First, understand that I was raised in a loving family. We lived in Baltimore, Maryland. My father was a steelworker in a large mill and had worked his way up from loading freight cars to shift foreman in the rolling yards. He was also a shop steward for the American Steel Workers. While he did work hard, and put in a lot of overtime and off shifts, he was a loving father and devoted family man. My mother was, for most of my time as a youngster, a homemaker. However, when I was in High School, she started working as a substitute teacher at the Catholic Elementary School which I had attended. I am number 4 of 5 children.
My parents were good Catholics for a while, but the "sin" of birth control came about after I was born. My mom was very honest with my elder sister and I about the whole thing. My little brother was a final gift from God one night when the diaphragm stayed in the dresser drawer. He really is a gift too. Six years younger than I, we all loved (and still love) him dearly. He's a wonderful guy, currently in the Engineering school and the University of Maryland.
All in all, I had an ideal family when I was growing up. We weren't rich, but had a nice home. Today, my father has retired from the mill (early retirement brought about by the mill closing) and works as a department manager in a Wal Mart. My mother volunteers a lot in her local church. They have moved to a more rural part of the state, but Maryland is small, so I see them often. I have never told them about my sexual orientation, but they have stopped asking about my love life. Occasionally, some silly aunt will make a comment about how I should be married. We all laugh (nervously) and I explain that I'm picky and just haven't met the right person yet. Honestly, my parents know about me, but they still love me and always welcome me into their lives. They may be a little sad and disappointed, but my love life just doesn't enter into our relationship.
When I was going to school, the Catholic grade schools ran into the eighth grade. Until this point, they were co-ed, not until High School were the boys and girls separated. This meant that I was in class with boys until I was 14. Of course, there was some informal dating going on. In the fifth grade you began to here about couples "going together." One poor girl in my class got pregnant in the seventh grade. She was home schooled until her baby was a year old, and then went to the public schools where there is a program for young mothers.
All the time when I was growing up, I never liked the boys. They seemed silly and sometimes just plain mean. I guess I got along normally with my brothers, but they are my brothers. It was when I was in the fifth grade that I realized that I was different. The other girls had started talking a lot about boys, but the whole thing just left me cold. I remember when a girl at lunch made the comment that one of the seminarians working with the father at the school had a cute butt. The other girls giggled. I looked up and saw a well-developed eighth grader walking across the lunchroom. With a little shock, I realized that I thought she had a cute butt.
It was when I was in the fourth grade that a new sister came to our school to teach music. All the teacher seem old when your ten, later I realized that she had to be just out of school. She had taken Holy Orders, she was not a novice. We immediately took a liking to each other. I have a bit of a talent for music and I became one of her star pupils. At that time I played the violin, later I moved to the cello. She taught me a lot about music (and other things). I started taking individual lessons from her after school.
When I was in the fifth grade, the school arranged a trip to Europe. I don't know where my parents came up with the money to send me, but they did. As I said earlier, they were loving, devoted parents. We spent a week in Rome and three days in Paris. I attended mass at St. Peter's and received the Holy Father's blessing. The trip was great. I loved the museums and the sights—it was a real adventure for an eleven-year-old.
While in Rome, we girls stayed in a convent outside the city (the boys stayed in the Holy City). Most of the sisters there did not speak much English. The building was ancient, over 500 years old. The rooms were small; two of us were assigned to each. I spent most of my time during the trip with sister Flo, she had arranged for me to be in her group. I really had come to love being with her, and she always treated me special.
The third night at the convent I wasn't feeling well, probably not used to the food. I crept out of my room and down two doors to Flo's room. I knocked very quietly and listened at the door. The convent was very quiet; the only light came from a single lamp at the end of the hallway near the bathroom. I heard through the door what I thought was Sister Flo crying. This upset me a little and I slowly raised the latch and pushed the door open. You can't imagine my shock at seeing Flo and one of the Italian sisters making love. They were both naked. Flo was lying on her back, propped up on her elbows. The other sister, also naked, was going down on her. I watched in amazement for what must have been half a minute before Flo saw me. She jumped up and pulled me into the room, closing the door behind me. The other nun had a shocked look on her face, she was terrified.
