I did something I haven’t done in a while tonight.
It was odd. Lying in bed in the dark, thinking about the articles I had just read in Cosmo. And I started planning something to write myself. Maybe it was the article on how to seduce a man, or some crap that got me thinking about masturbation. They had this little quiz that I took and found out I was a “femme fatale seductress”. Whatever the hell that means.
Next thing I know, my hand is down underneath my panties and I feel if I am wet. I’m not, but it doesn’t matter. It was trepidation of masturbation itself. How long had it been? Months? Could I still remember to get myself off?
Being an avid masturbator in the past, I achieved orgasm pretty quickly, and felt myself relax. It had been a long time.
And as I climbed out of bed to write this, I could smell my pussy on my fingers. Each time I bring my cigarette up to my lips for a puff, I can still smell myself.
And I laugh.
My laughter is not because it is 1:32am and I have to get up in four hours, nor is it the lack of a sex partner. It’s a laugh on how almost ironic this whole situation is.
Sexuality/sensuality is a tabooed subject, depending on who you are. My thoughts and feelings on sex have varied over the years since I was a child, and I know the older I get the more it is going to vary. Lately, I have noticed how tired I was of sex, and masturbation, and a self-imposed celibacy was in order.
Lisa’s friends: “We’ve heard this one before.”
In order to get to the heart of the matter, lets trace back to the early roots of when I was a child. This is a subject I’ve never really explored before, other than mentions of “I’ve fucked him”, or “we made love”, or something else of that genre.
I remember being 13 years old, and in the eight grade. I had the biggest crush on Nick Hill. He was tall, sandy haired and had green eyes. I remember, that spring of 1986, I was different then I was in the fall of 1985. I had lost majority of my baby fat, I had gotten my mother to ditch my glasses for contacts, and I had finally filled out as female: Boobs, hips, long legs. The works.
I remember standing with Nick behind a building one sunny spring day. He kept trying to kiss me. I kept backing away. Have a guy stick a tongue in my mouth? Are you nuts? But, back then, my views on life were pretty prim and proper. After a self-schooling in various religions – going to Catholic school for 8 years and convinced I wasn’t attractive enough for any man – I figured if I didn’t have a bf by the time I was 20, I would just resign myself to being a spinster and that was that. My thinking was that my education and my mind were the most important features I would need, that would be the end of it.
However, hormones and ideals don’t mix well, and Nick finally succeeding in giving me a french kiss. I don’t remember much after that, other than he dumped me for my best friend Love, because she put out.
My purity was important to me. Over the next couple of years, high school relationships faltered in the raging hormone scene. Meaning, I would “go with” someone, and do everything but go down on them or fuck them. Why should I? I was saving myself for someone “pure” just like I was – someone who was going to “love me” for me. That was important. My mind, who I was, and what I was. Not this groping in the back of cars or stealing moments behind the tennis court. It seemed trivial and unimportant.
That’s what I was “telling” people, but inside was a whore raging to get out. Masturbation had been my nightly feed since I was about 12. I feared once I “really” let go, there was going to be no stopping me. I feared becoming a slut, a whore, whatever you wish to call it, and not having any self-respect for “me”.
Oh sure, there were times I almost succumbed. Once was with Chad Whatshisname, that I was desperately in love with my sophomore year. He dropped me because, you guessed it: I wouldn’t put out.
My attitude was changing though. It seemed that the more I grew “up” and “out” physically, some issues were beginning to rein in their heavy head.
That summer, of 1987, my father came to visit. This was a moment that would perhaps alter my destiny. In was during that time, that when my mother had suggested that I had been sexually abused. I had thought about it, but personally, I just figured it was my over-active imagination going haywire and too many Monday Night Movies. But her words to me made sense.
It seems that one summer when I was 8, I was shipped off to my father for a few weeks. My mother had left my father when I was five months old and moved back to the States. My father had visitation rights, but there were periods, long periods, that I never saw him. It seems that my father wanted me to stay with him for a few weeks in Toronto, which my mother agreed to. I came home days later, and I didn’t say why. However, my mother counters that my father and I were staying in a hotel, and they became concerned because my father was so much older than I was (45 years older). The police were brought in for something, and I was shipped home.
