The Hole Within

CHAPTER 15

Liz came from a prominent Mormon family. Her father taught physics at Brigham Young University and wrote some of the textbooks used there. Having a father with a scientific mind made her a unique Utah Mormon. She was raised to question things, unlike the rest of us. It made her open to different points of view. She was a popular cheerleader in high school which made her an unlikely friend to an outsider like me. Liz and I went to the same ward so we saw each other casually. She would see me at school eating alone and eventually she sat next to me. I do not know if it was altruism that prompted her or a genuine desire to get to know me but I was grateful. We became friends, meeting daily for lunch. She was full of energy, and a happy sixteen-year-old. She had long auburn hair and deep blue eyes. Not beautiful, but cute with a freckled face. At five feet four, she was a petite girl. My attraction to her came from her quickness to smile and laugh and the way it made her eyes sparkle. By mid-year we were inseparable. It was Liz and Lysa. Conveniently, she lived around the corner from me. I had been over to her house a few times before and I met her jovial father and her dour mother. She was a third youngest out of eight kids. Her mother suffered from depression and severe headaches. She was as absent as my own, often sequestered in her bedroom.

The turning point from best friends to a relationship I struggled to define came one day when I went over to her house for family home evening. Liz lay on the couch and I was seated on the floor with my back leaning against the couch. I preferred the floor due to my self-imposed lowly position and my need to deny myself. As her father read from the scriptures Liz begin to softly caress and play with my hair. Her touch bit me like a mouth. I was instantly riveted. The words became a blur as I closed my eyes in a reverie of sensuality at such an intimate act. I was immersed in the moment, my body alive, all nerve endings highly acute. It was an innocent gesture on her part but it filled me with such intense pleasure I wanted it to last forever. In weeks to come I put myself in the position for a repeat performance every time I could. Studying in her room with her on the bed and me on the floor as close to her as I could get. I was often rewarded with more of the same. It was a slow progression but eventually I lay on her bed with my head in her lap while she tenderly stroked my head and face. Closing my eyes, (she thought me asleep), my body was too full of electricity to doze. Once again, I never thought to name my feelings. I did not have sexual fantasies about her but I did long for her touch. I wanted to be enveloped by her. I would be at her house as often as possible. I found that if I was upset or cried she would hold me. She would lie on her bed, her arms wrapped around me while I cried myself into a fitful sleep.

Soon it just became our natural position, spooning on her bed while we talked. On some level, we both knew it was too intimate. We would hurry apart if there was a knock at the door. Several times her dad just opened the door catching us in our embrace. He would not say anything though, just looked and left. He would often do that when we were downstairs watching movies. We would be on the couch, Liz reclining against the arm and I reclined against her body, her arms wrapped around me. We would start at the light he snapped on. Then he would look, turn the lights off and leave without a word. I am sure he was watching and waiting to catch us in a compromising act. He did eventually talk to her about the physical contact, telling her that it was not natural. She held her ground and was not dissuaded. She did relent that when I spent the night we would sleep on the pull-out sofa bed instead of in her room with the door closed. That did not stop us from sleeping with our arms around each other like exhausted lovers.

Though I lost my heart to her I would have protested if anyone had suggested that I was in love with my best friend. I knew very little about homosexuality, only that it was wrong. I did not equate my longing for Liz's touch with the passion of lovers. My bedroom quickly became a shrine to Liz. Pictures of us together, cards and trinkets she gave me littered by bedside table. I had a picture of Liz right next to my bed so her face would be the first thing I would see in the morning and the face I would stare at before sleep. Her bedside table was dedicated to her and her boyfriend, Wayne. Neither of us thought to correlate the two. I spent hours writing poems of devotion and love to her, always carefully skirting just around the corners of my true desire. I dated casually, going on double dates with her and Wayne just to be close to her. She was the sun and I was her moon always following behind. I do not know if Liz was blind to my feelings for her or if she secretly enjoyed being worshiped by both Wayne and me. We each shared a part of her and both vied for all of her. I do not know if Wayne ever saw me as I saw him, competition for Liz's love and affection. I do not know if he saw my desire for her, saw it in the way I looked at her and the way I positioned myself to always touch her in some way. He never gave any indication.

There was only one time that I could have crossed the line. I was sleeping over and I was spooning Liz. She had a short shirt on and I found my hand on her bare skin resting on the flat of her stomach. I caressed her skin and my hand slowly moved up. Soon I felt the swell of her breasts against the side of my hand as I lightly traced her silky-smooth skin. I had a tremendous desire to cup her ample breast in my hand. To feel her pink nipple harden at my touch. The rush of desire filled me with heat that reached deep into my abdomen. My sex tingled and pulsed. My hand was so close. She had not moved to reposition it. Did she want this too? What would I do once her breast filled my hand? What would she do? In the end, I was too chicken to find out. After a long while the intense fire within subsided and I fell asleep. I write:

To say

I love you isn't enough

This love is greater

Than words

It would be

Easier to describe

The color

Yellow

To a blind man,

So, let me instead

Describe

Yellow

To you.

***

Wayne was one of the stoner shit kickers. Liz must have had a desire to fix wayward souls or something. The worst evenings for me were at her house when Wayne came over to watch movies with us and I had to share her. We were Liz's bookends. She would hold his hand (read: jealous rage) with her right and secretly hold mine with her left. We would always have a blanket or pillow positioned in which to hide our entwined hands. Sometimes I would torture myself (read: manipulate her?) by sitting away from her. She would always end up coaxing me over and would wrap her small hand around mine. When he would go to the bathroom or go upstairs to get popcorn she would take me in her arms and assure me that she loved me as much as she loved him.

Wayne finally left on his mission and I had Liz to myself for a glorious year and a half. With no competition, Liz became my existence, my obsession. We spent all our free time together during the day and shared a bed most nights. When we had to sleep apart Liz with spray some of her perfume on a stuffed teddy bear I slept with. I would take in great lungful's as I lay and imagined her there. I would hold my own hand imagining it was hers. I would run my hand down over my bare skin and imagine hers in its place. I would become aroused and touch myself as I imagined her lying next to me. I would bring myself to orgasm smelling her on my bear, imagine her touching me with her soft hands. I would lay satiated and shamed by my act. However, it was a vague sense of shame, more at the act of masturbation. I never imagined Liz touching me sexually. I rarely imagined her kissing me. Mostly it was the feel of her body against mine. The feel of her hands over my skin, on my face and in my hair. Since I did not fantasize about her sexually it could not be wrong or bad. I never thought to correlate my sexual arousal with thinking of her.

Liz loved me as completely as she could. She gave me all the affection possible without crossing the thin line between us. Many times, I pushed her away, distanced myself, fearful of how much I loved and depended on her. I let her love define me. I was so afraid of losing her love that I wanted to be on the offensive. I knew Wayne held a part of her heart that I could never have. If I could not have all of her I wanted none of her. But I did. Our relationship became a push-pull game. I pushed her away while I begged her to love me. She was my delight and my torture. I loved her but I hated her. Even still I did not (read: could not) acknowledge my real desire or lust for her. I write:

Loving you

Scares me –

Your kindness

Your gentle touch

Your uncanny

Understanding

And wisdom

Your vulnerability

Reflects mine

And I shy away from

Such a mirror

Loving you

Scares me

But not as bad

As you loving

Me.