The F' Circle

By Michael Robert Payne

With a numinous influence by a domineering mother figure over Lisha, The F' Circle: A Memoir of Addiction and Life is an adult pictorial compilation that peel back the summer-winds lives of flirtatious and fantastic-as well as amusing jargon, like, jazz-talking, thrashed and going buffalo, the dawning of the "artisan" kitchen utensil (not for the intended purpose of cooking); and other contrary think-alouds are included. "Eccentric and emotionally disturbing, The F' Circle is a sleight-of-hand tale all parents with teens must read." -The Delmarva Gazette

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Oct 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781641389358

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The F' Circle

Michael Robert Payne

Copyright © 2018 Michael Robert Payne

All rights reserved

First Edition

Page Publishing, Inc

New York, NY

First originally published by Page Publishing, Inc 2018

ISBN 978-1-64138-934-1 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-64138-935-8 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

To my father and to my family

north and south; and for my mother

—who approved of the importance

of keeping children safe,

but would have disowned me due

to the vocabulary in this book.

m. r. p.

To my parents, grands, uncles,

aunts and cousins that raised

a normal daughter.

And for littlest angel, Hazel Boehardt.

(29 October 2004)

l. a. t.

The Facts

In the seven hours to read this book

and the Forum for Discussion,

three to five children are molested

within fifty miles around you.

Nearly 1 million children in the

United States suffer non-accidental

violence per year and with

100 children reported missing

every ninety days.

Worldwide, yearly, one out of

four women are physically

abused or raped.

Chapters are embellished with childhood

descriptions and fictitious prose,

unrelated to the confluence of events.

Also the book contains notable and

pseudonymous names.

Author’s Note

Life-affirming and honest, an enlivened chronicle beyond candid, the Lisha Amabel Teismari narrative makes being American Muslim and lesbian mainstream, where stereotypes are outsmarted and assigns beauty to beach punk. And within its vibrancy, it discards the plain brown wrapper, and it calls out the mean girl and takes away her football.

The F’ Circle: A Memoir of Addiction and Life will surprise—if not emotionally afflict—with its bold and dark sexuality.

Eastern Anchor

A Beach Punk’s Outlook

Describing the town of my youth, Ocean City, Maryland—hot in the summer and salacious in the winter months. It can be taken for a grain of salt or sand, but if you have never visited this Eastern oasis, you will miss the best mix of fancy and far out.

Shouldering four connecting bays—Montego, Big Assawoman, Isle of Wright, and Sinepuxent—which flows parallel to the Atlantic Ocean, this coastal region is a rare haven; although erosion from the yearly hurricanes is about average, comparing Ocean City to the chain of maritime towns northward—Fenwick to Lewes Beaches—which should not dissuade tourists from staying for a weekend or longer.

Take Route 50 east over the Ocean Gateway Bridge to Entry Park; an island awaits. An ocean and bay view like no other, southward of the inlet, Assateague’s misty-fenned environment is one to visit, have a frozen custard, or photograph the range-free horses.

Ocean City is a location for movie productions as well. Sissy Spacek and Kevin Kline appear in the 1986 motion picture Violets Are Blue, filmed in a glass-front corner building on 4th Street and Baltimore Avenue, renovated to resemble a newspaper printing office, near the actual city hall.

In the later half of the nineties, the summers were tantalizing—pretenses of shyness mingling with gorgeous bodies on the sand or on the boardwalk tramway buses, from the South 1st Street shuttle depot to 27th Street. There were sportive men proving their young manhood and women snagged in string-yarned bikinis and fashionable high-heeled shoes, alluding to an otherworldly place.

Red hats to antique car bonnets to motorcycle helmets can be seen moving to and fro on the main thoroughfare, depending on the event occasion or the time of year. Amidst bike rentals and seashell shoppes and noted for its best crab cakes and its original jewelry, Ocean City, Maryland, has a contrary personality—dotted with wooden-stilted houses, breakfast cafés and Internet hangouts, Italian and barbecue restaurants, churches for all faiths, and storefront mannequins conducting S&M seminars to bemused tourists and residents alike.