My questions remain to this day: If that was my mother’s suspicion, then why did she leave me in his care after that?
I’ve never really gotten down to the nitty-gritty details of what happened, but what I do remember of my childhood is being afraid of men – primarily my uncles John and Bill, but never my father. Too many times, I remember being scared shitless when having to deal with them at family occasions. I don’t remember much else.
Was I abused sexually?
Well according to some friends, my behavior sexually doesn’t leave a doubt in their mind. But me personally? My best guess is I don’t know. Too many instances that relatives would bring up – instances of my overtly passionate behavior when I was a child – indicate otherwise.
When I was a child, my Uncle Duwayne used to make his toes crawl across the floor at which I screamed in delight. Could this perhaps lead to the reason why I hate the thought of toe sucking, or why I have condemned my feet to being the ugliest on the earth?
When I was six or seven, I cornered Jeff Whatshisname behind a tree and kissed him. That innocent kiss lead to the reason why my brother is now named Jeff.
When I was three, I used to go around and “paw” at my older cousin Doug, and declared that I was going to marry him.
My mother wrote in my baby book that I adored males of any kind that came near me. Much more so then I should have as a kid, I would suppose.
So to me, something is not jelling here. Was I one born of wonton behavior, or am I sexually repressed, or what-not?
Coming ahead a few years, by the time I was 15, I had kissed many a men in my time. I liked kissing. I liked making out. I liked being rough with a guy. My tastes, though, were starting to go a bit overboard. I started getting excited over the thought of BDSM, and domination and submission. To dominate a guy, or be submissive “to” a guy, was beginning to form ideas in my head.
Nearing the end of my sophomore year in high school, I met Chuck. Chuck was everything my mother wanted me to have in the typical bf. He was smart (salutatorian of his graduation class), he was German, he was Catholic, and he had everything going for him. He was the archetype of what I was dating previously: the little high school boys who cared about nothing more than sex and football/basketball/insert a sport here.
Chuck’s and my first meeting, though, was amusing. Seeing as he was someone who wasn’t as aggressive as I was, I leaned in to kiss him, only to have him bite my tongue! Laughing as he did, on his way out the door, I was furious. How dare he!
I was convinced by this time that I was in love with him, and I wanted to be Mrs. Veneklase. Sure, he was two years older than I was, but heck, I was a smart and ambitious girl. I was probably picking out kid’s names.
One particular cold Michigan night, Chuck took me to his family’s cottage on a lake south of Grand Rapids. It was such a beautiful night, the stars were all shinning clearly, and I could almost reach out and touch them. Chuck broke into the cabin, and we took a look around. Over 30 years worth of Veneklases had been there. Names etched in the wood. To get in the spirit, I etched in “Lisa and Chuck, 1988”.
A lone cot was the source of our make out session. With no heat, below-zero temperatures, we stripped off our shirts and got down to some heavy sessions of making out. This was it. This was the time that I had been waiting for! Finally!
But it was not to be. No matter how much I begged, pleaded, or cajoled, he wasn’t going to give it up to me. One aborted attempt earlier in our relationship proved to him that my screaming, when he stuck his cock in me, was not going to be the most romantic way of making love.
And as all high school relationships do, we broke up. The main reason?
Because the one time I wanted to – eagerly and passionately wanted to give it up – he didn’t want it.
Fast forward ahead a year, and I’ve now just turned 17. Some say 17 is a magical age, but depending on who you are talking to, it can vary. By the time I was 17, I had one aborted suicide attempt, dropped out of high school (only to return later to jeers from the upperclassman), and finally had my weight under control again. Then I met Scott.
Scott was swimming in our local pool, where my friends and I used to hang out everyday. We were all bronzed, toned, and trimmed from swimming day in and day out all summer long. Scott happened to know some friends in the area and was visiting them when we first saw each other.
I don’t remember if I seduced him first, or if he came on to me, but I do remember that four days later, I was lying on my back, my ass propped up on pillows, as he and I attempted to have sex.
I remember my first thoughts: “This is it?”
Finally, my friends said, I was no longer a virgin. My virginity irked them much more then it irked me. But it was twisted fate. I -wanted- to have sex, but on the flip side, I wanted to wait. Chuck blowing me off really had hurt me, and I couldn’t understand why I felt ‘nothing’ when Scott and I fucked. It drove me insane.
