I've long wanted to chronicle my own experiences regarding sex. I'm not exactly sure why because I'm certain it places me squarely in slut territory, and opens me up for criticism and shaming. However, experience has shown me that when tough things are lain upon my heart, and I obey, good things are generated, that somebody needs to hear, or read, exactly what I have to say. So, here goes...
At the risk of sounding banal, I did not feel important nor necessary growing up and was grasping of any attention leveled at me. More, because I was molested at the tender age of five, I was predisposed to sexualize my feelings. Though I got an early schooling on sex play, I managed to hold onto my virginity until I was fifteen. That encounter landed me, passed out in a pool of blood, on the bathroom floor, then into the back of an ambulance, and exposed to humiliating parental scrutiny and shaming.
In retrospect, it was hypocritical of my parents to demand high standards in the sexual arena; I remember finding their Sex to Sixty magazines lying about, as well as finding explicit adult paperbacks in the family bookshelf. Add in my mother's penchant for retelling dirty jokes learned at the bar, her place of employment and entertainment, and it's miraculous I never turned a trick. My mother and stepfather were very strict with their children, imposing very confining restrictions, endless chores, and corporal punishment while reminding us how lucky we were.
Not an excuse, but possibly an explanation, I was spurned by my first; after the backlash and spotlight of our unfortunate liaison, he muttered, that would never happen again! I never saw him again. The microscope, rejection, and shame drove me to run.
During my run, I was harbored by a gin-soaked crone, who dolled me up, and brought me along on her nightly carousing of the seedy sailor bars in National City. Heady with "freedom", the drama of being on-the-lam, and several screwdrivers left me susceptible to the attentions of her son, the pedophile Doctor. Sobering up brought on self-hatred and regret which I neglected to deal with, which led to more of the same, a magnet for pedophiles.
A pattern of sex, drugs (including drinking), and rock and roll emerged. The vicious cycle of indulging and sobering up to the physical pain of guilt, shame, and remorse, was initiated. Partners and pain piled up until I was compelled to do differently. It was during this frame of mind, that I met the man who would become my husband and the father of my daughter.
At twenty, I was a faithful partner, then wife, up until our ninth year. Despite the acquisition of a 2,000-sq. foot home, and raising a precocious, six year old daughter, we had just borne the loss of a business we built from the ground up. Though my husband seemed to process his grief over the loss and moved on, opening a new business, I was stuck in anger, resentment, and insecurity.
Our form of recreation, bowling, became an excuse for social drinking, then drinking to excess. When his attention waned, then wandered to my best friend, I grew fearful and turned my attention to a young man who was enthralled with me. Fueled with alcohol, I fell from grace, burned from guilt, told on myself, then blew up my life.
Adrift at thirty, I picked up where I left off, drinking and sleeping around. It took getting sober to stop my destructive pattern. Actually, it removed the drinking and drugging, like sobering up the drunk horse thief, you're left with a sober horse thief, thus I was left with my pattern, without benefit of the anesthetizing power of alcohol.
A boyfriend began schooling me about what he called a more "honest" lifestyle; he pointed out my "serial monogamy" and said my first husband was a fool for divorcing me, and that I'd done nothing wrong. Desperate for absolution and validation, I bit then discovered that I had morals. It was news to me! I knew that I would never settle again and I didn't.
At thirty-eight, I entered my next and final love relationship, clean of conscience (thanks to the twelve steps of Alcoholics Anonymous), full of the knowledge of what I want and what shenanigans I will not put up with.
What can I say, I was a slow learner.
At the risk of sounding banal, I did not feel important nor necessary growing up and was grasping of any attention leveled at me. More, because I was molested at the tender age of five, I was predisposed to sexualize my feelings. Though I got an early schooling on sex play, I managed to hold onto my virginity until I was fifteen. That encounter landed me, passed out in a pool of blood, on the bathroom floor, then into the back of an ambulance, and exposed to humiliating parental scrutiny and shaming.
In retrospect, it was hypocritical of my parents to demand high standards in the sexual arena; I remember finding their Sex to Sixty magazines lying about, as well as finding explicit adult paperbacks in the family bookshelf. Add in my mother's penchant for retelling dirty jokes learned at the bar, her place of employment and entertainment, and it's miraculous I never turned a trick. My mother and stepfather were very strict with their children, imposing very confining restrictions, endless chores, and corporal punishment while reminding us how lucky we were.
Not an excuse, but possibly an explanation, I was spurned by my first; after the backlash and spotlight of our unfortunate liaison, he muttered, that would never happen again! I never saw him again. The microscope, rejection, and shame drove me to run.
During my run, I was harbored by a gin-soaked crone, who dolled me up, and brought me along on her nightly carousing of the seedy sailor bars in National City. Heady with "freedom", the drama of being on-the-lam, and several screwdrivers left me susceptible to the attentions of her son, the pedophile Doctor. Sobering up brought on self-hatred and regret which I neglected to deal with, which led to more of the same, a magnet for pedophiles.
A pattern of sex, drugs (including drinking), and rock and roll emerged. The vicious cycle of indulging and sobering up to the physical pain of guilt, shame, and remorse, was initiated. Partners and pain piled up until I was compelled to do differently. It was during this frame of mind, that I met the man who would become my husband and the father of my daughter.
At twenty, I was a faithful partner, then wife, up until our ninth year. Despite the acquisition of a 2,000-sq. foot home, and raising a precocious, six year old daughter, we had just borne the loss of a business we built from the ground up. Though my husband seemed to process his grief over the loss and moved on, opening a new business, I was stuck in anger, resentment, and insecurity.
Our form of recreation, bowling, became an excuse for social drinking, then drinking to excess. When his attention waned, then wandered to my best friend, I grew fearful and turned my attention to a young man who was enthralled with me. Fueled with alcohol, I fell from grace, burned from guilt, told on myself, then blew up my life.
Adrift at thirty, I picked up where I left off, drinking and sleeping around. It took getting sober to stop my destructive pattern. Actually, it removed the drinking and drugging, like sobering up the drunk horse thief, you're left with a sober horse thief, thus I was left with my pattern, without benefit of the anesthetizing power of alcohol.
A boyfriend began schooling me about what he called a more "honest" lifestyle; he pointed out my "serial monogamy" and said my first husband was a fool for divorcing me, and that I'd done nothing wrong. Desperate for absolution and validation, I bit then discovered that I had morals. It was news to me! I knew that I would never settle again and I didn't.
At thirty-eight, I entered my next and final love relationship, clean of conscience (thanks to the twelve steps of Alcoholics Anonymous), full of the knowledge of what I want and what shenanigans I will not put up with.
What can I say, I was a slow learner.
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