently thanking God for providing me with friendship.
Reducing the potential harm is evidenced by our stellar representation of responible, safe users. Although it's subversive, I urge critics to question the reason. San Francisco is a historically tolerant city and I have traditionally pushed the envelope. It's a match of literary ilk.

There is something to be said for the easy and readily available sex that one finds on the Internet. Sites like www.manhunt.net and www.men4sexnow.com have taken the place of the kind of tricking one used to do on Polk street or Crissy Field. Still there is another kind of homosexual sex that takes place under the radar away from the Kinsey 6 queens.
Federal public health uses an all encompassing term to describe men who have sex with men. "MSM" includes gay, bisexual and those men who engage in homosexual sex who do not identify as such.
Looking back on the pattern of my personal sex life, it would seem that I have a tendency to sleep with men in the latter category. Attracting a man is relatively easy but a special kind of challenge occurs when the man is "on the downlow" or a "fence-sitter" i.e. unsure of his sexuality. I had a unique opportunity to attract such men for most of my 20s when my gender presentation remained ambiguous. Because of my facial features and anorexic frame, I was often mistaken for a girl. In college, I honed the art of illusion by dressing up as a girl and attending then-popular hetero night clubs like the Roxie. My conscience objected to the blatant misrepresentation that my gender-variance allowed. I did not feel comfortable being pursued for sex when dressed as a woman. Because I did not feel like a woman inside, the fact that I was mistaken for one was often lost on me. As far as I was concerned, the image I projected was by chance and I did nothing to perpetuate it. Of course, I didn't consider that the sparkly blue eye-shadow and glamazon hair extensions may have contributed to the attention. The trickle-down effect of my early drag identity morphed into androgyny.
As a result, the strict boundaries of sexual identity were severely blurred and cast aside. I soon realized that looking like a girl or appearing feminine could be used to an advantage that made the pursuit of sex ever so much more interesting. Although I seldom knowingly misrepresented myself as female, I seemed nonthreatening and non-male enough to make it easier for men who were on the fence about their sexuality to engage sexually with a man. It soon became a challenge and then a game to see how many of these borderline men I could lure to "the other side". I developed a set of do's and don'ts based on the trends I saw repeated in their behavior. For example, I took it as a given that no kissing would be appreciated. Straight men do not pursue cuddly affection with other men. Do, however focus on the cock. Don't expect to receive mutual gratification. Don't be too queeny. Don't touch them after they cum. Don't breathe a word of it and certainly don't expect a phone call or even an exchange of names afterward.
While working as a receptionist at a large consulting firm in Dallas, I landed the stud prize that could rival Paul Bunyan. "Darrel" was 6'5 and beefy. He confirmed the adage that everything is bigger in Texas and fit the bill entirely. I knew he had a girlfriend based on meeting the dippy blond who dropped off a big bouquet at my desk the previous Valentine's Day. "This is for Darrel," she cooed.
That's why it surprised me when Darrel invited me out for a "drink with the guys" one evening. I met him at a local watering hole and watched him down over a 6 pack of draft beers in less than a happy hour. No other guys showed up and I soon realized that he had orchestrated this setup to make it feasible for him to follow me home. One thing led to another and soon, he had joined the ranks of MSM, men who have sex with men (who don't identify as gay). In an eerily lucid moment, right before I hit the lights and sealed his fate, he said "remember, discretion is imperative...".
"Sure, of course, whatever," I agreed. Little did I know just how accurate this was to be when Darrel refused to acknowledge me the next day. He didn't so much as manage a nod in my direction while breezing through the lobby. He behaved as if our interlude had never happened. I soon learned that this was par for the course. Humoring the closet case along was a necessary part of the process when playing with this type of fire. In all cases when the trick grappled with his sexuality and questioned his desires, I banged the drum at an unassuming beat.