At the bay inlet and stone fishing pier, on the southern end of town, there is the white cypress siding and red roof of the Ocean City Life-Saving Station Museum—raised in 1891, replacing the 1878 building; charms people to explore its history; neighboring with the village shoppes and eateries steps away from the arcades and children’s rides; and the oldest, continuously operating carousel, circa 1912.

Gingerbread-trimmed houses and trees shading the long streets begin your route. Trimper’s Rides and Amusements and the Sportsland arcades align the beach with old and new structures, constructed in the last and this century.

Trending to the Coastal Highway from Baltimore Avenue, motor lodges are featured; and the expressions of mini golfs—about one every eighth of a mile—looking like mastodons of marshmallow Peeps to form Henry Moore or Eduardo Paolozzi fiberglass sculptures in purple, green, or orange, topped by visions of outlandishness: Antarctic penguin menagerie, jungle scape, dinosaur, cargo plane, knights with their dragon, volcano, or spaceship.

The Jolly Roger’s Amusement Park breaks the horizon with a twenty-five-foot tall fiberglass bearded Roger wearing a black hat and an eye patch, handling a broad sword, defending the go-cart track, the coaster and the water slides against grumpy children with scowls—fun reasons to stow away their pocket electronics. And there are professional golf lanes, deep-sea fishing tournaments, and water dining cruises.

From August through October, herds of dolphins swim behind the ocean surf, advancing northward and congregating at 20th Street.

Continue motoring northward on the Coast Highway—the pebbled, sandy vista adjoins with swimwear and surfboard outlets, amidst the stucco-plastered cafés. Residential houses and trailer parks cohabit alongside the strip malls and the Roland E. Powell Convention Center and Visitors Bureau. Condominiums ascend from a tree-lined desert, like interpretive mountain peaks along the ocean shore where the bay water mingles with the rows of manicured lawns with cattail and seashells surrounding the single cottages and apartments; modern glass and concrete giants, comprising of geometric-cut pyramids and traditional constructed hotels; and more shanty-built markets and restaurants appear along the journey; and still northward to the scrub plain and grassy dunes of the Delaware border; and to the Tanger’s Outlet Centers located on Route 1 in Rehoboth Beach.

I cherish the maritime history, the art scenes, and its communities that live in Ocean City, Maryland. Deciding to vacation here, leave your office work behind, but do bring your dreams for adventure and relaxation.

Introduction

Lisha Amabel Teismari—female; dark-brown hair and brown eyes; birth date, the fifty-second day in the year of 1988; time of birth, 6:17 a.m.; length, eight-and-a-half inches; and weight, four pounds, one ounce.

* * *

A person will invent a narrative about another before the two shall meet.

If you may have heard, a book cover cannot tell the whole story of an individual, for my extended adolescent life is like anybody else’s that has been written before. Do not assume to know who I am or that I think in the same way as other people. I am sticking with what I got, and I have determined what I believe, and how I look accommodates me.

From the beginning of my life (as a young child, as a teenager, and then as an adult) they disciplined me well—they, being my parents—and taught me right from wrong. But lying was easier than freeing my mind by divulging the truth.

Between the ages of nine and seventeen, my direction of self changed. I never used illegal drugs; however, awakening to the feminine side of flirting made it seem that I had. Puberty was my departure from traditional living. Attraction didn’t proceed precisely as I thought it would, and I explored a new sexuality. And while the boys grew their whatever, I started to grow my breasts and curves—oh, dang, the curves that I gained as a teenager. Change from a chunky moppet to a femme fatale, chunky with nationalistic bonds.

And then in 2006, I entered into an ordeal with a deceptive woman without cajoling. I welcomed love unenlightened, but then six months later, I left that when I was astonished to eventually accept her primal intent. It wasn’t about my innocence stolen; it was about discovery.

Now, in my work as a youth advocate, I speak with teenage girls to refrain from having sexual intercourse before marriage—or at best, eighteen. That aside, preadolescence are the unstable years—feelings of inadequacy, humiliation and loneliness, but mostly, indecisiveness.

Please read my story, and you will discover a fallacy put upon those living with the visor of maturity but not always from within. All that transpired in my initial 1,311 days of adulthood, I consider myself fortunate.

Lisha A. Teismari,

February 2016, Fenwick Island, Delaware

Love that is kindled by virtue, will,

in another, find reply, as long as that

love’s flame appears outwardly.

