I’ll just be brutally honest here: part of me really misses sex.
I do. I loved sex. The way I lost my virginity was awful, and I can’t say I ever had really good sex… I don’t recall a single time I orgasmed. It felt GOOD, but I never really “got there” if you catch my drift.
It was great stress relief, too.
But the rest of me overpowers this primal need for sex. The rest of me is screaming, I WILL GOUGE OUT THE EYES OF THE FIRST MAN WHO TOUCHES ME!!!
It’s so bad that I’m seriously concerned that when I go back home this weekend to observe a Taekwondo tournament at my old high school, someone will try to hug me and I’ll just punch them in the gut. Or scream. Screaming is probably more likely.
It’s not as bad with girls, but with guys it’s terrible. Especially if they’re black. Which I know sounds horribly, horribly racist, but it’s honestly not because of their race — it’s because they resemble the Organism. Does that make any sense? I hate myself for it, but it’s one of those things I just can’t seem to convince my subconscious to get over.
But oh, how I can scream. My father and I got into a huge fight just recently, over something totally idiotic. I got mad, he got mad because I was getting mad, and I got mad because he was getting mad over me getting mad… I ended up threatening to pepper spray him. At some point he reached out and grabbed my arm, and I just started screaming. “DON’T TOUCH ME! DON’T EVER TOUCH ME AGAIN!” over and over and over. Bloodcurdling screams.
That’s what I’m afraid will happen when I go to the tournament. I can totally see Mr. P coming up and hugging me and me just freaking the fuck out.
At the same time, though, there’s that little piece of me that keeps saying, you’re never going to get fucked again. Never. Your rape was the last sex you’ll ever have.
And that part makes me desperate to go out there and find some guy to jump on mindlessly. Fuck the brains out of him, you know? Get SOMETHING in there to think about when someone says the word “sex” other than rape.
But I know better. So I won’t.
I didn’t always know better. The way I lost my virginity was… stupid. (Then again, are losses of virginity anything but?) I’ll be totally honest here, I lost it by prostituting. Sort of.
See, the summer after my senior year, I was lonely and craving any kind of human contact. Not that that’s an excuse, but it’s all I can come up with. So I started hanging around sleazy areas, and inviting guys to come to my car where I’d give them blow jobs. Sometimes they’d give me money. Sometimes they wouldn’t. I accepted what came to me. Then a friend of mine, AF, suggested actually charging the guys for my services. And I was down with that. So I started charging the guys fifteen bucks to get off in the back of my car.
Then, one time, the guy said — I’ll never forget it — “I’ll give you double if we go all the way.” And I, being the cheap whore that I was, agreed.
So I lost my virginity for thirty dollars. I forget what I spent it on. Nothing important, obviously.
That wasn’t the last time I whored, either. The Organism and I had sex for the first time in a hotel room. I charged him eighty bucks (because I was still a cheap whore).
But THAT, the eighty dollar one, was the last time. I quit after I became scared I was pregnant/diseased. And, of course, after my psychiatrist flipped the fuck out on me.
And after that, my only experience with sex has been with the Organism. We did have consensual sex quite a few times before the rape. And it was pretty good. But… I don’t know. I get the feeling it won’t be the same ever again, you know?
That’s my sob story when it comes to sex. You all probably think very badly of me now… but I am not ashamed. I have made mistakes, it’s true. I admit that. But I have learned. And isn’t that what counts?
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