Assuring them that I was flattered and aware of the immense gravity of the step they had just taken was preceded by a promise to respect their boundaries. You wouldn't want them to think they just gave up the booty to a fag who was going to gossip about the event over the fence post they sat on. "Fence-sitter" is slang for "undecided" or "queerly questioning" or "bisexual". Frequent references to the guy's girlfriend was also essential. "I know you're not gay, dude", I implored. "That blowjob meant absolutely nothing. I was just testing the theory that gay guys can give better head than girls,".
The goal was to appear as non-threatening to the affected suitor as possible.
As I matured, the alternative gender I outwardly fostered gave way to facial hair, extra poundage and a celebration of homosexual sex that was also homo social. I am referring to the social aspects that take place in the dynamic of a shared sexuality. The locker-room scoreboard scale used to size up the chemistry afforded me a competitive edge in the marketplace. The penis pride realized in my sexual encounters reached out to favor the decidedly queer and less of the ones achieved with MSM on the DL. Now, when I come across a "not really gay" guy, I appeal to the fraternal sense of brotherhood.
By acknowledging that you are thankful for the time they are devoting to you, reiterate the need for discretion and assure that no strings are attached. "It's just a couple of guys hanging out," or something like that.
Sometimes, this "not really gay" guy will admit to being "gay for pay". On more than one occasion I have had to unduly encounter the panicked regrets of a deflowered MSM when he thought his sacred masculinity had been compromised. For free. I don't pay for sex as there is no need, a detail I have had to point out when the MSM treats me as purloin er.
I maintain it is essential to establish that fact from the beginning when one's pride and fiscal market value is taken into question. Is he being coy or is he working? Nothing is more of a buzz kill than the post-coital shock that a slug in the mug will bring you.
Each of the varied encounters has an underlying commonality in their singled-out occurrences as one-time-only. I can count on one hand the number of times I have laid a second visit with a partner.
I don't know if this tale will make sense or ring familiar to anyone gay who happens to read it. It is merely a look-back and Pondering of the sex that describes my identification as homosexual.
When asked to check a box on sexual orientation, I instinctively blurt, "male" before realizing my mistake. I have colored outside of the box for years in relation to my gender presentation. While challenging the parameters of gender by virtue of my crying game, I shied away from the constrictions brought on by the need to check a box. Reading down the list of pansexual possibilities, I am grateful to be innately Gay and check appropriately. But then I question and think again. I know "MSM" exists to take into account the gay sex that men who aren't gay have. As I have gained some kind of expertise by engaging in said behavior I wonder if the sex I had from my gay perspective is different from the type I engaged with men of the latter. For that matter, why am I forced to tie all of my gayness into a neat box fit for profiling? Top or bottom? Nelly or butch? Trannie or just look like one? While these either/or choices connote hetero sexist stereotypes, the definitive "gay" and all it's come to imply is dangerously mediocre. If I check the box as gay, am I relegated to vanilla boy-on-boy sex with pink collared clones? What about the crying game I play with the fence sitters? Does this count as gay sex? What if I wear mascara and act as the gateway gay?
While technological advances and online identities have broadened the sexual marketplace, html has replaced pheromones. A major part of me stems from the experience I gained as a result of other's perception being different from my reality. I came to touch and was then empowered by the fact that perceptions were not always what they seemed. If my tender years had been spent checking boxes in masturbatory isolation, would I be as gaily evolved as the MSM or less so? Living as a man who looked like a woman who had sex as a man with men who loved women and then as a man as only a man can....I say "try and put that in a box". Which reminds me of a time I waited on Chi Chi Larue and her latest cast of porn-gods while working at a local restaurant. When asked if she would like a to go box for her leftovers, she quipped, "A Box!!" and giggled with knowing glee.
How gay.

