Jack was the first girl to make herself cum in front of me. She was also the first girl to try to kill herself in front of me. She wouldn’t be the last, nowhere near. I don’t know what it was about me that made girls see me differently enough, from other girls, that they wanted to be pathetic at my feet, show me their kinks, confess their perceived sins, or make me their secret. I couldn't have known, at such a young age, what it would do to me internally. Had I, I'm not sure I would have let them like I did. Made it my position.

I’m a 30-year-old straight woman and single mom, revolutionary multi-media artist, philosopher, existentialist, phone sex operator, and general shiftless layabout. The day of my first kiss, inside me was born a quiet and careful teenage boy. I was four years old, as was the girl who kissed me and then engaged me submissive into rape games in which had me tying her to a bed, while she pretended it was against her will. It confused me, but it being presented as a game, I did what she wanted me to do. I wouldn’t understand until well into my adulthood that she must have been sexually abused.

I’ve been writing love letters to music for almost two years. Music has been my first love since my first memories. There isn’t a genre I don’t like, and I listen an average of 12 hours of the 18 I’m awake during any given day. Everything I create is inspired by it. I’m writing to you because that’s what I do when a song saves my life. I write a letter to it. I usually only send the letters to one person, but this is more important than the rest and half as pretty. It would be way great if you did, but I don’t expect you to understand, reply, or even read this.

As a pre-teen, I remember boys treating me badly, and I knew exactly how I wished they’d treat me instead. I often thought… If only I were a boy, I could make some girl very happy. It was a passing thought or a brief obsession, I don’t remember. But I know there was a way all people treated each other and it was mostly ignorant and if not ignorant, it was somewhat cruel. I found myself becoming an acutely close listener, listening to what other girls were saying and what they weren’t saying. I learned what they wanted, what they needed from every charming prince Disney promised us.

At 12 years old, I haphazardly put myself into position to become all those secret wishes. By way of Ouijaboard, of all things, I found a way to become the boy of any girl’s dreams. It’s been 18 years, and I’ve made a lifestyle of becoming a dozen imaginary boys to fit perfectly into the hands of two dozen or so real girls. I’ve raised, fed, watered, destroyed, and rebirthed what has to be more relationships than any one person on the planet. Girls call me late and crying, and I always answer because I’m their best friend. I wait under their windows with pebbles because I see them for who they really are. And I give a shit. It’s no facade. These boys are as real as I am, as real as the girls they love and that love itself.

I’m a whore, a mirror, and an angel. A little girl and a teenage boy. I’m the last one awake, I’m a secret. I’m a cold, blank slate with warm arms and a really hard cock. I fucking want you so bad, whoever you are. I’m completely unknowable. I’m isolated totally because of what I do, this thing I’ve become, which is so void of context and full of dangerous magic. I’m terrifying and terrified. I’m never going to know the solidity of male or female, ego, conviction, or morality. You’re my inspiration, my fantasy. All I’m ever going to know is how to be your boyfriend because I’m just so fucking in love.

Ask me how many names I’ve gone by, the love of how many boys inside me for how many girls. How many times I’ve had my heart broken. Ask me what it fucking feels like. What it fucking takes. What it really means to look at your life and see that IF THERE IS A FUCKING GOD, he put to ME all this suffrage for the carriage of wet panicked screams from the shaking mouths of lost girls to some form of validation, safety, hope. It seems like these things would come my way so I could help, you know? I never helped. I just loved them. I’m as inept as the teenage boy of me, who I named Duncan Romance, for it’s irony.

The Runaways video feels like what might be the real me, if there is one. The boy in a white t-shirt and blue jeans, love projected to make real what lives inside the hearts of girls who never accepted the world as it was handed down to them. What I can see now, what’s under everything I become night-by-night, is some empty boywizard. And nobody gets to see the wizard, you know? Like Oz. For so long I wished I could be just a girl. But I’m not, and I never will be.

I needed to say out loud what thing I am and why I am this way. I needed to say it to you, the only physical expression of that thing, however taken out of context. I want to stop being afraid of who I am, no matter the implication, no matter the crippling fear of my freakishness. No one has ever understood me, and given the nature of what I do, that’s beneficial and prefered. But I’ve been hiding long enough I’m running the risk of the love of my life never truly understanding me. I have the chance and the will to be seen for the first time in my life, and I won’t let it pass me by.

In imagination,