—The Divine Comedy,

Purgatorio, XXII, 1.10

A desire fulfilled is sweet to the soul;

but to turn away from evil is an

abomination to fools.

—The Proverbs 13:19,

The Holy Bible

Allah will not call you to account

for thoughtlessness in your oaths,

but for the intention in your hearts,

and He is Oft-Forgiving and

Most Merciful.

—Surah 2:225, Al Baqarah,

The Holy Qur’an

My Introspective Beginning

1

Island City

On an encouraging February morning, the truth had been postponed.

My father and my mother were disappointed on the day when I was born, since I did not fit the promise of the future legacy that they envisioned to have come into their middle-aged lives—disheartened to the point where they held off telling our relatives my physical statistics after my birth. They were correct-thinking adults and should have known better. Disseminating venial wrongs or omissions of facts was a pioneering aspect in our family. The husk of uncles, aunts, and cousins made our house a home, filled with love but room enough to proclaim lies in. As I was a preterm infant gave my parents plenty of time to invent falsities about me. I was delivered on the twenty-first of February, yet to learn the lesson of hiding a befitting deception; honesty came on the twenty-eighth.

A child signifies pride, ability and strength—although my prologue into this world had brought disassociation. For the rationale of raising a child—to perpetuate the honor that may be connected with a family name, give amenity and title to a United States aircraft carrier, or largely to grow the human species, along with sustaining ethnic diversification and further edify life on this earth. I forget the hereafter purpose. Wheyever, my parents wished for a son.

What officious, intelligent Higher Power would send a scourge upon our collective in the form of a small infant daughter? I was the substitute little lamb, destined at conception—a one in 1.9 million female live births that no one expected. And with that premise alleged, I was the alternative offering in an untraditional way, which I wouldn’t fathom until a decade later.

At my home on dry, summery days, after an exuberant game of badminton or running the lawn sprinkler, the best that a girl could equate to excitement was sucking on a rainbow Popsicle, to kick off shoes and relax with friends. A beach town did that for me. That was childhood at its pinnacle, and life was pleasant. Given all that seemed customary and protected, as in life, events in my youth changed.

Out on the fringes, from age eight and on, I grew to recognize the polarizing rage that compels young mothers to shelter their progenies from harm, progenies adept at flouting shiny piccolos or debating for student-body president and then winning their trivial arguments over the cold tuna fish fingers from the school cafeteria and squinting through their stubbled eyelashes to engage in supermarket battles in the frozen juices aisle with me as their chosen antagonist. They defending their darling babies, at any age, from being kidnapped brutally and smuggled out to riot by spiritual fatwa or made barter to pay for skull-adorned jewelry or heavy metal music. I had become the unholier-than-thou sinner to them, intent on causing civil unrest—the personification of an insurgency leader with vintage Soviet overtones.

Based on nothing that I had comprehended before, I could not escape from the disorganizing syndrome that was renewing my identity, dizzying me with the blend of ancestral voices from every direction. I was dealt with that thing, rumors are made from to agape readers, layered in thick headline ink, pictured above the fold near the spooky-eyed boy who had been raised by gray timber wolves in a Wyoming forest—that accursed thing altering the marrow of my bones, breeding, cell-dividing, permeating from my pores like acne or urine-stained snow in winter. And while I was reflecting on my amalgamation, I knew deep down that they were unable to see the peculiar girl who I felt was living inside me.

Outwardly, though, just as betraying, black nail polish, ragged blue jeans, Johnson-cartooned T-shirts, studded wrist cuffs, an inverted silver crucifix, and a Harley Davidson wallet attached to my belt, worn in combination or separately to fit my jackboot and lace coalition—a most menacing portrayal of haute couture dissenter gone testy. I was called the clearance girl, waiting for my kind of people to materialize. And my friends gave reasons for my badlands mojo: She has hyperactivity and is obese, or I was dropped on my head when I was an infant—none of which are true.

* * *

The masculine motif of hulking penile superiority on the T-shirts should have clued me in.

* * *

You slow, fat people are everywhere. What did imprudent rots knew anyway? I was pleasingly plump, evident from the slew of photographs snapped at my birthday parties and on holiday family outings—but said to have