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, 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. 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 two boyfriends doing nothing more than that.
Look out for the follow-up, “A Coming-of-age Story: Part 2 – Religion and Sex“.