I want to write about people I love, and put them into a fictional world spun out of my own mind, not the world we actually have, because the world we actually have does not meet my standards.
–Philip K. Dick
When I ended the last installment of “Mutant Days” I had left home, moved in with my platonic 32-year-old male friend, and proceeded to read all the esoteric books in his apartment. While other teens were out going to the mall with their buddies and girlfriends, I was reading William Bramley’s The Gods Of Eden. While other girls were preparing for their prom, I was reading The Book Of Lies: The Disinformation Guide To Magick And The Occult.
I’m sometimes asked if I regret not having those normal latter teen years. And I guess my answer is: it is clear that it was not meant to be, within the context of the trajectory of my lifetime as a whole. For the most part, I never enjoyed other things girls my age did—since early childhood onward. I was always more serious, bookish, and with a deep craving to learn more about the metaphysical.
For instance, I was probably one of only few kids that really looked forward to going to my weekly Catholic religious instruction classes. I dug the hell out of that shit! I just wanted more more more more of that. And it wasn’t like my parents were super-religious, ’cause they weren’t—religious instruction was more of a cultural thing many of the Irish, Italian, and Hispanic kids in my school just did, like going to Little League or whatever.
But I would hear stuff in religious instruction class like Christ coming back from the dead and asking people to put their finger in his wound—and I would just stay up all night contemplating the theological aspects of it, the symbolic aspects of it, the literal “science” aspects of it…
I was like so enthusiastic about learning this stuff that one day the nun who taught our class just spontaneously took this silver keychain of a fish Jesus symbol—the ichthys—off of her key ring and gave it to me. And then that keychain became like this sacred shibboleth for me for a long time.
Anyway…to ask me if I feel bad that I missed out on going more to the mall or dating johnny football hero or whatever the fuck (and my mom still asks me to this day)…that wasn’t my path. That’s not what I should have been doing.
What I should have been doing—for better or for worse—is exactly what I did, a series of events leading up to this exact moment I type these letters out, and then from the screen to your eyes.
Which didn’t mean that as a teenager I didn’t want to go out with guys or anything like that. It was just that all the bullshit it seemed I had to do and accept in order to make that happen—the clothes I had to wear, the social contracts—didn’t seem worth it to me. And most of the guys who appeared interested in me were adults.
And I can tell you that the reason they have laws against adults dating/sleeping with teens under a certain age is because most adult-adults who mostly want to fuck teenagers are often fucked in the head and/or do not have the best interests of these kids at heart.
So like the first guy I ever slept with was 28 or so. A Manhattan artist who looked like Mickey Rourke, with a Gucci jacket and a coke habit. He said he was going to wait until I turned “legal” to have sex with me, but then purposely did it a few weeks before my 17th birthday…because he was an asshole.
That said, I don’t maintain any active animus against this guy today; but this guy was clearly fucked in the head. After having sex with him he turned into a stalkery lunatic who threatened to shoot my roommate and my friend Ray with a hunting rifle. At one point, we were all holed up in the apartment because this guy was standing across the street drinking Ernest & Julio Gallo out of the bottle and holding a fucking hunting rifle.
After that, I really scrutinized any potential suitors and pretty much didn’t have a lot of sex at all. I sort of made a (faulty, I guess) connection in my mind between having sex with guys and them suddenly becoming maniacs who stood across the street drinking Ernest & Julio Gallo out of the bottle and holding a fucking hunting rifle.
Some people assumed I was dating my roommate, and I left it that way for a long time. I just wanted to go back to reading; to research and writing. I was in my own little world. And to me, it was a great luxury, the greatest luxury—having the time to just be in my own little world where I could be exclusively myself.