Over the course of a couple of months, Scott and I fucked with about as much passion as a cat on a cold roof. We got caught by my brother and his friends, watching us one day in my bed, but other than that, it lacked anything real. I kept insisting that he loved me, and I loved him. Of course, was his beating me up, telling me what to wear, who I was going to see, or what I was doing , was a part of this decision? Of course not.
Less then two months later, Scott and I broke up. The reason? He found a 14 year old, self-proclaimed whore, who had done most of the neighborhood. I, of course, retaliated by getting his best friends to like me. I also retaliated by getting Scott to come over one day after school, got him high, and finally making love.
In the course of ages 17-19, I had slept with several men. There was Greg, who had the largest dick known to man. He proceeded to break up with me on my 18th birthday, but thought he was doing me a favor by dating my best friend Angie, and sleeping with me, before I moved to Toronto some months later.
There was Miguel, who proclaimed I was the only woman for him. He would follow me around when my friends and I would go to teen night at the local club, show up at my house with roses, or just basically obsess about me. Of course, could our five-year on-and-off-again love affair mean much to me? How could it? He got obsessive to the point of having people watching my every move, and got so disgusted when I started dating someone else, that he flew back from Guam with two plane tickets – and left with an empty seat next to him. Maybe my decision to rebuff his offer had a lot to do with me calling him one night, only to hear his drunken words, that he had just done a 40 year old, and that “everything I do I do for you baby!”.
But that hurt: seeing the look in his eyes when I said ‘no.’ He retaliated by convincing me later on that he was still in love with me, and when I finally succumbed, yet again, he left me with a 1400 dollar cellular bill.
And how could I forget Alan? Alan, who, in part, took away a lot of my innocence. Alan, who I finally found a kink partner in – having sex everywhere and anywhere convenient. Alan, my first soul mate, and my first adult relationship! Oh Alan! Alan, who I would go down on the minute he walked in the door, or who I would let use anything tangible to fuck me with. Of course, his sleeping around on me for nearly half of our relationship, and NOT using protection, had nothing to do with my wanting to remain with him. Of course it had nothing to do with him going shopping one day, only to have him turn and look at me and say, “With your face, and Cindy Crawford’s body, you could make a lot of money.” Of course, it had nothing to do with, after “finally” breaking it off, that he was still calling me at work, at home, and telling me “I love you Lisa, and she (his new girlfriend) is not you.”
Of course it had nothing to do with him nearly stalking me throughout our breakup; of his breaking into my house and watching me sleep; or sitting in his car across the street to wait till I came home; or calling me if I wasn’t at home when I should be. And heaven forbid if I was dating someone else.
And then there was the other Scott, who was 12 years my senior. We never slept together, but he sure loved telling his friends about his sexy, 20 year old girlfriend.
And Bryan. Can’t forget Bryan, who I woke up to raping me one morning – and it took me a few hours to realize what he did was “wrong”.
Oh…and Christian. Now this is a good one. A self-imposed loaner who liked to dress up in women’s clothing, and the -only- way he could get off is by having a dildo shoved up his ass. Gee, the most memorable night was the night I tied him up nearly hog-style, wearing bra and panties, blind folded, and shoved a dildo up his ass. When I left the room, I gave strict instructions for him not to move an inch. 10 minutes later, I hear snoring. I slam open the door to see that he had FALLEN ASLEEP, with a 7 inch big ass dildo up his rear end. And oh how he loved spankings! Broke a wooden paddle on his ass.
And Danny. The man I almost married, and broke it off with: twice. The first night he and I slept together, I felt like I was in heaven. Now here was someone that I could relate to sexually, who was aggressive and demanding and knew how to please me. Well, I was wrong. Sex turned into a guilt trip, where he would cum too fast, and blame it on me. “It’s all your fault,” he’d say, “that I cum so fast.”
