If I had to pinpoint the first time it was crystal clear that something was “wrong”, this would be it
The first time I ever had sex with a man I was just shy of my 18th birthday. His name was Paul, and my mother introduced us through CompuServe. Yes, I realize I’m dating myself. It was May of 1996.
Some of the details are fuzzy and some are crystal clear. He was a few years older, and we went to the same community college. We had a torrid phone affair for months. We saw each other a couple of times but there was something secret about it. The details of that are not quite clear.
He had a girlfriend at some point during our dating history – one that he went on to marry, but for some reason I don’t think that was the reason for all the secrecy. Part of it was hiding the affair from my mother. She did not like him. But then, she didn’t like anyone I dated. I think part of it was fun to keep it secret.
When we finally had sex for the first time it was in the back of his Thunderbird at an abandoned camp he used to work at. I remember a lot of the details. There was a Billy Joel concert playing on the radio. I had a sore head from slamming it on the door. I can still touch the spot and smile. I remember being braced for intercourse to hurt, and I remember vividly the absence of pain…in fact the absence of much feeling at all. I also remember singing nursery rhymes (mostly the ABC’s) to myself and faking orgasm so as to “seem normal.” I was confused, but I pushed it out of my head.
I know now some things that I didn’t remember at the time that reconciles some of it. Again, be sure you want to read. This is for me, you don’t hurt my feelings by stopping here.
From a young age my mother did many things that I misconstrued to be caring gestures. I was confused for a long time. The relevant one here occurred when I first started my menstrual cycle. I think I was 12. It was nighttime, my father was working, and my mother came downstairs into my room.
The long and short of it is that my mother “deflowered” me with an industrial ugly, yellow flashlight – the type my father brought home from work on the railroad. I don’t even want to think of the germs.
She explained to me that this would make menstruation easier, and that for thousands of years in tribes the women would do this to the young women as a coming of age ritual. Somehow I don’t think they used a flashlight, but that’s a hunch.
There was a struggle and I fought her, but I lost. Afterwards my mother gave me some books to read – Clan of the Cave Bear, Our bodies Our Selves, and The Hite Report. We never spoke of it again, and the next morning my mother acted like nothing had happened. I accepted it as normal and kept it moving. Only I didn’t…because that night as I willingly yeilded to Paul I had no memory of what had happened with my mother. No explanation for why there was no hymen to break, just a confusion with a dull tugging at the sides.