I have always wanted someone to be proud of me. Of what I’ve accomplished. Being adopted that is? Being a little intellectually inept? Just being, Ambien Grace.
Poising in front of the Art Class for Slow Learners down at the local Technical School; I have nothing but time to think. I see my naked body lay in front of me like a of slab of meat laid down for the slaughter. My body is nothing to me. The nude modeling endorses that lack of self-respect I have for the physical and spiritual Ambien Grace. In plain English, neither the soul nor the sum of its parts has a distinction. The body Ambien and the spirit of Grace, just are!
Pretty deep thoughts for me; usually I don’t graze beyond what should I watch tonight, Buffy or sit down with a marathon of Harry Potter?
As I watch my breasts sag further into the region of my belly button. As I glance over at the Art Instructor who missed her calling as a pole dancer, I am filled with homophobic fears. I am scared to death of the hex laid upon me by my mother, Theresa.
The curse had not been subtle. Yet, it was very poignant for that particular time in my life.
I had somehow or another managed to strip away the ugliness of the off campus apartment I had shared with two other large and confused drunken going nowhere fast UNH starlets. The housing had been a dump but we liked it that way. It represented what the lot of us wished to portray to the outside campus ‘in crowd’; it was a waste heap of smoke stained walls, bad art, poor decorating skills and mountains of Corona bottles piled next to whatever electronic devices our rich parents would buy for us.
The days before the incident of homophobia’s evil cousin, bi-curious, I had taken handfuls of every prescription drug known to the free world. I had been on a roll of booze, bad hygiene and pig piles of overstuffed roommates and repeats of blackouts I could not shake.
Losing my will for another night of bisexual romps with above mentioned roommates, I found myself at the Stone Church. A lovely little dive just east of Durham where the music was sour, the spirits were cheap and one night stands were always available.
As I sat at the bar, drinking a high end Ale, I had noticed a dark figure slightly to my left. She seemed lonely, tired and drunk. If asked now what she looked like I would only be able to say that she had two legs and was able to hold a drink.
I got up and did my usual pick up line, ‘My vagina has a name, does yours?’
That was it. She smiled. I smiled. I began to think, hey, this isn’t going to have to qualify as a gay encounter, it’s only going to be a blackout encounter.’
As I recall, the liaison did not last long. We made out. We made a public place into a palace of bi-curious bad behavior. I felt her up. She pushed me away. She begged me to leave her alone. I ordered many more drinks and ignored her plea.
That, however,  is how the Ambien Grace version goes.

The storyteller that works with my mother in the same department at the very same college. The professor who shouldn’t have been there in the first place because he was married. Explained the tale much differently. And, as luck would have it, he explained it to Mother Theresa the very next day during a faculty meeting.
Rumor has it that I would not let up on the undergrad who insisted she wasn’t gay. Rumor has it that I dis-Graced my good Mother’s name by being such a derelict and wonton sexual predator. Rumor has it I received my hex the very next day from Mother Theresa.
“Ambien Grace, you are nothing but an embarrassment to this family. You are lucky no one else I know saw you at that dive. Picking up anything that was breathing.” Spurred Mother Theresa.
“Ambien Grace you will never, ever, find anyone to love you. You are a loss cause. And, for Christ’s sake get over that ‘homosexual’ phase will you.” Spat Theresa.
Sitting somewhere in Manchester, a half a year later, I still hear those words of wisdom from my mother. The disdain and contempt that she held for my needing to explore my sexuality. I get up off the floor from modeling. Put the white robe on Theresa bought me for occasions such as these. My thundering calves have been held in the same Yoga still-life position for the last three hours and I just want to go home and cry.
I feel the ache of lack of movement shoot up the back of my legs to my lower back. I shove the robe and some more dirty underwear in the backseat of the Honda. I am wet for some reason. Turned on by the fact the I don’t have to worry about love. I am endorsed with the idea that a good massage would do me some good.
Maybe when I get home Theresa can give me a good rub down. She always offers but she has such weak hands.  She and I are a homophobic’s best friend.

We are our own love story.