Like the kick I got when I told my two friends, a much more romantic version, of course. Certainly, the whole thing of sex bypassed me completely.
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In spite of all my efforts I was still a child. Not nearly ready. In fact, it was years before I was. There was a curious twist, though, to my first sexual experience. Before dinner one evening he took us to look at a new one bordering the golf course near the river. It was the same house! A week later he bought it and we moved in. Talk about your sins coming home to roost!
I am three, or thereabouts. We live in Charlotte, N. There are a couple of children with me whose faces and forms are indistinct to me now, but I know there were two of them. We are deeply, childishly intent on showing off our bodies to one another. Gently we poke at the mysterious crevices above pulled down shorts and giggle as we take turns examining the comical limpness of a small penis.
At that moment, what we are absorbed in is FUN. I am surprised and proud of the specialness of my own body, of its apparent ability to interest, even intrigue someone else into wanting to touch it. I think my friends feel that way too.
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We are all laughing. Under cover of the tent, in this moment of special, private sharing, we are all close; we like each other very much.
My friends, one by one, are pulled roughly out by their elbows. The little boy tries with one hand to get his shorts up around his waist again. I fix my clothes hastily and leave the tent in time to see my mother striding across the yard toward me, her face set in an angry, bewildered stare that I can see vividly to this day.
There must have occurred one of her frigid silent treatments after the initial scolding. It was obvious from the way she and the other mother reacted that we had done something that was disgustingly wrong. But what was most damning to me was that I had enjoyed it. That confused me more than anything. Even in my childish egocentricity I had a well-enough developed conscience to know right from wrong.
Now when I stop to consider my sexuality, I end up wondering what it was my mother feared so. Was she attempting to curb a tendency in me that she felt would lead to promiscuity and embarrassment to her? Or even worse, did she fear my flagrant enjoyment of the taboo would lead to an unhappy state of motherhood at an early age as had befallen her? I look at my own little daughter and promise myself not to traumatize her first infantile sexual encounters with other kids, to keep it in perspective.
Then I think of her having sexual intercourse at, say 13 or 14, and it scares the hell out of me. I guess I must try to stay open and deal with the experiences of my own daughter as they arise. David was a drifter. I met him when I was 17, and he was I was finishing up high school while he was paying his rent by baking bread at a bakery. I had heard David preferred virgins.
This was slightly disconcerting. When I spent evenings with him I was never sure that he just wanted to be with me. But I was not proud that it had taken 17 years before I even got in the same sleeping bag with a man.
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I wondered how many more evenings and langorous Sunday afternoons it would take before we would finally do it. Where were those fresh and vivid sheets I had seen in Seventeen magazine, the Sears Roebuck Catalog , and the like? How could I think about getting married before I had even been to college? How could he say he was looking for a wife while proclaiming he was such a world traveller? We separated without much talk; without a fallout; his proposed trip was enough of an excuse for both of us to drift apart. David finally did leave the United States; he found an old seaman who agreed to let him board his steamer to England.
I found out about this story through friends. And yet I received postcards from him in England, France, and Norway. I felt sorry for him in a way. Was he looking for a wife in Europe? Was he freezing? What was he looking for in me by sending only postcards? No letters, no return address.
We caught up over a year later, in the January of my sophomore year in college. David looked wonderful still having sun-kissed curls in wintertime. I wanted to go up, give him a good squeeze, and hook my fingers in the belt loops of his white jeans. They looked clean, so he must have broken down and bought a new pair.
David disapproved of my living on campus, and yet expected I would be just thrilled to have him up to my dorm room. David got angry and called me arrogant; I laughed and considered this a compliment coming from him. He can fall in love, fall out of love. He lies. Even after his first experience with another guy, he lies to protect an ego trained to reject desire.
He lies as he is taught to lie about everything that would make him imperfect. I was 17, a junior in high school, when Mike Weiss first moved to Ashland. He was tall, quiet and in my English class. All those afternoon periods spent watching him sitting over there by the blackboard — I fell. Ask him to the prom?
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Even if he were female and I were straight, I would probably be rejected. So I was limited to lame attempts at conversation after band practice. Winter passes, into spring. Sometimes I would see him and he would speak. It was the springtime of many passions, many adventures. My loot was mostly candy bars, paperback books I soon branched out to drugstores and chocolate chips, which are fairly easy, being on the back shelf, and delicious. Well, the inevitable happened; I got caught. I lied to them. Punishment was one thing but the disappointment would last forever after the anger, which I also feared, was gone.
