When I was a little girl I was obsessed with sex.
I didn’t know exactly what it was but I had scattered clues gleaned from older children, careless parents whose bedroom doors didn’t lock, my mother’s “female health” book and a tattered Mills and Boon found somewhere.
My best friend and I hid behind the curtains in the window of my living room and pored over line drawings of penises and vaginas and wombs in profile. Giggling. Snickering. Terrified of being caught looking at bold things.
Sometimes there would be a little boy over to play, his parents friends with mine, and we might play doctor. I don’t remember very much except that I thought it was fun to play doctor and I didn’t feel at all weird about cold plastic stethoscope or thermometer.
I wasn’t clear about sex, about bodies, about intimacy… but I was very aware at a young age that you couldn’t be too eager or make suggestions. I knew I would always be more weird than other people and so I took a passive role, delighting if someone else’s mind allowed for us to do something bolder and more likely to get us in trouble. I’m not necessarily talking about sexual activity, I wouldn’t really call playing doctor or playing “more realistic” house, sexual activities. But across the board, I was adventurous, curious, and only behaved myself if there was a real risk of getting in trouble.
I dreamt of sex as a child. I wasn’t molested or corrupted by any adult, but sex was on my mind. It wasn’t a bad thing, in my mind. It was an exciting, mysterious part of adult life and like all things adult and prohibited I wanted it immediately.
I was an impatient child. I snuck cider from my mother’s glass when she wasn’t looking and pretended to smoke cigarettes made from rolled up note paper. My mother noticed I loved those candy sticks a bit too much because they looked like child-sized cigarettes in a box, and I wasn’t bought them any more. I wanted to be an adult.
At this point I didn’t share my thoughts with my friends. Again, I was aware that somehow I was weirder than most. Maybe I wasn’t afraid of the places my mind would go. I wasn’t afraid of where my thoughts might lead me, until I was 12 or 13 and developed the very real fear that if I let my imagination run wild, I might find out I was a lesbian.
I loved breasts. I thought about breasts. Hard nipples, full breasts.
I couldn’t tell if I was just jealous of people who had them- my modest handfulls didn’t come in until I was eighteen, and they didn’t really get that nice round shape until I was in my twenties. They were high up but droopy, with big soft nipples, very big for a white girl I thought, and formed a pyramid shape. I hated them.
So I thought about breasts. I wasn’t sure if I just wanted to have them or if I wanted to hold them. But I was a teenager and the real worry, the idea of how AWFUL life would be if I were a lesbian… the idea lodged itself there. I started to close my mind off at the edges, keeping my thoughts inside the box for the first time in my life. Afraid, terrified that in one more way I would find myself to be different.
I was already an atheist, my parents weren’t married, I was unbaptised and my family was international. I spoke three languages and I didn’t have brothers or sisters. All together, I was the weird, strange child. I didn’t want to be more strange. God, it was hard enough building myself up to resist the mere fact of being different…. in ways that would later turn out to be positive, mostly.
I didn’t want to be a lesbian. I wished at night. PLEASE DON’T LET ME BE A LESBIAN.
But breasts were lovely, and I thought about them. Christina Aguilera and Britney Spears came out with their first albums. Christina was pure and sexy in a genie in a bottle. I thought about her. The lines between being her and touching her were blurred in my fantasies. I didn’t know what I wanted.
there was a mounting sense of frustration.
I thought about my friends sexually. Not my girlfriends- that was a sort of taboo. I thought about the boys I played with, who I was playing with less and less as it became clear that sooner or later we would have to part ways and become awkward teenagers.
I thought about them at night.
I was maybe eight or nine, and I had this dream….
Of a dungeon. It was’t a dungeon really, it was nice.
Before I figured out how to masturbate, I guess my frustration was so high, I learnt to control my dreams. Sometimes I could choose to go to my dungeon. At night I would wake up in my dream. In my bed. The wall against my bed was made of jelly, but only I knew this. No one could pass through it except at my invitation. I would slip through the wall and find myself in a dungeon.
Stone walls, a fireplace. Fur rugs. Candles on the walls. A huge round bed covered in red and purple and black drapes. This was my aesthetic vision when I was a child.
In my dungeon I was an adult woman, curvy, beautiful. Long, thick hair like a 1970s star. Big breasts. HUGE breasts. I went naked in my dungeon or else I would wish myself into beautiful dresses. Sometimes I would wish myself into clothes that were just corsets or rope wrapped around me, squeezing my breasts and my skin…
I have no idea where I got these images from. Perhaps vampire movies? Probably vampire movies.
In my dungeon I would be like a goddess.
I would wish dozens of men to come and queue. I would inspect them one by one. I was rude to them. No, no, no… Go home. Stop wasting my time.
Then I’d kiss one. Yes, you can stay. Maybe. I sometimes wore skin tight catsuit type outfits. I was a sexy, adult dominatrix. I kissed all the boys I liked, and then I’d fuck them. Usually when I was just about to fuck them in my sexy adult body in my sex dungeon, the alarm clock would go off and I’d wake up in my stupid little girl body with my stupid little girl life and I had to put on my uniform and go to school and talk to my little girl friends about Harry Potter or Pokemon or whatever we were into at the time. When I put on my uniform I had to take off my pyjamas and I had these little girl titties that were so awful, just flabby nipples. God I hated looking at myself. In my dream I was this sex queen. In real life I was just this awkward girl with puppy fat that was far too young for anyone (that wasn’t a paedophile) to want to fuck her, and of course in real life I wouldn’t even think of actually doing anything sexual. It was a separate, secret part of my mind. I didn’t actually WANT someone to have sex with me. I just wanted to be an adult already and have men fall at my feet and worship me and do what I said.
In reality little boys, little freckled stupid boring boys, would tell me to shut up because I talked too much and when they finally started fancying girls, they treated me like a boy and talked about my prettier friends.
It took me so… fucking… long… to get where I dreamed of being.
And now I’m older I don’t WANT to stand before I queue of men, deciding which was yes and which was no, and demeaning them all with my power. And yet I could. Because I’ve grown up. I don’t have those massive breasts I dreamt of as a child but I have a woman’s body and I’m comfortable in it. I’ve battled my thoughts and those edges of the box, I’ve come to terms with my love of breasts and I know I’m not a lesbian. And if I was a lesbian, I wouldn’t give a shit. I’ve started digging into the darker corners of my mind and what I find there isn’t scary or disturbing. It’s just me. I’m not afraid of what I’ll find there.
Since I started to dig deeper, beyond my pure and simple love of a good ride, I’ve found myself in interesting situations, exciting situations. I’ve been dabbling in BDSM. I haven’t reported on that because I’ve been quite consumed with it and haven’t felt inspired to write a report of being tied up and spanked….
I just felt like writing this now. Maybe I’ll write about the other things, but this is what I felt like writing so here it is.