I think sex has a lot to do with how we live our lives. The intimate vulnerable part of who we are shows up, or hides, because of what we learn in our interactions with la petite morte..
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.
I am not such a good girl anymore. I don’t let public opinion make my choices. Not sure I would comfortably have sex with people watching either, but that moment was a culmination and an opportunity.
Intimacy is essential, in this human span. We need love, both to receive and give. Most of us learn more about guarding our softness than opening our arms to welcome it. Punishment or exposure are neat tricks, keeping us equating silence with safety. Hiding which means to cloak also means to beat, or hurt so just in the word we discover the duality and difficulty of speaking out and revealing our inner sweetness.. If you don’t hide, society has a way of giving you a hiding, that hurts like hell and has you running back to hide.
In my cave of hidden feelings I never felt safe, and I longed to feel, and be touched with love so I could heal. As I journeyed back to release the ghosts of intimacy of the past, I have found love for me, and learned to feel deeply.