Teen Sissy Stories
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Teen Sissy Stories
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People were saying that I was "disgusting and should die" or that I "deserved all of this."
Halloween my freshman year in high school was the scariest day of my life. But it wasn't scary because of a ghost or a monster — it was scary because in one moment, my life turned upside down.
Just a year before, I moved from New York to California. While in New York, I had been relentlessly bullied. And when I moved to California and started a new life, it seemed like a giant Band-Aid had "fixed" the problem. I had new friends, I started acting in plays and writing stories, and the bullying had stopped.
Halloween that year started like every other Halloween. I dressed up, had a great day at school, ate way too much candy, and laughed with some friends. But then it all changed.
I got a text message from a classmate I had known in New York. The text included a photo of a girl I didn't know wearing a big sign around her neck. The sign had my name on it: Aija Mayrock. I was so confused. Who was this person? I went on Facebook and saw dozens of people posting the same picture. A girl whom I'd never met dressed up as "me" for Halloween.
I was in a state of shock. In that moment, I did not feel sad or hopeless or angry. I felt like I was drowning and no one was there to save me. I scavenged through Facebook to see why this was happening, who did it, and for what reason. As I combed for information, I began to read the most disgusting comments about myself. People were saying that I was "disgusting and should die" or that I "deserved all of this."
I messaged the girl who dressed up as me. Let's call her "Sara." I wrote, "I don't know who you are or why you are doing this, but why would you dress up as me for Halloween?"
But instead of apologizing or even ignoring me, she posted an image of my note to her on Facebook, which only garnered even MORE attention and even MORE brutal comments. Each post hit my heart like a dagger.
As this was unfolding, I was standing with my school friends. I showed them the pictures, the disgusting comments, and the text messages. Just when I thought it couldn't get worse, my "friends" laughed at me and walked away. How could they think this was funny? How could they not see how hurt I was?
In a matter of minutes, I had been impersonated and humiliated 3,000 miles away by a girl I didn't even know, my new "friends" had shown their true colors, and the Band-Aid had been ripped off my new life in California.
I have never been so afraid of the world. I have never felt so alone, so hated, and so lost. That day I went home and told my mom everything. We found Sara's home number and spoke to her mom. When Sara got on the phone and apologized, I finally felt a wave of relief.
But a few days later, Sara sent me more harassing messages. And then I started to get anonymous phone calls where people said horrible things to me.
I immediately deleted all of my social media accounts and changed my phone number. But it was the most difficult time of my life. I really believed that there was something very wrong with me. Even though I lived across the country, I felt ashamed of myself. I started to wear baggy clothes to hide my body. I picked at my food, thinking my weight was my problem. And I started to avoid people. Maybe if I was invisible, no one would be mean to me?
A few weeks later, I entered a screenwriting competition in a film festival. I needed to find something to pour my pain into. I never thought I would be accepted into that competition. But, miraculously, I was. And I decided to write a screenplay about bullying.
That year, I won the competition. From that moment forward, I decided that I would dedicate my life to giving a voice to the voiceless through art. And that's when I started writing my book, The Survival Guide to Bullying.
It's not easy for me to share my story with the world. As I write this, I still feel that fear in the pit of my stomach. But I also feel a duty to share this story for you and every other person being bullied. You are NOT ALONE. There is NOTHING WRONG WITH YOU. I know this, because I have felt that way for too many years. Bullying won't last forever and you don't need to go through this alone. Without my parents' support, I never would have gotten through this.
And always remember this: In those moments when you feel that there is no hope, remember that I have had those moments, too. And so has every other person who has been bullied. But we have the power to move past our difficulties. We have the ability to change our lives. I have done it and I know that you can, too.
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I was 19 when I first had full-on sex with another man. I was at college, living in dorms, and the experience—aside from the usual horrifying awkwardness and somewhat spontaneity of the occasion—was completely and utterly unremarkable aside from one thing: the guy I slept with identified as straight.
