Barbie Made Me Bi

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Then Jessica Rabbit, Christina Ricci, and catching bits of Heavy Metal on cable when no one was around. I know that’s not how sexuality works, but these ladies definitely persuaded a leaning.

I was born in the early 80’s, so I’m not entirely sure of how I feel. Let me rephrase that: we didn’t have as many known identities, as many acceptable ways to be. You were either this or that, very black and white. I try to think about what I am by today’s standards, and with the internet, I will say that I’m non-binary, bisexual, and gender fluid, though possibly third gender since I really don’t feel particularly male or female. (Sorry, I know that made me sound like I’m 80 years old, but I went down the list and wrote all that applied to me. Cram it.) See, I don’t now anymore. Am I a boy trapped in a girl’s body? This knowledge isn’t of my generation. I wish it were. We didn’t have that level of understanding when I was growing up and now I don’t know how to feel any longer. All I know is I’m not a regular girl and I’m married to a man and I masturbate to women. I have had sex with women and men. I feel I could love whoever. I may have been in love with my old best friend.

But yeah, Barbie. She made me idealize big boobs, that I would never have. I want a boob job, just double up, to be sexy, but breast cancer runs in my family. Boobs are great. I love boobs. I have dreams where I have big boobs and I feel powerful. I already have back problems. Femininity equals power over men equals huge boobs because men are simple. But Barbie seemed like such a bimbo. Yeah, she was a vet and an astronaut and all that, but you always kinda got the feeling that she slept her way to the top. Nothing about her said well-educated with a sparkling personality and always ready with a dick joke. Life went too right for her. Blonde hair AND blue eyes? Fuck you. Is it the jealousy factor? Is that what’s so appealing?

Jesus, I have a Barbie doll fetish and I did it to myself.

When I was a child, I remember conducting Barbie orgies in her mansion. I was very sexual in my play, but also neglected, so no one really knew or was concerned. Barbie would fuck everyone. I would make bondagey outfits out of rubber bands or black tape. Only when I began drawing pictures of people having sex did my mother worry, but then, only enough to make me feel terrible about a thing I didn’t understand.

The first time I masturbated, with outside help, was with Barbie doll legs attached to my broken pager. I know how weird that sounds, but I couldn’t find the candlestick I KNEW we had in the kitchen cabinet. I stole a forgotten, naked doll from one of my sisters, and when the fucking awful deed was through, buried it in the back of my closet, forever.

I’ve gotten to the point where, as an adult, I just collect Barbies. A little gross, right? I don’t take these out of the box, so I can play it off as completely non-sexual.

Oh, you didn’t know that about me? Yup, love Barbie. She can do anything. Not a realistic role model though.

Connection.

I’m getting to be in the “heavily tattooed” category, so when I was teaching, kids would always ask me, “Do tattoos hurt?”

“Of course they hurt! It’s needles jabbing you until you don’t feel it any more. But they also feel kind good–wait, you don’t understand that yet–you’re only fourteen….or…no, you probably do.” I knew about some kids who were already starting to cut on themselves (they’d tell me)–those were never the kids who asked since I’m pretty sure they made the connection. I’d be candid with kids in our one-on-ones. They knew I had depression. I knew which of them did too.  We were all practically adults here; sad, confused, adult-children.

While teaching sucked ass, at least the money was nice (says a person who has minimal bills). I used the extra cash for tattoos. It had been I could only get work done when I got money for my birthday or Xmas. I had never had extra funds for bullshit before and it was alright. Plus, I hated that school so much and cried more often than not while home that the three hour plus sessions on a holiday Monday felt nice.

Yes, I know it’s gross, but I think tattoos feel good. I used to be best friends with a cutter–I read all the books on her–I get it. I tried to cut once. Threw a picture frame across the room and put a shard of glass to my arm, but I couldn’t do it. It hurt, so I stopped. Like immediately. But if someone else is in control of things–I get it. The sensation is “big adrenaline,” a fearless, indestructible surge. I wonder if that’s how it feels to cutters. They say it’s to let the feelings out or to feel anything at all, but I wonder if it’s the same; a numb rush, almost a non-feeling. I love to be able to get a tattoo when I feel really depressed, but it almost never works out that way. It seems now that I’ve been getting them more often, with less time in between, the pain is starting to mean less. I don’t want to ruin what I have, my socially acceptable self-harm coping mechanism that comes with pretty pictures.

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