Crazy as a Blue Lagoon Loon
Current mood: nauseated
Category: Romance and Relationships


I remember one childhood day when my mother pulled me aside and warned me that it was extremely important that I try to get along with other children. Since I was an only & adopted child, I was made to believe that the entire universe revolved around me. Teachers described me as a flamboyant, sensitive kid. But soon, I matured into an antisocial sissy that spent the majority of the tween years isolating in a walk-in closet with my Hollywood fanzines and dolls.

Thus, my formative years were grounded in a negative perception of self image and a depressive loathing that laid the path for years to come. In 1980 my divorced father and his child-bride belted me into the back of their station wagon and took me to the drive-in showing of Herbie Goes Bananas. I had no interest in the trite telling of a VW bug's life. Bored and bitter, I peered through the rear view window to discover an angel of an image. When I saw Christopher Atkins frolicking on the beach of the Blue Lagoon, I felt a dreamy warm chill flash through my gut. Doing a 180, I read his gorgeous, full lips word for word through the back window, since I could not hear the spoken dialogue.

"Turn around and watch our movie," my father scolded.

Forbidden and banished from my evening in the twilight of the Blue Lagoon, I wept in angry tears.


"That goddamn film is not for a 7 year old," said the brutish father.

I went home that night and dreamed of a blond, Aryan god. Hollywood's image was forever in my head. The bleached, athletic prowess of a California beach boy stayed in my subconscious and served as the ultimate prototype of perfection.

As I shed the poundage of a suicidal childhood, puberty led to adulthood and a modicum of self-acceptance. No matter what I looked like in the mirror, an uncomely nerd stared back. This dreadful image followed me through high school, into college and a young adulthood spent in a microcosm of looksism aka Hollywood.

Slim and suddenly able to compete in a model's market, I maintained the destructive behavioral pattern fueled by an inaccurate self perception. Christopher Atkins moved on to yesterday's news but his masculine ideal remained the golden-haired standard.
I became bewitched by the American Model Guild beefcake icon imagery but his tantalizing unattainable bulge haunted me.

Upon a recent evening set in my current habitat of ennui, I met my childhood wet dream incarnate. A friend showed up at my door and introduced me to Bjorn. I dried the dish soap on my ragged jeans and considered it a welcome substitute for the laundry I was too broke to do. Luckily, the faded frumpy cornflower blue sweatshirt I wore was baggy enough to hide evidence of my neglected abdominals. Sticking my hand out to welcome the hazy figure I saw in the foyer, I licked my lips twice when my eyes focused. Bjorn stood before me and I blushed like Blanche Dubois. "Why didn't you tell me he was so fine?" said Bjorn to my friend.

Since I had been wearing the same drab dress for over a depressive week, I cursed myself and hurried to the loo to implement damage control. I remembered reading that Bette Davis was dubbed the "little brown wren" upon her Hollywood arrival and I flashed to that image. Piper Laurie's cacophonous curse lectured in my ears. "They're all gonna laugh at you," she ragged. "He's never going to f**k you, " rang the mantra. Over and over, the sirens taunted me. The blond Venus in my living room must have mistaken me for someone else.


When I finally rejoined my company I flashed on Shirley Maclaine doing a fast-switch with her hairpiece in the ladies room before she lunched with Jack Nicholson in Terms of Endearment. If she could dance the entire Nutcracker ballet suite with a broken ankle (Washington Ballet circa 1950s), then I could fake my through social niceties with my childhood lover fantasy.


Bjorn took his shirt off and I channeled Paris Hilton with

"Wow, you're HOT".


"Puleeze," said my amused friend, rolling his eyes.

I accepted Bjorn's complimentary stares much less gracefully than Shirley did in her dance of the lost cupcake.


My friend busied himself perusing the craigslist m4m postings and I sat beholden by Bjorn. He layered the saccharine on tri-fold and lambasted me with butterfly kisses.

"I dreamed of you last week." he said. As we had just barely met, I questioned the validity of this statement.

"Here, read my journal," he offered as he pulled out a tattered, steno pad labeled "treatment journal". The handwriting was psycho Palmer method but I was able to eke out a semblance of translation. Something to the effect of song lyrics or a dream sequence was on the page but I could not be sure. I interviewed him with the journalistic training I acquired at USC and practiced active listening.

Bjorn seemed a bit off balance; a quality I could relate to as evidenced by the number 5150 tattooed on my arm. The cuckoo's scarlet letter scored me some points with an impressed Bjorn. He lapsed into a deep, throaty rendition of a Kurt Cobain tune. I brought up the parallel between the wispy Nirvana singer's suicide and Bjorn's most recent attempt to overdose.

