Growing from the concrete

Having been raised in a rural farmtown, I would learn very little about my own sexuality growing up. I would end up missing close to half of my sexual education/health classes in middle school, as my friends and I were “class clowns” in our younger days and would go wild cracking jokes during these classes, so we would often be sent out. They did not teach much beyond male sexuality, pregnancy, and STDs, anyway. I remember getting excited while being taught all these things about penises.  

Around this time, I would start waking up with slimy panties, usually with vague memories of dreams about wrestling with boys I liked, but I did not understand why. I was just entering puberty and was pre-menarchal, but had the beginnings of breasts under my very sore nipples, and downy peach fuzz beginning to grow above my pussy.

Also around this time in my life, I began to lust after the male body. My father used to force our entire household to watch basketball games every night, only having one TV. I had always been bored out of my mind whenever he turned on sports, but this particular time, I fancied some of the players. I enjoyed watching their bodies in motion, trying to make out their cocks in their shorts (I think they wear cups anyway) — for some reason, men like to take their shirts off at random and touch each other a lot in celebration during team sports. I was titillated, and felt that slimy, sweaty sensation in my pants like I would often feel when I woke up. Though I was not too familiar with my own anatomy at the time, I felt my clitoris all swollen, with its own pulse, straining against the fabric of my underwear. It felt good to me, so I decided to press my pussy against a throw cushion. For whatever reason, I somehow did not think my father would notice or even know what I was doing. I began to rub into it slowly, but steadily, not understanding how to bring myself to orgasm at the time, so I would lose interest and stop on my own accord. I actually got away with this a number of times, until one day, I did not lose interest, and my casual pressing and rubbing became purposeful thrusting. I did not realize it at the time, but I was about to orgasm. 

This caught my father’s eye and he put an abrupt end to it. He crept up on me while I was unaware and gave me a prompt slap on the back of my head. He looked disgusted, but I don’t remember him saying anything about it. Later that night, he told my mother, who screamed at me a whole litany of oppressive and hurtful things. She then demanded that my father beat me, as she could not stand to be around such a “perverted girl”. I blame her original culture for this attitude, as well as the culture of the Christian conservative town my parents raised me in. This continues to be the attitude towards women’s sexuality in many parts of America, unfortunately, and when I went to college, I was astounded to learn many college-aged girls (at least claimed to) have never masturbated or experienced orgasm before at all. I myself would spend many nights frustrated nights at college unable to masturbate because of my bothersome roommate, who would never leave me alone. A few times, I stopped caring, and masturbated myself to orgasm quietly at night while she was awake on her phone. I’m not sure if she noticed, but I didn’t care in the moment, being horny and irritated by her.

After being caught by my father, I would only cautiously explore myself at night, under my covers. I began to hide my underwear, which would have a slight crust and residue from my wet dreams and rubbing. I can laugh now in hindsight, realizing my ignorance, but the natural process of puberty was made a nightmare for me by the mere fact that I was a girl. I cannot stress enough the immense damage such shameful attitudes towards female sexuality cause. When I eventually got my period (at 14), I was too ashamed to ask for any period products, and only told my best friend, who gave me one of his socks to use as a pad, my first time. My parents became too prudish to buy me any underwear or bras when I would eventually need them, so that was also left up to me to figure out. 

I had just turned 16 when I left my parents’ home. I don’t remember whether they kicked me out or if I left; but I couldn’t take it anymore in either case. I moved to a nearby city, where I was unwary (as a country girl) to the dangers of being a young girl all alone. I am amazed that I was never at any point sexually abused, though there were times when guys were planning and grooming me for the possibility. I eventually became involved with a variety of undesirable things on the streets. I became an entrepreneur of the street corner and the curb; I befriended two boys and together we held down a block. Sometimes, while waiting for customers, men would try to solicit me for prostitution (sometimes offering to pay handsomely). We would always cuss and shoo these repulsive bastards off, but on one occasion, we jumped and robbed one of these dirty old men. Reader, I bet this story took a turn you did not expect, but I would feel dishonest to ignore the social climate surrounding all my other stories.