Thirty percent

When I was a really little kid, like around age three, my favorite color was deep purple. I remember being into lacy, sheer materials like my mother’s scarves, which I would drape over my head and run around the house. My dad nicknamed me Markalina. Around age five I told my mother that I wanted to be a girl. She deflected the question expertly, like this: Go tell your father.

He was in the bath at the time, so I went into the bathroom and told him, I want to be a girl. He didn’t say anything right away, but his shoulders kind of hunched up, as if the bathwater had suddenly gotten very cold around him.

What I was trying to say, but was too little to articulate, was that I wanted to know what it was like to have a pussy. I had seen one and was fascinated by it. What my dad concluded was, Holy shit, my son is gay.

Over the years my dad continued to let me know in more or less obvious ways that he thought I was gay.  When I started dressing weird as a teenager, and when I chose to go to art school instead of something normal, and had friends who were without a doubt flaming homosexuals, I’m sure this confirmed it for him. This did not help to build my confidence with women as a teenager and beyond. That is, I was pretty good at getting women, but when it came time to seal the deal I would sometimes falter and my jimmy would not rise to the occasion.

Now, full disclosure, I did suck a couple of dicks as a kid. This or that little friend and I would look at some Hustlers, get horny, and then he would helpfully suggest a way to deal with our boners in the absence of real girls.

I suppose if my dad had known about the dick sucking it would have been case closed. As it was, ironically, the lack of confidence brought on by my dad thinking I was gay, plus my actual childhood dick sucking, created real sexual confusion for me in my teens and early 20s; I was fervently desirous of pussy, and yet there was always that undermining little voice of my father in the background going, “You’re gay” right when I was about to stick it in.

At about age 24 I wanted to settle the issue once and for all, and it happened that one night I was in a threesome with a gay guy and a lesbian.

She was incredibly hot, much like the fake lesbians in Hustler. Unfortunately, she was a real lesbian and wanted nothing to do with me or my penis. She and my gay friend ended up doing it, which was much more exciting and naughty for both of them, as disappointing as it was for me. After they finished he and I fooled around a bit but wouldn’t you know it, my penis only had an eye for the vagina, and would not respond to manly tugging.

Well, that cleared up my confusion once and for all. It should have been enough to notice that if I saw a sexy picture of a woman I would get a boner, but a sexy picture of a man would not do anything for me. But I needed that upfront, real world experience to drive the point home (so to speak). It was a significant event in my development, not to mention an awesome notch in my bedpost.

Some time later I took an online quiz to find out what percentage gay I was, because according to this quiz everyone is some percentage gay. It turns out that I am 30%. That number is fine with me. I really like pussy a lot, but I also cannot resist a nice antique lamp.

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