I’ve been trying my hand at writing a book of sorts, not sure what format it will take yet but I thought I would share its beginning. Your thoughts and comments would be greatly appreciated.
Sex was always a fascination for me. I think it began with Mills and Boons and Harlequin romance novels. Until I read my first romance novel at about 14 years old, I had no interest in the concept. I understood the mechanics of the act, but I remained innocent and quite frankly grossed out by the concept.
I wish I could remember the first sex scene that I read; I’m sure I was absolutely shocked by it. Luckily, my first novels weren’t graphic but more, let’s call it poetic; all throbbing rods and quivering lady parts, thrusting passions and delightful ecstasy. It all sounded so absolutely wonderful.
Strange enough though, even as my reading material became more graphic, I never masturbated, not that I had the privacy to do so anyway; Jamaican households included no locked doors, except for the bathroom. In my case, I simply didn’t have the desire to masturbate. I remember being quite excited by the explicit sex scenes I read, but it never occurred to me that I could do something about that excitement. Besides, I was also a good church-going girl; went to church every Sunday and even participated in youth fellowship on Saturdays. Even when I eventually got my first boyfriend at about 16 years old, all we did was kiss awkwardly and hold hands. I actually went through 2 boyfriends doing nothing more than that.
My first real arousing kiss happened when I was 18 years old. By this point, I was having discussions with friends about how far they had gone, and most admitted to only light petting and oral sex – of course, most were lying. However, to understand the dynamics of this, you should note that I attended an all girls, traditional high school, where Christian morals and decency were highly valued. We were all encouraged to wait until marriage to have sex and the good little girl that I was, was in total agreement with these beliefs.
All that changed, however, because of a crisis of faith. I was scared into getting baptized by the Y2K end of the world doctrine. A church leader convinced me and few other youths that he could prove that the world would end in the year 2000 and so we had to save our souls or be doomed to hell for all eternity. Yes, you guessed it, I was terrified. I think I even gave up reading explicit books for most of 1999.
I got baptized for the second time on December 31, 1999. I was in church ready for the coming of the lord and he didn’t show. Yes, Y2K came and went. I can’t tell you how I felt, it was all a blur. All I remember was the spiritual terror and the awful feeling of not being allowed to grow up beyond that point.
God hadn’t shown up and I was relieved yet devastated. All that wasted fear, for what. All that conviction from the church leader was wrong. January 1, 2000, marked the beginning of the end of my faith. I began to question everything. Even at the age of 17, I felt bamboozled, made a fool of. I would no longer believe in something because someone told me to. I had to test everything. I had always been a curious child, yet as I grew up, I out-grew my questioning nature and accepted the word of those in authority as gospel. My skepticism was now a firm part of me.
No faith meant no restrictions. I could do and say whatever I wanted. I remember daring my friends to dare me to say fuck. Yes, my first curse word was fuck and as a Jamaican with a large vocabulary of curse words to choose from that is saying something. Then came the rap music and the heavy metal, I was ready to explore the world beyond my sheltered Christian upbringing. I started to go to parties with my girlfriends and if you have ever been to a Jamaican party, you know what I mean when I say that I danced. Dancing at a Jamaican party entitles lots of ‘wining’ and gyrating of bodies parts; typically, male crotch grinding against female behind or crotch against crotch.
So it was that I had my first kiss, at one such party as I was gyrating with some guy I had barely met. At some point during our hot and sweaty dancing, he kissed me, tongue and all – and I got wet. It was a pleasant if unexpected event. The young man in question proceeded to drag me off the dance floor for more kissing. Fortunately, my curfew and ride back home had arrived and I was rescued by my friends, so the young man and I quickly exchanged telephone numbers.
The next day, I was racked with guilt. I was actually still involved with my second ever boyfriend at the time and I had cheated on him by letting myself be kissed silly. I also had every intention of repeating the experience; there was only one thing to do. I promptly visited my boyfriend and broke up with him.
Spewing the old, “It’s not you, it’s me” line. I was truthful at least, it was me, and I wanted to kiss another guy.