graduated crush

I have a crush

A passion. An obsession.

On a woman in my group therapy at the psychiatric hospital. Breakdowns and breakthroughs have brought us together.

The day she entered group, all tiny and butch, I asked her if she was transgender. I wanted to ensure I was utilizing the appropriate pronouns. Her response:

“What? Like do I think I’m a boy?”

Because I am not in new york anymore. And Texas trannies seem to be few and far between but fierce as all get out.

This big fat femme blushed as I bumbled to explain my pronoun-ed intentions.

“We’ll have to talk some time,” she replied and a crush was born.

Sometimes during stress management and relaxation exercises, when our eyes are all closed, counting out breaths from the diaphragm: in through the nose, out through the mouth. I want to quietly slither across the linoleum and in to her lap. Kissing her raw knees. Causing her to gasp at this creature between her legs and urge silence with her finger to my lips. Silently sucking the finger down in to the back of my throat, flicking its creased belly with my tongue. Then exhaling her finger to the count of five as I push up off of her knees and tip toe back to my side of the circle.

Yes, mam. A crush.

A tragic crush that can never be acted upon. Because we are both far too vulnerable (not to mention fucked up) for a relationship at this point. And a friendship would only lead to premature sexual encounters that would sabotage the already doomed future. Miss Aimee Mann knows what I’m talking about when she sings, “Now that I’ve met you/ would you object to/ never seeing each other again.”

At least until one of us graduates the program.
Which I just did.
On Friday.

So now the question of sitting still or acting arises to challenge the mind vs emotion divide.