Notes on the child I used to be

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.

What happened next? Would you believe “dinosaurs”?

My dirty little secret is safe! Or maybe it’s not but I am choosing to believe the guy…

I just got a reply to my email- a satisfactory one.

Reading it made my insides squirm around in an unpleasant but almost horny kind of revulsion, because having the other party reply talking about THAT, just confirms that IT actually did happen. I had a tiny sliver of hope still, that I didn’t actually do anything at all but in fact am going insane from lack of sex and in fact hallucinating the whole thing.

Unfortunately this was just wishful thinking, but at least he replied with abot the best thing I could hope for otherwise.

He was like “yeah of course, what happened happened (in that, that’s it) and I’m not going to tell anyone. I know how it is, small town, big mess… etc. Yeah I understand about the morning and having to go to work etc, I have a few bits myself I haven’t been able to figure out but it’s fine don’t worry about it. Anyway I’ll drop by the shop one of these days for a chat,”

So that will be a little awkward having to see him without warning some random day knowing he knows what I look like naked and what I sound like when I have a hand up… never mind. but I have decided the line of attitude I will be taking:

The “I’m a sexual woman, pfff it’s only sex”, partly in denial, kind of attitude. All I need is for him to think I’m just a terrible drunken slut and then he won’t think it meant anything to me good or bad. But I don’t want him to think I’m enough of a slut to do it again.

But I had a wonderful little thought pop into my head today as I walked down to pay my bills at the post office- (yeah I paid my bin/refuse taxes for the rest of the year and my last overdue phone bill, woop woop!)

The thought was this: If the thing that I feel worst about right now is having slept with someone who I THINK I’M TOO GOOD FOR, then my worst problem is having a high opinion of myself and thinking I’m worth more, and that is something I should be celebrating!

So these kind of positive outlooks don’t usually stick unless you already feel pretty fucking recovered already but I am feeling pretty convinced right now so whatevs, I’m making headway!

Then I did a whole bunch of responsible person stuff like I bought a shizzload of fruits and vegetables and made soup, and paid my overdue phone bill and the four installments of bin/rubbish taxes for this year and I took out all of last week’s rubbish which was getting all gross and condensation-y out on the balcony, or as it is more commonly used, the out of sight out of mind room.

I did all this stuff and then went to work.

Ok so should tell you I didn’t have to work until 3.30pm today which is why I got anything done, but still, I did like 500% more than usual, all in one morning.

Anyway so then I remembered Andrea invited me to her house with hottie mc. matching clothes and two other friends and so I brought a bottle of wine acquired last minute at great expense and made my way out there cursing my last minute picking of a spot on my forehead but grateful for the safe low key socialisation opportunity.

We had lovely food and lively conversation, drank a few beers and of course number 3 hit me and I was telling weird anecdotes about making friends with homeless people when drunk in Dublin, buying them ice creams and listening to their awesome stories, but then not being able to recall any of the awesome stories.

And then it’s like “so…. why were you hanging out with homeless people?”

And I’m stumped, I’m like… eh more importantly why the fuck did I begin this story in the first place? where is it going? What qualities am I possibly showcasing here?

So I try my newest technique, the old crappy anecdote tip-ex.

This is where a story I am in the middle of telling is about to bomb.

I have two choices- one, the story is inappropriate or shows me in an awful light and I just realised that now.

In this case, I tack on an ending that is like a moral to the story, or a moment of revelation where I realised how awful the situation was. “But then I looked at my friend Mary with the blood dripping down her chin and thought, damn, I really don’t want to be a cannibal after all. So I left the table and never looked back”, or “and then I kicked the lamb one more time for good luck, but after seeing its little face all sad, I thought, this is wrong. I will not kick lambs again. And now I actually do some volunteer work with lambs in underpriviledged areas.”

And so forth.

The second and in my opinion trickier situation, is when I have told a shitty boring goes nowhere story. There will be all this momentum. I will be building frantically to something. The others are waiting with bated breath for the massive explosion of orgasmic punchline that MUST be about to hit us all and release us from suspense.

