Sex Mysteries

My mother does NOT like to talk about sex. She is someone who lowers her voice when she says the word sex. And, there are clearly aspects of the whole process that even she still finds mysterious. 

I was once deeply scared during the most direct conversation about sex that my mother ever had with me. When I got my first college boyfriend, she somehow found out (or maybe just assumed) that I was sexually active. So, she tragically pushed herself past her discomfort, got drunk and pulled me into an empty room during a family party. I would like to note here that, also tragically, I was not drunk. Once she cornered me, without any preamble, she said, "Jane. When I was your age, I had unprotected sex with 3 different men in one week and I got pregnant." And then, before retreating back to the party, left me with the moral of the story: "Be careful, Jane. We are fertile people."

After 5 minutes of blank confusion, I had so many thoughts. Chief among them: three guys in one week. You would not need to be SUPER fertile, right? Just standard, average fertility would suffice. Also, just, why? I am really sex positive. But, there are certain things, certain details, you don't need to know about your super Catholic mother. Yes, Catholic. Which, led me to my third thought: was this the story that Mary gave to Joseph after she turned up pregnant? 

"I'm so sorry, Joe. I come from really fertile people."

Ultimately, this conversation made me reflect on this family legacy of fear around sex and how it has impacted us over time. My mother was clearly left with some important gaps in knowledge about how to avoid pregnancy. For me, I was left with two, arguably less catastrophic, but still very unfortunate, misunderstandings.

My mother tried very hard to be informative. But, again, she was so uncomfortable with this topic. So, when I started to ask about where babies came from, she tried to outsource the conversation and found a book. This thin purple book starts with a cartoon picture of a rooster and a chicken with exaggerated genitalia. Then, it shows a cross-section picture of the rooster and chicken having sex: the rooster with his penis inside the chicken. Then, they do the same thing with two dogs. First, a picture of the male and female dogs with these exaggerated genitalia and then a cross section of the two dogs having sex. Next, they show a cartoon picture of a naked man and woman. On the next page, they are in missionary position in bed, but there is no cross-section this time. Instead, they are under a blanket. Obviously, the authors were hoping we would make the mental leap: the chickens and the dogs have sex like this, so obviously, two humans...

But, I was clearly not that bright. My 5 year old brain thought, "Yes. The two people then make a baby by the man lying on top of the woman and then they maybe both wiggle? Kind of weird that they included the stuff about the chickens and the dogs, but, whatever, grown-ups are strange." 

So, my mom read me the book, gave it to me and then asked if I had any questions. My brain said "yes," but my mother's eyes said, "please, God, no." So, I shook my head no and tried not to think about sex for the rest of my childhood.

This misunderstanding was not cleared up until a sex ed video in my eighth-grade science class was accidentally allowed to play too long and this vagina-cam suddenly showed a penis thrusting in and out of it. This blew my fucking mind. And, how awful is it that we do this to kids? I was having to reorganize 8 years of misunderstandings about sex and then, BOOM, off to history to learn about the Continental Congress. No! Not ok.

That, at least, was a privately mortifying realization. I was not so lucky with the second one. 

The other problem with this purple book was that, in their quest for simplicity, the illustrator wasn't strictly anatomically correct. So, in the cross-section pictures of the chickens and the dogs having sex, they only showed one hole. Which, as a 5 year old with a limited understanding of my OWN anatomy,  I assumed was an asshole. And, dear readers, I am so sad to report that this assumption that all animals reproduced through butt-sex, persisted, uncorrected, until I was 21 years old. 

It just lived as this unexamined, unchallenged idea until I got into a argument with a college boyfriend. This boyfriend was, as many douchey college boyfriends do, trying to talk me into having anal sex. And, as a throw-away comment, I said, "I bet you wish you were a dog-- then all you would get is butt-sex." This comment was met with stunned silence. He then said, "I'm sorry-- what?" I doubled down. "Yeah. You know, all female animals but humans have only two holes: one for peeing and one for sex and pooping." 

He argued back and we went, like, 10 rounds over this.  At one point, my certainty was such that I saw him questioning his own sanity. But, in the end, we Googled it.  And, I lost that one. I sometimes think this was a contributing factor to our eventual break-up.

Now, do not judge me!  How was I supposed to have casually corrected this one? I never got into animal husbandry! I didn't spend a lot of time on farms! Bestiality is not my kink!

Anyhow. There are two morals of this story:

1) Don't tell traumatizing stories of your "fun years" to you children. Especially at family parties.

