Gay Male / 65
Chameleon
I'm a Fake.
I am a compulsive liar who can't tell the truth and who invents stories for no plausible reason. I was driving to work one morning and saw a bad wreck on the freeway. When I got to the jobsite I told my co-workers how I was driving along when a car flipped across the road right in front of me. Sometimes, I will invent a story in my head to tell and other times I would do it in the spot. Every time someone talked about anything, I had a story to tell a out the same thing but would make mine more harrowing or funnier or whatever, which I later learned had gotten me nicknamed Topper because I was always topping someone's story.
I have created a huge number of personas over the years, which you would think would be hard to maintain, but lying is so ingrained in me I only fucked up twice. I was portraying myself as a bass player who had his guitar and equipment stolen, when I was called out by a guy who got his brother's bass for me to play. I had no idea how to play it, so I came up with a story about nerve damage from a head-on collision. I had never told anyone about because I had PTSD from it.
The other time was in my early 30s, during my short-lived meth period and was a different sort of fuck up. I had been hanging out with a group of meth heads, who knew me as an ex-biker whose wife was killed when a car ran a red light. I had been so devastated by it that I almost took myself out but realized what I was doing and turned to meth to numb the pain. One of the girls in the group, a big tittied girl with red and good hair named Nancy, felt so bad for me she went home with me and moved in the next day. Which was something I wouldn't have done if not for the meth.
Where I fucked up was having her with me when I visited other friends, people who were totally different than our mutual friends. She saw me switch personas each time, then one night after getting home from visiting a friend then going to a BBQ at my brother's, she she was acting strangely and when I asked her what was wrong she told me I scared the crap out of her. Pressing her, Nancy said I was a Chameleon and that it scared her because she didn't know who I really was. She moved out that night, not realizing she was the first and only person who knew what I really am.
Even sexually, I am a fake. It might seem like I am an attentive lover because I am totally responsive to my partner and have a reputation amongst some girls for being good at eating pussy. But even that is fake. I really don't care about their needs, and only do what I do because it serves a purpose, to perpetuate my lies. In reality I am gay and have been all my life. The only reason I don't embrace it is because I have to live my lie and can't reveal the real me, not even if it would make me happy.
I sat down to write this, to actually expose myself because I can do it anonymously, which is a bit of an oxymoron, yeah? My lying runs so deep I kept writing lies and had to start over again and again. It took me forever to get even this much down.
I am a compulsive liar who can't tell the truth and who invents stories for no plausible reason. I was driving to work one morning and saw a bad wreck on the freeway. When I got to the jobsite I told my co-workers how I was driving along when a car flipped across the road right in front of me. Sometimes, I will invent a story in my head to tell and other times I would do it in the spot. Every time someone talked about anything, I had a story to tell a out the same thing but would make mine more harrowing or funnier or whatever, which I later learned had gotten me nicknamed Topper because I was always topping someone's story.
I have created a huge number of personas over the years, which you would think would be hard to maintain, but lying is so ingrained in me I only fucked up twice. I was portraying myself as a bass player who had his guitar and equipment stolen, when I was called out by a guy who got his brother's bass for me to play. I had no idea how to play it, so I came up with a story about nerve damage from a head-on collision. I had never told anyone about because I had PTSD from it.
The other time was in my early 30s, during my short-lived meth period and was a different sort of fuck up. I had been hanging out with a group of meth heads, who knew me as an ex-biker whose wife was killed when a car ran a red light. I had been so devastated by it that I almost took myself out but realized what I was doing and turned to meth to numb the pain. One of the girls in the group, a big tittied girl with red and good hair named Nancy, felt so bad for me she went home with me and moved in the next day. Which was something I wouldn't have done if not for the meth.
Where I fucked up was having her with me when I visited other friends, people who were totally different than our mutual friends. She saw me switch personas each time, then one night after getting home from visiting a friend then going to a BBQ at my brother's, she she was acting strangely and when I asked her what was wrong she told me I scared the crap out of her. Pressing her, Nancy said I was a Chameleon and that it scared her because she didn't know who I really was. She moved out that night, not realizing she was the first and only person who knew what I really am.
Even sexually, I am a fake. It might seem like I am an attentive lover because I am totally responsive to my partner and have a reputation amongst some girls for being good at eating pussy. But even that is fake. I really don't care about their needs, and only do what I do because it serves a purpose, to perpetuate my lies. In reality I am gay and have been all my life. The only reason I don't embrace it is because I have to live my lie and can't reveal the real me, not even if it would make me happy.
I sat down to write this, to actually expose myself because I can do it anonymously, which is a bit of an oxymoron, yeah? My lying runs so deep I kept writing lies and had to start over again and again. It took me forever to get even this much down.
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