So the criminal adventure was ended; there has been no sequel. Sheer luck, I would never have had the nerve to ask him to room with me. Mike collapses in the bed with me; the others leave.
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My hands that night seemed to have minds of their own. I leave out many details, but let me say there was no part of his body I did not explore. Exploration — it was an adventure, you see. Mike did not appear to awaken and in the morning mentioned strange dreams. Nothing else occurred between Mike and me and it was years before I could accept my sexuality. I still have not told my parents and cannot understand people who have. Mike just recently graduated from medical school. I walk or drive by his house now and remember the thousand forbidden smells and feelings of that night.
I do not mourn my innocence.
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My initiation to the world of consumate sexual activity happened after much careful planning. It was ten years ago, and yet, like all rites of passage, it is imprinted on my mind with vivid detail. Weeks before the planned weekend, we decided I should start taking the pill. I took myself to a gynecologist, nervously tolerated the physical examination and dutifully listened to his paternalistic advice about morality and God. The entire way I kept trying to re-enact scenes from movies that were my prescription for romantic behavior.
I was jittery, he was ecstatic. Bill was in control; the weekend was his to plan. He took me to a crummy hotel. The owner led us to a crummy room, me slinking down the hall behind Bill trying both to hide my left hand and to look married. At the door of the room, the owner handed Bill our key. We knew that he knew, and he knew that we knew. Making love was on the agenda but apparently dinner came first. Bill took me to a diner as crummy as our hotel.
I had no appetite the jitters transformed into full blown nausea. He ate veal parmigiana. After dinner we wandered slowly back. I remember the walk — how confused I felt, although then I thought it was just anxiety. I was trying desperately to talk myself into being in love with this man because I was about to have sex with him. The crummy hotel had a crummy bed and one blanket, and it was August. I had anticipated this night for so long it was as if I stood next to the bed, an impartial observer. So I watched, and he did, and I bled and was glad for it — tangible evidence that we had in fact made love.
My first sexual experience with a human being, that is to say, a human being in the flesh as opposed to a human being on the page, was an exciting thing at the time. But over the years, I have realized that this sort of thing dribbles out at a predictable rate for everybody; this matter of secretions and whatnot is, in fact, not all that big a deal.
We watched McCabe die in the snow as Mrs. Miller opiated herself into oblivion. We got into bed; she was shy. I told her about a kindergarten experience involving Day-Glow paints and the yelps of aboriginals. We hugged like conjugating bacteria and mated while strains of Strindberg danced in my head. The ejaculation was premature. In the middle of the night, somebody banged on the door in the manner of highway casualty witnesses in need of the telephone. We ignored it. The affair festered like a terribly ill child; it did not last the winter. I still dream about the girl every once in a while, those onerous wish-fulfillment dreams that make you feel heavenly — like the manna sprouting nipple of the patron goddess of sex starlets has plugged its nubile tenderness into my mouth for an eternity of feeding.
But then, invariably, I wake up alone, still plagued with the human partialness, in a day where this is the only sin. Such a way of greeting the day, and please forgive the vulgarity, makes me wants to vomit. Since then, I have learned that sexual pleasure ultimately resides only within the brain of the sexually pleased individual.
Then the ancillary rubbish can be dispensed with. Transistor companies will split their stocks and issue whopping dividends. The world will certainly be a better place when the young can speak of their first sexual experience not in terms of glistening orifices plugged, but the voltage and amps associated with their deflowering. When I was eleven I began to want something very bad.
Something from men. Before I wanted men, I wanted women. Flesh was feminine, hopefully abundant. One night I dreamt I stood naked in a spotlight and when I looked down at my body, surprise! A curve of belly and of hip. By age eleven I wanted that kind of body so men would want me. Guilt consumed me then because I thought no one shared my curious hunger. Helen: My favourite thread involves a boy-toy barman Sarah: I hope readers will see it for what it is — pure escapism. Helen: I doubt that the kind of people who might find it shocking will be reading it. I just hope people will find it a fun, saucy, well-written read.
I would find myself smiling as I bashed away at my keyboard. The research is pretty fun too. Sarah: The collaboration aspect. Helen: The laughter. I wish we could publish a version of the book with their cheeky comments in the margins — they made my sides ache at times. Wondering what other pages are worth turning this year in South Africa? Have a gander at our far less explicit recommended reading list. Every week something you don't want to miss. Mobile site.
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