2) For the love of God, buy clear, anatomically correct sex education books for your children. 

The Weight of This Work

Somedays, I can feel
My soul being pressed into 
Strong, sleek, clarity

Somedays, I can feel
My soul being burnished
To a fine glow

Sometimes, this work
Makes me feel strong.
As though I am moving towards my 

Final, Enlightened Self.

But.

Somedays, I feel like my
Soul is being pounded into 
Fine, gray, powder.

Or, gutted and
Ripped and 
Left to rot.

Somedays, my soul is diminished
See-through, as though crows have
Stolen threads to pad their own nests.

And, I sit, wondering:
What makes the difference?
And, importantly, which day will win?

Will my soul leave, crushed, diminished, decayed?
Or, will it shine, strong, ready for the next round?

Sometimes

Sometimes, I feel huge and important;
As though my specific life and cares matter to the Universe.

Sometimes, I feel small and insignificant.
Understanding myself the ant to an all powerful being,
Or, the amoeba to a cold, insentient cosmos.

Sometimes, I tend my vegetable garden and feel one with nature.
I feel hope as I dig my roots into ancient soil.

Sometimes, I see a fresh blossom on a late September vine
And I ache with the understanding that this new hope is dependent upon a dying life-source.

And, I wonder:

Do my hopes and plans branch from a fresh June vine?

Or, are they the last hopeful thought of a dying October annual?

What a silly thing, to cry over a small yellow flower that will never know pollination.
That will never know the birth of a fruit;
Or know that, still in its prime and glory, it will be thrown

Thoughtlessly, into the compost heap.

How can I know if my life has been set in time with the turning wheel?
Or, if I was born out of sync, never to see life's full revolution?

Who are the chosen who travel the long path?
Who are the lucky?

Sometimes, I wonder. 

Vulnerability

 I just finished watching the HBO show "Girls;" the one that everyone recommends but no one says they like. I certainly experienced it like this. I spent 75% of the show cringing through the self-conscious, low self-esteem-driven choices of the main characters. The other 25% of the time, I marveled at the talent and excruciating honesty of the show's creator, Lena Dunham.

When the show finished, I told my roommate about my mixed reaction and said that I had a difficult time relating to the characters. Upon reflection, I don't believe that this is true.

Yes. Perhaps I have never made so MANY bad decision in a single night; but have I never felt the same, painful lack of self worth that leads to these decisions? Who am I to put myself above these women who are simply more honest about their motivations? Maybe they simply don't have my knack for positive reframe or "sugar-coating," if you talk to my friends. Do I have better self-esteem or am I better at hiding from my truth? Sometimes I worry that it is the latter. And, I worry that because of this, I will never be able to write the caliber of story that I want to write.

So, in an attempt to move myself towards truth, I will share an experience that would not be out of place in an episode of "Girls."

It was the second quarter of my freshman year of college. I had dated two guys during my first quarter. The first guy, the one I ended up really liking, had recently made it clear that he was no longer interested in "hanging out." The other guy, the one that I broke up with even after learning that he had, moments before, crashed badly on his skateboard, gave me mono.

This case of mono was not just any case of mono. I had just started to feel the symptoms of my illness when I went home for Thanksgiving break and by the end of the weekend, I was so sick that I had to take incompletes for all of my classes and wasn't able to return to school until the next quarter started in January.  I actually remember very little from my time being sick. I have a vague memory of excruciating pain and exhaustion and I remember having to insert anti-nausea suppositories, just so I could keep food down.  The mono turned into hepatic mono and my face swelled up and turned yellow.

When I was sent back to school after Christmas break, I went with two orders: 1) no alcohol for six weeks because my liver was still recovering and 2) no swapping of saliva because I was still extremely contagious. So, for the second quarter of my freshman year I could neither drink nor make out with anyone. Fuck.

I quickly remedied the first problem by learning to smoke weed. But, I could do nothing about the second part except to be celibate. Celibacy was fairly easy at first.  Weed does not energize my libido like alcohol. In fact, it often puts me to sleep almost immediately. I was also still feeling some of the residual effects of the mono and was getting sick constantly due to my depressed immune system. I was in no state to seduce anyone.

However, my vow of celibacy became much more challenging once the ban on alcohol was lifted. After a few weeks of avoiding temptation, I got drunk and went to a house party with some of my guy friends.  All of my friends knew about my mono and knew that I was still contagious. I chose to forget this fact as I became drunk and started flirting with a cute guy at the party. After talking with him for a few minutes, his friends decided to go to another party and they invited me to go. I (stupidly) said yes and told my friends that I was leaving and not to worry, I would see them back at the dorms. Being guys, they told me to be careful and then told me (loudly) not to infect anyone with my mono. I scowled at them and left.

