Day Bi Day: A Documented Study of the Bisexual (Rafael Barba x Reader)
A/N: I’m not off hiatus, but I’ve been sitting on this
idea since maybe late-April/early-May, and Pride Month seemed like the best
time to actually do it. So forgive me if it’s kinda crap, I’m not entirely back
into my groove just yet. Also: There’s a reason documentaries are a visual
medium: It’s because writing out one like a story is hard. But it
helps to imagine the narration being done by Tilda Swinton or David
Attenborough. Shoutout to @xemopeachx for looking forward to this and being my hype(wo)man and @mrsrafaelbarba – both of them let me pass things by them segment by craptastic segment! (Also, tagging @ohbelieveyoume because if they have to suffer through this monstrosity, then so do you. That being said, Happy Pride Month!!
New York City: Home to over 8,550,405
people, it is a melting pot featuring persons from varying walks of life. This
port city has long served as a nesting ground for new ideas, and stomping
ground for old-time culture treasured by the society of the present day. But in
such a vast hub of differing ideals and backgrounds, it easily becomes a hotbed
for practices unchecked. For in a city so grand and driven by the ambition to
progress, some ideas can slip through the cracks. Or, better yet, slip right
beneath our noses.
It is here that we introduce Rafael
A man of Cuban descent, Rafael has worked
his way to the position of ADA in the Sex Crimes Bureau of New York City’s 16th
Precinct. A self-made man, Rafael is easily a representative of the American
Dream come to fruition. There is, however, one lingering secret that he
carries: Rafael identifies as bisexual. In addition, his romantic partner,
(Y/N), also identifies
I am supposed to be learning something. That’s the positive spin on having to stay off a broken ankle for two months. I am tired of learning. I am sick of never leaving the house and I’m not even at the halfway point and then I feel TERRIBLE for being so miserable because it could be so much worse and I have so many blessings so really I am just a horrible ingrate.
I am bored. I wish I could go to the movies. I wish I could walk. I even wish I could go to the gym.
I want a BIG BOX of milk chocolate Godiva truffles–just that specific truffle in a quantity–and it cannot be ordered from the website which means that technology has failed us.
My mom is here. My father has been in and out. I am grateful for them even though they won’t let me lie in my darkened bedroom all day and be depressed. No, I have to like “get up” and “interact” and sit in a “sun-filled” room.
My mom has redecorated parts of my apartment, mostly against my will.
Or maybe the problem is that after years, decades really, of telling myself I don’t need anything or anyone I have found that I was deluding myself. There is so much I need. Accepting this need is humbling. Accepting that there is a person who can satisfy some of this need is terrifying. Accepting that you don’t always get to be with the person who satisfies your needs is humbling.
I cannot stop believing in fairytales? Where did my cynical self go? I used to be so hard and closed off to everything. I let nothing in. I was not happy but everything was under control and now nothing is in my control, literally, nothing at all. I’m a control freak so this does not thrill me.
I am finally taking showers now because my dad installed a new shower head—one with two heads, so I was able to sit with my broken leg hanging out of the tub and use the hanging shower head. The first one I took was my first real shower in three weeks. I love showers. It was, truly, a glorious experience. I shaved my unbroken leg. I washed my own hair. I felt clean. I like feeling clean.
Lately, I’ve been thinking, “I should be more of an emotionally unavailable asshole,” after moments where I feel vulnerable because I have been emotionally open. I think, maybe there is such a thing as too much love and maybe what women want is an emotionally unavailable asshole. I get that from magazines, television, and movies, mostly.
But then I think, do I want to be treated in an assholish manner? I’ve had my share of assholes. It was tolerable when I was younger. I don’t think it is tolerable anymore. I am okay with trying a little tenderness, both giving and receiving.
To be clear, tenderness is not all I want to be about but mostly, yeah, I am okay, I think, with being open about where I stand and how I feel. I won’t have a single regret.
There are more and more days when I like myself, despite how cranky this post sounds.
I like this thing I’ve got going with this other human, and who we are together. I just do.
She wrote a book, has been working on it for a few years, pushing forward one word at a time, while carrying a whole lot of other stuff and then she finished it and I read it and it made me cry it was so good. I cannot wait to see what the book becomes. I read the book as a critical reader as best I could. I said, “Self, you cannot read this with your heart.” The book is brilliant and utterly original and dark and heartbreaking. It is an achievement. I couldn’t be prouder or more excited.
Lore says I should be envious or jealous of someone who has written something so impressive. I’m not. I’m glad I am connected to someone who writes so majestically. I’m lucky (see also: PROUD). And I have no bigger supporter than her. She has been my loudest cheerleader for many years , the light when I could see no light, and I get to be her biggest cheerleader and I do so happily.
Maybe this is love–wanting to see her star ascend so high I can barely see it with my naked eye and then I want her star to go further still.
Maybe this is the lesson for this year—I am learning to be human and it’s hard and beautiful and necessary and hard.