I probed him for sketches of a biographical narrative. He made references to a broken home, a neglectful mother and tyrant father. I pictured the young, blond, curly-haired innocent Dickensian character. The tragedy of the marble faun.

He told me I looked like a rock star.

Then he leaned really close to my ear and confessed he only watched straight porn. He said it as if gay porn was totally inappropriate to watch during gay sex.

By the end of the interview, I was to learn Bjorn was born 14 days after my September birth date in 1973 and was the absent father of two children. A daughter named Destiny and



... 'wait,- stop, go back...

I could not believe the parallels. I was 2 weeks older than him. Amazing! And his daughter's name is the same as my niece just as his name is the same as my sister's ex-husband, himself a parolee, just like Bjorn. Of course, my sister's ex served time for attempted man-slaughter while Bjorn's only crime was stealing my heart.


I stared into his eyes and imagined being swallowed by...



the California sea-scape.



By this time, I was living an out-of-body experience or did I only want to because he said he did? No stranger to attempted suicide, he parroted other accounts I have heard about near-death. Tales of ominous light coupled with a feeling of peace that led to the spirit levitating above the body ad infinitum.


Suicide, pills, teen-age delinquency, sex, psych-meds, porno and blond! I was beside myself; - in complete disbelief. I pictured a paperback novel with Fabio on the dog-eared cover. The hallowed story of this lusty squire.

Suddenly he was overcome with passion. We were two babes in the woods with a determined dynamism. My sexual half-life up to the present had been primarily dominated by the hurried hushes and carnal urgings uttered by straight-as-identified men. I was totally disconnected from the 'wow' factor for years. Having humored the homophobic hostility of MSM for so long, I could barely remember the sparkle kiss of contentedness shared with another man.


Bjorn's tranquil caress brought me to Xanadu. I flashed on Olivia Newton-John and a memory of Let's Get Physical reverberated through my physique. The nirvana-like euphoria I experienced made me question the association Bjorn made between himself and the wispy shadow of an icon, aka Kurt Cobain.



(aside)--- I enjoyed myself sexually but how could I not? He's completely unreal and I'm still not so sure that he is not one hundred percent cuckoo-loo. That explains why he claimed attraction for me. He has to be nuts. Or ulterior motives are in play. I'm out of the running. I can barely stomach myself. How can he?

I wanted to bask in the promising pillow talk and dream of my future ex-husband. I tried to picture myself as the second half of two dads to his children. But then he lapsed into baby-talk and for a while looked and sounded like an eight year-old. He sat on the floor and surrounded himself with a Mr. Wizard-like set of drug paraphernalia. He seemed to be playing paddy-cake with a witch doctor's unction. I knew Bjorn had a drug-induced past, another trait he shared with me. The unguent combination he prepared in the spoon looked unlike any injectable substance I had ever seen. "It's synthetic cocaine," he offered. "Want a hit?"


Good Lord. Being an advocate for junkie's rights had never exposed me to this sideshow. I soon learned that Bjorn's synthetic coke was actually a crushed-up and watered down smattering of Welbutrin mixed with another undetermined psych med, "dipped in Ecstasy" that was actually heated by flame and drawn up in clumps through a used syringe.


Another parallel screamed in my brain as I "suddenly, last summer" flashed on the imagined vision of my overly medicated birth mother morphing into drug addict vis-a-vis Liz Taylor's lobotomized fate akin to the Three Faces of Eve.

Did Bjorn's dissociation match the disorder my biological birth mother effected in Agnew Insane Asylum? I knew better than to look this "hung like a (gift)-horse" in the mouth and my optimistic dreams of coupledom gave way to self chastisement.

The familiar lashings of self-doubt and hatred caustically attacked me from the eaves of my id.


Bjorn was gone. Totally gone. As he left upon Aurora's awakening, (dawn) he blew me (and then a kiss) ? vowing to return for the dawn of our relationship. I have not seen him since.


I bid farewell to him and adieu to the hateful imps wreaking havoc on my self image. I realized I could never imagine that I would somehow be worthy of the attention he lavished on me. And by the rate things are going, I'm not sure I ever will. God save me from myself.