As we walked down the street towards the next house, one of Cute Guy's friends asked to speak privately with his friend.  Graciously, I allowed this conversation, walking, obliviously, ahead of the group of guys.  After the pow-wow, Cute Guy told me that they needed to make a quick stop at another party before going to the original party they had mentioned earlier.  A few moments later, we were insideca dark, smoky living room. I don't have extremely clear memories of this party, but I do remember thinking that it seemed dead and that the house must belong to a group of guys since there was so little furniture. Cute Guy told me to wait on the couch while he went to the bathroom.  After waiting for ten minutes and being ignored by the few people still populating the party, it dawned on me that I had been ditched. In retrospect, it seems likely that Cute Guy's friends heard my friends talking about my mono and told Cute Guy that he needed to abort mission unless he wanted to be infected by the plague. At the time, my brain was processing fairly slowly and, lacking this insight, chose to fill my confused mind with as much self-loathing as I could muster.

 Of course he didn't want to make out with you. You're fat and ugly and your face is broken out. How could you think a cute guy like that would be interested in you. His friends told him not to waste his time with you. What are you going to tell your friends when they ask you about your night? They will just pity you.

For whatever reason, it was the last thought that really stuck. As I left the fading party and started walking back to my dorm, I felt so low. It felt as though I might actually be crushed under the weight of my self-loathing. Then, like an unexpected line of coke for an addict in withdrawal, an unattractive guy on a bike rode up next to me and engaged me in conversation. He asked me if I liked the movie X-men. I did! He asked if I wanted to go back to his place to watch the sequel. And I knew I should say no.  I knew, in the part of my brain that thinks in PSAs, that this was one of those "dangerous situations" young women are supposed to avoid. My training told me that I should look the predator straight in the eye and assertively say, "NO. I WOULD NOT LIKE TO GO BACK TO YOUR APARTMENT." I should then walk (possibly run) in the opposite direction until I found a cop or other suitable authority figure to whom I would report the incident. But, at that broken moment, he was my fix. He was the proof that not all guys thought I was fat and revolting. He was being nice to me and I NEEDED to feel like a human being again.

So, I went. We walked for what seemed like ages. Several times, the PSAs nagged me about the stupidity of my actions, but I shut it down, still needing to feel wanted.  Once we got there, I was relieved to see that he did actually have an apartment, with furniture (a deranged psycho wouldn't think to furnish his living quarters, right?) and that he actually did have the X-Men sequel. After he put in the DVD, he sat down next to me and without much ceremony started making out with me. He was a terrible kisser. Sometimes it felt as though his main objective was to give me a facial using only his tongue. Between that and his inexpert attempts to feel me up, I was not feeling exactly amorous.  I thought about my options: I could leave. I could leave and go back to my dorm and scrape up my self worth while thanking my lucky stars that I wasn't raped or dead.  Or, my alcohol enhance brain prompted, I could be that sexually liberated feminist I had always wanted to be.  Who says I can't be sexually active? Lots of powerful women have sex with random strangers! Hell, one of my best friends is one of those women!

Thankfully, I was sobering up and decided that I would probably regret losing my virginity to this ugly stranger. But, I reasoned, I also have never had oral sex, so why not now?

Coming to this conclusion, I broke away from Ugly Boy and, wiping my face with the back of my hand, said, "Just so you know, we are not having sex tonight."

He seemed genuinely crushed. "What? How come?"

"Because I've never had sex before and I'm not going to do it now.  However, I've also never had oral sex before and I want to try it out."

Disappointment was quickly replaced by a euphoric smile and he led me back to his room and (surprisingly) comfortable bed.  We both quietly and efficiently disrobed and laid down together in the bed.  Ugly Boy continued my facial and I reached my hand down and grabbed his penis.  It was the second penis I had ever touched and this one was different because it was uncircumcised.  I began to squeeze it, mushing it around it my hand and feeling it's spongy texture. To me, this encounter did not seem erotic.  It felt more like an experiment.  And I observed, with a scientific interest, as the penis grew harder.  I had recently aced the anatomy portion of my Human Sexuality class and I thought of all of the scientific names and stages of arousal I had recently learned as I knelt between his knees, considering his penis. I had never given a blow job and I had no idea what a penis would taste or smell like. When I finally put it in my mouth, I remember thinking that it felt like sucking on a big finger and it smelled musty. I forgot about the man attached to the penis in my mouth as I explored the shape and texture with my tongue and hand.  I reached down and felt his spongy balls.  I pushed my lips over the tip of the penis ("the glans", I thought happily) and was surprised at how velvety it felt. I felt my lips push over the corona of the penis and then run onto the more slender shaft. This was a pleasant sensation, so I repeated it a couple more times and then ran my tongue up the underside of the penis, feeling the bumps of the engorged veins and thinking that this area was called the frenulum. I was about to pass my tongue over the veins again when Ugly Guy groaned and I remembered that this experiment penis was an actual real penis and might, at any moment, erupt with semen. And this, I knew, I did not want in my mouth.