We talked in desperate whispers. The other girl started to cry. After a few minutes I realized how much trouble they were in if I told anyone what I had seen. Flo would be sent away by the Mother Superior, and the other sister said she would be kicked out of the convent (I guess she was still a novice). She said, in broken English, that she could never go home to her parents, they would not have her back. I did not sleep much that night, I didn't know whether Sister Flo was mad at me or what. I was really nervous the next morning, but at breakfast Flo came up to me and gave me a big hug. It was then that I knew that everything would be ok.
When we returned to the US, things went normally in school. I still had lessons two afternoons a week with Sister Flo, and occasionally I would see her on Sundays. But, what I had seen had really made a change in my life. It had never occurred to me that two women could have sex, not really. Now I knew differently. I had occasionally masturbated before this, but I really didn't understand what I was doing. Now I had an image in my mind, and I always thought of girls.
I am a thorough believer in the idea that homosexuals are born and not made. My story is not different from every other homosexual that I know. I just knew, from an early age, that I was different. I always found women attractive, it was Sister Flo who gave meaning to my feelings.
After a couple of months, it was spring, I asked Flo about what had happened. She smiled and told me that an eleven-year-old girl shouldn't worry about such things. When she said this, I began to cry. She came over to me and hugged me, rocking me in the folds of her habit. I told her that I was different from the other girls and didn't understand why. I told her that I loved her. I told her that I did "dirty" things in the bathtub and was afraid I would go to Hell for it. I couldn't bring myself to confess to the father, I couldn't be forgiven. I sinned alone and I really sinned when I took communion. Sister Flo told me that it was all right, Christ knew and loved me and understood. Then she told me that she loved me. I felt very much better riding the bus home that evening.
At my next session, I felt wonderful. Everything was going right. School was going great, and I played the cello beautifully. Between pieces, I asked Flo what it was like. I just blurted it out without thinking. Flo got very serious. She told me that lovemaking was wonderful. She told me that it fulfilled the feeling and excitement of being in love. "But, I love you." I said.
Flo could have dismissed me with a laugh or some sort of platitude. Society would say that this was the right thing to do. Really, she held my ego in her hands—she could have crushed it right there. Instead, she treated me like I mattered, like my feelings mattered. I was in college before I realized how tenderly she had treated me.
She came over to me, kneeling in front of me in my chair. She hugged me, and then she kissed me. Not a little peck on the cheek, but a passionate, loving, lover's kiss. I melted. I stayed late that evening. At one point she called my mother and told her we were working on a special piece of music, and she would drive me home later. We made love for two hours. I had never been so close to a woman's body before. I was fascinated by her breasts. I was a different person when I got home that evening. I was a whole person when I got home that evening. Flo and I were lovers for three years. It wasn't until I was in High School that we drifted apart. I started seeing other women (and even a few guys). Flo understood that I needed to fully grow up and learn. She also grew and, realizing her calling, has moved to South America where she works in the slums of a city there. We exchange e-mails now. She will always be very special to me.
I remember the whole time as wonderful. I was loved and in love. I know that Flo was 22 at the time, but I have never felt that I was in any way taken advantage of or abused. I only remember the joy of being in love and, for the first time, feeling that love was right. The recent problems in the Catholic Church in the US have really distressed me. Maybe it's different for men and boys, but for me, the experience of being a young person, learning to love from and adult, was a very positive thing. If force or coercion is used, that's different, but I really think that these guys moaning about how they were "abused" ought to lighten up. Many teenagers and pre-teens get involved in gay or lesbian relationship, only to realize after a while that it's not for them. That's fine, what matters is that we learn to be who we are. Flo allowed me to discover things about myself through love. Later, I would struggle with other issues, but because of her love, I have had the self-esteem and self-respect to face many questions about myself.
My story is a long one, and I have finished about a third of it. I am finding that writing it is a good experience, and I hope that I'm not boring you too much. The word processor says that I have written more than 2,000 words, and it is late. I will break my story up and send more along later, if you want it.