I had to save the best for last. Jeff. My prince. The man, whom for nearly a year, I burned the wires with. The man whom I shared my darkest fantasies with, whom I related everything about me, and whom I would get hot just thinking about. “Could it be,” I’d ponder, “I have finally met my match? Someone who not only sees the world as I do, but to have the same fucked up sense of sexuality?” For nearly a year I had nary a though in my head, in between lovers and cross-countries moves, and long distance telephone calls that left us both gasping for cigarettes. So when I finally met him, and I sat there, exhausted from being up for so many days, just happy to be in his orbit, he rejects my kiss. He rejected me. “I still feel for you emotionally, intellectually, and spiritually, but not physically.”
This coming from the same man who once told me, amidst his philosophical babble, that come the time we met, he could not guarantee love and affection, but a hard on and a good fuck? This coming from a man who once said that all I was good for was computers and sex?
Five days of intense torture, being in the same room with someone I had been desiring for nearly a year? Sitting there, pondering, wondering “what the hell”, only to have him look at me and say that? No kids…the trip to Pennsylvania did NOT go well.
How his words are still burned deep in my heart; how he accused me of not having any feeling; and with that smug look on his face, tell me that I saved it all for my F.U.C.K. files? That everything I did, was written up, zipped up and sent to 1000’s of readers? How I took those words to heart, so disgusted with him and with myself for allowing this happen, that I haven’t written a word in over two months? How fucking ANGRY!?! I am still not over this whole issue.
I am not angry at just the whole Jeff thing. It’s always the assumption that I am going to fuck you; just because I’ve flirted, slept with in the past, or even made a pass at you? Who the FUCK gives you the right to dictate what I am going to do with my body? Or allowing myself to be guilt-tripped into thinking that I want to fuck you for the first time, or even again? Don’t always assume that based on my past, or my actions, that I am an easy lay. How dare YOU for even thinking that. I will NOT allow myself to be guilt-tripped into a spineless relationship by someone who doesn’t even have the courage to be themselves. And I will not allow myself to be manipulated into being someone’s whore. Ever again!
I’m pretty angry.
A deep sereneness has been in my aura for over an hour now. It is going on 3am, and whatever I felt in my heart, and in my soul, has been laid to rest. Nothing exists it seems, other then the sound of the rain against my windowpane.
I’m not looking to be a martyr. I’m not looking for anything. Understanding for who and what I am, and the fact that I am human – but there are some things I did not deserve. Oh granted, no one forced me into these relationships. I walked into them wide-open, but now, looking objectively, I can see how blind sided I was. By what? Allowing myself to be used for a bit of love and affection? To stifle the anger when men make passes? To not allow myself to lose weight so that the whole tragic cycle won’t start again?
I will NOT allow to be treated as anything other than a human being.
I will NOT allow to be used as someone’s sex toy just because my libido is high.
I will NOT allow to be called a “whore”, a “tramp” or a “slut”, even when said in jest.
I will NOT allow myself to be trapped into relationships with people whom I know it will not work out, for the sake of not being alone.
I will NOT allow myself to be with someone I am not physically close to.
I will NOT allow people to assume that my visiting them is mutually exclusive to sleeping with them.
I will NOT allow people to tell me that being alone is for losers.
I will NOT allow myself to be trapped in this cycle of bad relationships.
I will ALWAYS keep standing for what I believe in, and I will NOT allow others to change my mind for the good of “them”.
I will NOT allow my past to predict my future.
For nearly two months, I’ve done nothing but work/sleep/work/sleep. No time to do anything; not even to read email. I’ve discovered that if you work really hard, the pain you carry due to some emotional heartache doesn’t exist.
But see, that’s the catch, it does exist. It exists in that brief moment before you fall asleep. It exists when you are listening to cds, and a certain phrase hits you. It exists when you are walking and you see
something of remembrance, though you’ve never been there/seen it before.
It’s always there. No matter how much you mask it, or how much you try and hide from it. Cross-country moves, convincing yourself you are in love with someone you are with, placing your ideal on someone else’s head.
I don’t want sympathy. I’m hardly an angel, but I won’t let other’s words or actions dictate what I am going to do. For over two months now, not a peep has been written out of me. My personal writings site was torn down. All due to hateful words directed at me during an argument that was going nowhere.
Well fuck ’em. It’s my life, and if you can’t accept the choices I’ve made, the deeds that I have done, or the fact that it is going to take a lot to get into THESE pants, then I really don’t want you being a part of it.
Quoth the Raven: “Nevermore.”
And I concur.
April 5, 1998