And then I remember, this is boring as hell. What happened next? Nothing funny, or else something funny but that is really really bad and I can’t tell anyone in this room. So I need a new ending, or to let the story die, or- and this rarely works- I can just stop, furrow my brow, and say something odd like “oh NO that was a different time, haha.”

This line confuses people and throws them off, so they just think I’m getting confused between two equally awesome stories and can’t tell either one properly, instead of the truth which is that I have one story and it’s a pile of crap.

The new ending is the most successful if I can think of one. Letting the story die only works if someone interrupts me with a better story, or if I can go off on a tangent and make a joke that is good enough that people forget about my previous story.

The new ending is hard though. Especially if drunk.

It calls for something I am particularly bad at- fiction. I am a bad liar, and an even worse impromptu anecdote inventor.

“So then… wait no sorry his shoes were red. So ok, there we are, me, Liam, Jane, Susie and Fred. No it wasn’t Fred, Fred had broken up with Claire so he wasn’t out then. Or no wait that wasn’t then, that was another time. So we were all there, and… hee hee” and here people are like YES YES WHAT NEXT? Because I have been setting the scene for like 15 minutes.

And then it hits me, what we did next was either, I went back with Liam and fell asleep during sex which was why i remembered this story as being funny, but I can’t tell this because I barely know the people I’m with, or else, what happened next was Jane and Susie called a taxi but it didn’t arrive until much later and in that time Fred had called another one and we all got the second taxi, but then the other one arrived at the same time and he was a bit pissed off.

And that’s a complete non-story but what can I do? I have all these people waiting for a finish.

So I can do the “oh no wait I’m thinking of Halloween, it was Halloween!” and then frown and start muttering “didn’t I have a beer… oh wait is this it? OH shit I must have drunk it all, hahaha! You know what’s nice, that beer with the Tiger on it? what’s it called? Oh HILARIOUS, Tiger beer? Are you shitting me? What a grade a moron I am!” and then hope the subject is changed and we can forget my story, or else

I have to try come up with something clever possibly mashed up from previous stories. I think this has probably never worked properly, but I still attempt it when I’m feeling flamboyant and imaginative.

“So then the second taxi showed up, and he was really pissed off!” look around blearily. Blank faces. “what happened then?”

Huh? “Oh yeah… then… then a beer truck that was passing, flipped over and luckily it didn’t blow up but there was a hole pierced in the side and out sprayed loads of beer and we danced in the beer rain and I think it was on the news but you can’t see it was me because I was topless so I covered my face, but yeah, it was awesome”

But I can never come up with anything believable or good.

I can’t do fiction.

 

BUT Oh! Yes I can!

Andrea and her boyfriend were like, hey how were you when you woke up the other day?

And I’m like “oh yeah gawd I was so fucked, I had no idea what had happened, like I went into the kitchen and I thought you’d all still be there… I couldn’t remember when you guys left or if it was cool, like maybe I was really messy and rude or something”

And they’re like, no, you were pissed but it was grand, we left pretty early.

And her boyfriend is like, and were you alone?

And I’m like yeah, it’s just me, I live alone.

And he’s like no were you alone?

And I’m like oh sorry yeah I understand, yeah I was all alone! Ha ha… and then I let it dawn on my face what he meant and I’m like “Oh hoooooo was I alooooone!” and I’m like oh god yeah! Hahahah!

And so forth, I think I was really good but then I can never tell how obvious or clever my lies are.

I like to consider I am good at lying when it’s really important like about things like people I’ve slept with, and I must be because I have managed to keep some events from people who are very close to me and never been found out and lied through my teeth so I must be doing something right with my fibs, but it’s so hard to know if you’re good at lying, unless someone actually calls bullshit on what you’re saying, you’ll never know…

I live in hope, however.

Nighty night anyway.

It’s late, I’m a bit boozey,

Until next thought that crosses my mind… laters!