My first encounter with sex, molested at 13, shaped what I thought sex was. Hidden, terrifying and dirty. Now that I have lost layers of my story I know that my strength lies in clarity. Owning my sexual journey not in shame, but to release fear.
At 17, done with high school, lusting to release my inner wild, yet scared and scarred, with no clear path to my heart. I clutched onto the belief that escaping would set me free. I did not know, then, that you can’t shake off your story, it clings to you like a lonely child crying ‘pick me up.’ It waits and wails, hanging on your skirts, until the day you unbend enough to do just that, and voila, the sticky mess dissipates.
My childhood friend Gloria and I, traveled by train, to spend a month at the beach.
Me, longing to get laid, yet terrified of the stigma of being cheap or pregnant. Sex was a horror story and a drawcard, yeah, it was long ago and I was a confused teen! Society and mom had drummed in enough conflicting constrictive rules, I was fooled.
John, the American professor at Gloria’s university was hot. Available and somehow ripe and almost ready I found myself in a secret tryst, exploring the city and each other, John, 36, kept his hand up my dress, marvelling at my accesible nakedness beneath and me, 17, amazed at this passion of possibility unfolding. Heady stuff - turned on, and soaking wet.
Sweet talking John landed us up in my hotel room, double latched, demonstrating the art of fellatio with a banana. I don’t know if I was a good student, what happened to the banana, but I was pretty uptight about the intimacy of being with a man in my room. A good girl wants to get gold stars even if it means swallowing cum, my rebel lapped it all up, my frightened girl could not find the door to go all the way.
The practiced John had an adventurous streak, and we took the sexual trip on the road. One time we landed up at Sandy Bay, a nudist beach off the beaten path. John was going down on me with delicious gusto, In our secluded tryst, when a guy comes out of the bushes, and proceeds to watch us with intense enjoyment. I am naked, legs open, John is feasting and I am facing this stranger. I think I about died. All my pretending that this wasn’t happening faced full on by a witness. I was too busy trying to get John to stop, to forget the watcher and step into being me. That combo of intimacy and fear was ripe for release, yet I failed to grasp the gift. My choice, made from shame, to bury my truth in the sand we lay on, kept me a prisoner to the good opinion of others for many more years.