Growing Up (Un)Sexy

Dear readers, I’ve mentioned previously that I’m going through a bout of loneliness at the moment. Here, I begin the process of putting together the story of my sexuality in an effort to understand myself. It will come in as many parts as I can fumble together from my backwards awakening. I hope you enjoy --- let me know what you think, and what you went through yourself! 

            You know that beautiful tale of blossoming sexuality, unveiled with a tender kiss, completed with a gentle, sheepish boyfriend fumbling for the right angle amidst silken sheets? Scrap it. I had my first kiss nearly three years after the first time I was felt up. Before you tense up, this is not a story of abuse or pain. Rather, it is a story of rebellion.

            Or, truly, perceived rebellion. In my tender heart of hearts I was an unkissed high school freshman and I was unmarked. Everyone shared stories of awkward middle school romances while my fondest kissing partner was my left hand (balled up in a fist--- a girl’s gotta practice, right?).

 I was tired of being wholesome. wholesome wasn't getting any. 

At that time I befriended my opposite. She had had the curves of a full-grown woman practically since birth, and an exhaustive list of boyfriends to match. She did yoga and would always bum a cigarette and smolderingly wrap her chapped lips around its curves. She discussed politics and smoked hash and fooled around with girls. This woman made acne scars look sexy.

            May I reiterate that I am describing a fourteen year old?

            I felt like an infant next to her. So we became best friends, I out of admiration, she out of being admired. She talked and I listened.

            Cigarette in mouth, long list of lovers a constant monologue rolling off her lips, she volunteered to take me to meet her best friends --- who were, of course, a sitcom-worthy trio of men’s men, beers, beanies, beards, and all. I eyed the most wholesome looking one to flirt with and casually laid my toes upon his in the hot tub. To my surprise, this turned into an intense game of footsie, the sort which is only seen at the magical intersection of youth and desperation.


 

            We came back and we all lay under the covers of the host’s king-sized bed, I scoring prime real estate on the end of the bed next to my temporary infatuate. Back in my sweater and pants I did little but lay close, offering a wall of wool and jean eager to be breached. Under the covers he laid his hand on me while the conversation continued, five teenagers tucked into a bed like sardines, staring at the ceiling, mumbling about drugs and love and cartoons. We kept talking and my examination continued, below shirt, below bra -- even a short-lived, timid exploration below which made me wriggle.

I didn’t even touch him. I lay as still as I could so as not to disturb his handiwork, tucking in my tummy and amassing the heavy warmth that lingered there. Before we parted, he helped me find my jacket, which I interpreted as a sign of a caring gentleman.

More like this than anything else. (sidenote: googling "examination" gets some interesting results.)

            I had wooed him. I had lured him in with my funny face and my rockin’ bod, and he was going to call me and carefully ask me to dinner while struggling to reign in his wayward heart.

            The next day, when I would feel a little uncomfortable or a little used, I’d insist: “the sexual revolution had to start sometime!”

            Literally, in my diary: “the sexual revolution had to start sometime!”

            This little revolutionary felt naughty. Soon this boy would call her and then she’d be swatting them off like hormonal flies.
 

this was me in my mind. not to be confused with the real, pubescent me.

            It didn’t turn out that way. He never called. My revolutionary foundation was shaken.

            Of course we didn’t connect. We didn’t speak. All we did was lay there and I offered myself to him because I thought that that was what connected.

            Needless to say, I learned a lot about fourteen year old boys that day.

            Even more I learned about being a rebel. I’m not here to preach morals --- I think everyone should be able to do what they want, so long as they know what it is. But my friend wasn’t a rebel. She was somebody who didn’t know and used things to fill that not knowing. She lost her virginity at twelve and told the story to anybody who’d listen. She had anxiety attacks and thick grey phlegm that she brandished as medals.

They were not. They were fears embodied as wants. Rebels like this broke down along with their bodies and their spirits.

Thanks to over-possessive parents, I learned this earlier rather than later. My friend left for a different school and forgot me as soon as I wasn’t an available listener. I grew --- sometimes lonely, sometimes love-struck. Often ballsy and whip-smart. And yet. Three more years.