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Sex is bad.

Slut.

I remember hearing this, around the age of 12 or 13, maybe 14…long after I had been forced to read a rather dry series explaining the functions of sex. Repeatedly.

I lived in two worlds – one of my mother’s making…open and honest. And while she may not have wanted me to be playing on the sexual field, she knew I was, and she knew I would continue to do so. I had a boyfriend. I thought I was hot shit. Or I pretended to think I was hot shit.

On the other hand was Evil Stepmother…a woman who may not even have known I was sexually active, but sure as fuck assumed I was sleeping with every teenage boy I spoke to.

I was doomed to follow in my mother’s footsteps – sexually promiscuous and an easy drug induced whore. It was not true, of course….but she made it seem true. And I hated her for it. Hated myself for it.

So began my poor views of sexuality, love, romance...self-loathing, self-incriminating. A pre-teen who used sex to find a little bit of love …and no matter how good (sex was good at 13??) it was, or how in love I was (in love at 14??), it mattered not. Left empty and longing, reaching for something that even now, pushing 29, I cannot find….

But even then, Mother knew best. And one hot, glorious visitation to a Chicago suburb brought us both to “The Clinic”.

Thinking back, the first “doctor” we went to see reminds me of my high school ‘life education’ teacher. His name was Mr. Gross – and he wore his name well. Too well. This guy was a short, squat little man, Russian maybe? Certainly not an American. And it’s not that I really cared that he was foreign, though the accent may have made me a little nervous…it’s just something I remember.

I sat in his cold little exam room, dressed in that slip of a gown everyone hates, and waited. And waited some more.

I was just a kid. Too young to be spreading her legs for an almost man, and probably too young to be prepared to do so for a stranger. But there I was.

We waited…the concerned but accepting mom, the painfully nervous daughter, cold and paranoid. Anxious. C’mon – most of you reading this probably remember your first OBGYN exam. No matter what age you were, and assuming it was not your fetish of choice, I bet it’s not one of your fondest memories.

This one takes the cake. Sir Squat Russian went off on me and Mom . He deemed it unacceptable for a wanna-be woman of my tender years to be in such an office, asking for the evilness that was The Pill. He sent us away. Refused to see me. Left me in that damnable office, frigid and frightened, only to chastise me? To ridicule my mother for trying to protect me…just a little?

It only added to my abhorrence for all talk sexual….for all things related. My endless quest for orgasms and romance…my insistence that sex is not necessary for a “healthy” relationship. My illusion that sex meant love…

My warped views about lust and fucking and fore-play. My confusion. My madness. My humility. My refusal to look at myself naked. The idea that keeping my shirt on should be a law…

I wonder – will I ever be able to find a … happy medium? And if I don’t like sex? What the fuck am I doing HERE??

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