Aren’t Touch-me-Nots Really Just Insecure Stud’s?
Let’s think about this a moment.
Definition of a Stud: Masculine Presenting Lesbian.
It’s funny, I never knew that was who I was. Who I’d become...
I had “it” in me, since my childhood days I walked like a man. Strode like a man.
As a kid, I chose football over dance. I liked working outside with my father rather than in the kitchen with my mother.
I had no breasts, so I seized every opportunity to run around with boys my age — topless, exchanging wit, and physical strength. Those were good days. Yeah, those were great days. Consequently, I started liking girls before I realized it.
In highschool, Junior Secondary School three to be precise, that was when I put a name to the lifestyle. Amusingly, I never knew what homosexuality was before then. Some girls from class called me out to the front and put me in the center. Questions few from all around the circle. “Are you a Lesbian?” they asked.
What did 12-year-old me know about that word? Back then, saying it was a big taboo. So it wasn’t the most popular word to be understood.
“What’s Lesbian?” I asked?
“A girl that likes girls.” they sneered at me.
Me? I was blushing. I liked girls. I like all of ’em. I was a proud Lesbian, who wasn’t?
Until they explained further. A girl that loved girls.
“Tuffiakwa!” I exclaimed, snapping my fingers across my head. “See me o.” I put out both my palms to prove my innocence.
They insisted I was, “I behaved like one,” they claimed, due to the bond I had with one of their friends, Victoria, my first crush. A very beautiful girl. They showed me all the letters I had written to her signalling more to the “ordinary friendship” I claimed it was.
I insisted. “I only liked her like a sister o. Shey it’s there in the letter,” I said, pointing to backup on the paper.
“You’re a lesbian,” they insisted. “You look at girls too much. With lust.”
I denied.
I denied.
I denied.
Of course it wasn’t a complete lie that I wasn’t gay. Back then I dreamt of being a princess too. Of being saved by a prince charming. I had the hugest crush on the Indian actor Hrithik Roshan. “We were meant to be,” I told my family. I could care less about the age-gap. But then, I grew into a young adult, and just like with writing, my gay side chose me, and I chose it back too.
Fast-forward to University, College as you call it, I found out I was a Stud. Remember, all my life I’ve been walking like a man. There was a chip on my shoulders so I hunched it. I swung my arms around and never crossed my feets when I moved. It was careless, but admirable. However, it termed me a freak. Not many girls walked that way naturally.
Again, I fought to keep hidden my sexuality. Listen, even now, you cannot identify as queer. So why this writing Angel? I’m stubborn, I’ll admit that.
Everyone knew I was gay, it was that obvious. I was a Tomboy, the alternative name for Butch over here. But don’t call me that alright? Especially now. I’m no tomboy. I’m stud.
Being called a freak did it’s toll on me. I had many times cried myself to sleep. I begged on bended knees for God to take away the gay. I wanted to be “normal”. I was tired of being looked at differently. Of being hated. Being crucified before given a chance to defend myself. Maybe I’d have blew it, or maybe I would have asked, “What does whom I love have to do with you? Why does the word gay spin you into fury?”
But there was no guts to defend myself. No strength left to ask these questions. How could I? It was one against an armed hundred. Once more I was in the middle of circle with the world screaming at me.
With the world screaming at me, I lost my voice.
I lost my fight.
I hated myself.
I hated who I’d become. What, I had become.
Suicidal thoughts swirled in my mind but fear of death kept me trapped in a life I didn’t want to to live. I struggled to find redeeming qualities in myself.
In time I settled into my identity, left every trace of bisexuality behind and became a hardcore stud. Not the ones with stone cold heads, I’m afraid. Heh.
However, I never quite got to the part of letting my guards down. Even with girls I loved at the time. Girls I went into relationships with.
Shrek was beautiful, compared to my nude body.
Black skin, tough and rough.
Round stomach. Ugly face.
Small breasts. Skinny hands.
Ugly me. Ugly me...
Only in.the darkness did I feel safe enough to get intimate, yet still, my body was off limits.
“Don’t bother about my pleasure, satisfying you, satisfies me.” that was the anthem.
I had no idea there were a handful of us this way, I was shocked to find out we even had a tag; the Touch-me-nots, quite a name eh?
I met a cousin and few other studs who I bonded with over time and came to acquaintance. Becoming friends with them had me realize they were insecure too, even though they tried by God to hide it. Studs usually do. But these friends I made, when we got vulnerable, mostly when we drank together, they shared stories similar to mine. They felt ugly, not seen. “Why should I ache to be touched then Angel?” Sam asked one day while we were sharing a drink outside the premises of school. “My body’s imperfect. I can’t have that seen.
No, I can’t have that seen.” she looked away. But I felt that. I felt the same way too.
Thing is, no one’s really a touch-me-not, no, I don’t believe so. We all want to be held. It is the lack of physical touch from the onset that got the lot of us thinking we were no good and thus, shouldn’t be seen. “We’d be laughed at.” The fear of mockery. The fear of less-than.
Everyone longs to be touched, to be held close and loved.
It’s just fear, it’s just insecurity.
In reality, touch me nots are not a reflection of self sufficiency, but a cry for connection and acceptance hidden behind that ugly mask of insecurity. I dropped mine, my ugly mask, I dropped it. Well, I’m still trying, but I will tell you this; love has never been sweeter. With my vulnerability and her desire to fill it with warmth, love has never been greater.
You need satisfaction too. You’re no Shrek, and even he had a love so good.
You are beautiful. It’s in the way you smile. The way that girl admires your laugh, your stride, your style.
The compliment your mother gave you. The pat in the back from your father.
The free protection your siblings offer you, and the genuine connection your friends bring with them.
It’s in all of these; your beauty, your goodness. It’s in you, it’s around you. You have to see it. See it! So what there’s a little fat, or not enough. So what? Weight can always be lost and gained healthily.
You are on a journey, not liking yourself or body is only slowing you down.
Glossary
- Tuffiakwa — God forbid!
- See me o — Take a look at me.
This is a personal opinion. I’m afraid if you’re searching for facts, you won’t find it in this article!.
But, please, tell me, what do you think? Am I spot on, or what the heck is this writer saying?
Either way, clap, highlight the places you want to counter or praise, and please, share your thoughts.