The whole thing went down near the end of my freshman year at a party, at which people from the whole dorm floor were drunk and celebrating, carelessly streaming in and out of each other’s rooms, following the various different pop songs until one room took their fancy. I can remember, although I'd had some drinks, sitting alone in my friend’s room on a single bed, the mattress overly springy and with a coarse plastic coating, attempting to stream a song over our dorm’s spotty Internet connection.
It was late (or early, depending on your outlook on the world) when I was joined by the boy who was living in the room next to mine, way back on the other side of the building. He was clearly intoxicated, but it was a party after all and who was I, quite drunk myself, to judge. The minutiae of exactly how things developed from us being together in that room to us having slightly unsuccessful sex in a bathroom in a different corridor have since escaped me. All I know is that one moment we were talking and the next minute, well... we weren’t. I didn’t tell him that I’d never had sex with someone before; instead, saturated with vodka and inflated by nerves, I was swept up in the motions.
Before that night, I had hardly been a nun. When I was a teenager, I was precocious and restless. As the only out young gay kid at my school, I took the advancement of my sexual experiences into my own hands and I did what we all do: I bought a fake ID and hit the gay clubs. Out on the scene I had thrilling and, now looking back, precarious hook ups with guys, going far but never all the way. I know now as LGBTQ people we can define exactly what constitutes sex for ourselves, but when you’re young and your only sex education comes in the shape of illegally downloaded Sean Cody videos, penetration seems like the end all be all.
Still, as I grew into my late-teens, venues started to crack down harder on underage drinking, and it soon became increasingly difficult to go and hook up with guys much older than myself. I felt, in my increasingly anxious and deflated state, that I was being left behind. My first year at college, apart from being grueling mentally, was hardly a sexual smorgasbord of one-night-stands and hook-ups. Instead, I reverted to my teenage years, pining after straight boys who I knew I had no chance in hell with... until that night.
I’d love to say that I felt empowered by fucking my first guy, but the whole experience left a lot to be desired. While I knew it wouldn’t be like a gay college erotica I’d read on Nifty.org (gay canon, really), I rather naively wasn’t expecting the fall out. The boy told his then-girlfriend (who I knew about), saying I had come on to him but that nothing had really happened. Although one thing I can vividly remember was that it was quite literally the other way around, the visceral shock of being somewhat shoved back in the closet and denied the celebratory expungement of my virginity was palpable.
For the next year, we’d hook-up on and off, usually at 3 a.m. after we’d been out partying. We’d meet surreptitiously in dark and make out in the cold British weather on a park bench before venturing back to his place to have sex. And while at the beginning I felt like I had the upper hand in the situation—I was the one who was out and comfortable in my sexuality, right?—after each time we met became more secretive and more dirty, I began to feel secretive, dirty, and most of all shameful . I’m not sure whether I really fell for the guy or not, but I do know that at the end of it he was just using me to get off.
I never learned whether the boy I lost my virginity to was struggling with his sexuality. I think, when I look back now and occasionally find myself tumbling through his Facebook page, that he wasn’t. I believe it was just sex, or at least that’s what I have tell myself now to avoid slipping into a memory induced k-hole. I realize I fell into that old gay adage of placing my feelings on a person who, for whatever reason, was never going to invest them back in me. Worst of all, though, the shame attached to the memories of those first times marred how I would approach sex for years.
It was listening to Years & Years’ new song “Sanctify,” and seeing the band’s out gay singer Olly Alexander talk about how the song was inspired his sexual trysts with straight men, that I realized that these feelings are way more common than people let on. Sure, I know all about gay guys having sex with straight guys, but it felt reassuring to see him describe the “saint and sinner role” he embodied during those experiences, and to hear the uncertainty and melancholy weaved into the song.
More than anything though, was the repeated lyrical mantra of “I won’t be ashamed.” Because as queer people, we’re buried in lifetime’s worth of shame so vivid and searing that oftentimes it’s crippling. Bursting through that shame is our badge of honor, our beautifully united experience. And maybe, like the song says, that does sanctify our sex lives and makes us just a little bit holy.
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