"I don't want you to come in my mouth. So, tell me when you think you're close."

He nodded his agreement and I continued to explore, though more self-consciously this time.  After what seemed like a short while (I don't know if I don't accurately remember how long it took or if he just hadn't gotten any recently) he told me he thought he was going to come. So, I laid down beside him as he finished himself off.  After a short rest, he got up and laid between my open legs.  He licked my clit once, shook his head as though to clear it, licked it again and then asked if we could take a shower since "maybe the walk over had made me sweaty." I was so eager to know what getting head was like that I readily agreed without even taking the time to feel offended.  All at once, I was on my back on the floor of the shower with the water running on both of us.  I don't remember much about what it felt like because he was not very good. I know he immediately put his index finger in my vagina and began fucking me with great urgency while his tongue wandered aimlessly and intermittently around my clit and vulva.  After five minutes of this, I had felt nary a stirring and I was cold and uncomfortable.  I asked if we could move back to the bed and he agreed.  Once we were on the bed, he recommenced the ineffective fucking and wandering and I soon decided that I could do a much better job myself. I asked if he could "just play with my boobs" and I got myself off.

After orgasming, I was very sober and very ready to leave. We both got up and dressed. I remember having a hard time retying my sarong. Ugly Boy was smoking on his front porch as I walked out his front door.  This surprised me. He gave me a scrap of paper with his phone number on it and I walked away as quickly as I could without making it seem like I was hurrying. The further I got from his house, the angrier I became.  Two blocks away, my face contorted in rage, I tore up the shred of paper and threw it into the filthy gutter.  I paused a moment to collect myself, took a deep breath, and kept walking toward my dorm.

During that walk, I managed to re-convince myself that this was a moment of feminist glory and that I had claimed my sexuality for my own. I retold the story to myself the way that I would later tell it to my friends. I remember laughing a little at the absurd parts. When I finally reached my dorm, my friends and roommates were in a state of near-panic. When the guys had returned from the party without me my girl friends ripped them apart for leaving me and had commenced a search to try and find me. On some level, I felt bad for making them worry. But, I was feeling too defensive from my recent experience to do something so vulnerable as admitting my fault and apologizing. So, I made them laugh and told them not to worry so much. I shamed them a little, telling them that I was a big girl, just for good measure.

They eventually got over it and a few days later I developed a yeast infection that launched me into the first stages of my (probably) lifelong hypochondriasis. But, that, I think, is for another blog entry.

So, it seems that I can relate to Dunham's self-esteem-challenged twenty-somethings. I hope to one day come to a place where I connect first to vulnerability and  second to judgement. Because it feels really good to get this off of my chest. 

Admitting there's a problem

It turns out that the 20s are a fairly angsty period of time.  I have been in my third decade for seven and a half years and, frankly, I am done. This is not to say that I have hated every minute of my 20s or that I have been unhappy even most of the time.  In fact, it has been quite the opposite. My 20s and, really, my whole life, has been blessed. I am very lucky.

The trouble is that I remember the intensity of my lust for life at 18 and now, at 27, it's been beaten down to a shadow of its former self. I don't know if it was the incessant moving, relationships, anxiety, indecision, piling responsibilities or, perhaps, a lumpy, grey mixture of it all. But, I do know that I want it back. And I have no idea how to get it.

And, things are coming to a head. I graduate from my master's program in May and my massive loans come due six months after that.  Today, January 4th, I celebrate my third year anniversary with my girlfriend and I do not know if I want to continue in my relationship. I am very broke, all of the time, but I need to move into a living situation where I am the true master of my own affairs.  My biological clock is ticking, but I am not ready for marriage and a family.

Rationally, I know that I cannot fix all of these problems at once or, maybe, at all.

Emotionally, I am drowning.