Lapses of judgment: where does one begin to decipher what the moment was in your life that fucked you up completely/ that fork in the road… the first pull of a cigarette? Your first drink? Your first high school bathroom pregnancy test while your 16year old bf prays outside? Sigh. I guess I’ll start at the cliché. My mother. Tale as old as time.
Now, don’t misinterpret what I am about to reveal. My mother is awesome. She feeds me, houses me and always tells me when I look fat. The sex talk however, never happened. There were no books on female genitalia. No banana/cucumber demonstrations. Just the occasional random joke about the Chinese virgin named “ho jo kuki tu”.
My earliest memory of any awkward sexual confrontation with her however, did happen when I was five. It was the early 90’s, when people were only just starting to realize that women have sex too. It was in our old Mitchell’s plain house, when she found me on the floor, watching KTV, rubbing my legs together. Barney must have been really good that day. In my defense, only years later did it dawn on me that I was actually masturbating.
Now, my mother being a conservative catholic robot that swears to have conceived after being visited by Angel Gabriel had no idea how to handle this taboo situation. I remember seeing her, smiling, then continuing project: prepubescent clitoral stimulation. The blood had drawn completely out of her face, leaving her pale, holy-ghost like. I understand that because of religious guilt, most of you are about to act really offended. Understand that it’s not god that I have the problem with. I love god. I pray to him and thank him every day. It’s his fan club that pisses me off. Swarms of people giving you random parables about not having premarital sex, then not aborting the bastard child, then how much Foreskin to cut off, and telling you to love your children unconditionally, unless they’re gay.
Ah. The gays. Major role-players in my sex life. Every dirty girl has one gay best friend. Usually they’re the last to find out that they are. The guy that approves your outfit. Dances with you to “loosen up my buttons” from the Pussy cat dolls. The guy that suddenly comes out of the closet after you agree to sleep with him to “see what happens”. Sigh. I wear my shame on my sleeve. Ah, if us dirty girls had a nickel for straight man we’ve converted. Making us graduate to sleeping with every Tom, dick and dick to validate ourselves and prove that it was them, not us. When you actually sit down to list the knots on your bed post (and count your nickels), you cringed silently as you go from a list of names to:
Guy with billabong sweater in atmosphere.
Guy with red shoes
Guy with no discernable attributes.
And then, the memory of every conversation you've had before intercourse plagues you, making you want to laugh and cry at the same time. Partially because you feel embarrased, and partially because you just realised you dont have to, because the people around you cant actually see what you're thinking. You know the conversation i'm talking about. The convo men seem to think is the ultimate foreplay: "What if you think it's small?" warning me about your inadequacies is not motivation.
"uhm baby" Feighning enough angst to make you feel pity.
'yes?"
""uhm nevermind"
"tell me baby, you know you can tel me anything'
"what if you think it's small or something?"
MOOD KILLED
Gifted men know that they are gifted. If you dont think you are. chances i wont either. and i have now just played the entire sex scene out in my head and it wasnt a happy ending. So get off of me, i just remembered, i neeed to wash my hair.
Ringing a bell?
yes. i thought as much.
Till next time.
S
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