The lines are a little blurred when I was first stung by the word “whore.” Sexual promiscuity is sharp like nails on a chalkboard when you’re a teenage girl. It can make or break you, and in many ways it broke me. I always liked to talk to guys. Coming from a home where my dad wasn’t my hero, I always craved that male attention in the most innocent ways. Like everyone else I had the casual 1 month partner where nothing really happened except for Myspace bulletins and hand holding. Then it was swiftly followed by the dramatic breakup and the 1 week waiting period before liking someone new. I prided myself on being laid back and liking shitty teen music which translated into getting along with guys but being loathed by girls. Yet, I was still insecure, mocked, and walked the halls of hell in a plaid skirt.
He was from Pennsylvania visiting for the summer. I had just came back from visiting my father which wasn’t that terrible but still damaging enough for a 13 year old. I was about to step into womanhood – er – well my first kiss. My sister told me once you kiss one person, you’ll want to kiss more. I was ecstatic about the future of being a true teen queen that Drew Barrymore and Melissa Joan Hart captured on camera. My expectations were through the roof coupled with my ticking time bomb of problems.
We sat on the park bench about to part ways after flirting and basking in the sun. I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek as he leaned in and kissed mine. I muttered, “I guess that means goodbye,” as he set his eyes on me and responded, “So what means hello?” We leaned in and pecked our lips like two lovebirds, my heart oozing like my pubescent oily skin. My first kiss was something out of a teen movie. I fawned over how perfect this moment was, thinking this would be my reality. I was stupid.
Our love was destined to end when he left to go back home. Badly done make outs and giggles couldn’t save me from the rapid progression of a sexual deviant. My reputation would be scorched even though we remained friends. Sometime later I got my first, serious boyfriend. He treated me well and dealt with my teenage angst girl bullshit. I was not very self aware or cool, but he liked me anyways. We did what teens usually did. Under the shirt, make out, etc. I still didn’t grasp what modes of sexual intimacy were acceptable, mostly because I was afraid. I wouldn’t let him finger me. I couldn’t. I cried after giving him a blow job and fell into a deep depression. It lasted a measly 3 minutes with a condom on and then I ran home. He did the same to me as I feigned enjoyment. I was uncomfortable, but I couldn’t tell him that. I had already said no to multiple things.
I felt ashamed of myself. I wasn’t ready. Flashbacks of my past occurred in my sleep and I felt sick to my stomach. I wanted to die. I shut down but my outer teenage shell remained. Nobody knew the pain at the bottom of my heart. Everyone thought I was just a carefree girl being carefree with her boyfriend. I shrugged off issues of sex even though it was the monster under my bed. I acted normal, but I was crazy on the inside.
9 months later I was sacked for older, high school girls. I couldn’t blame him even though I loved him. A few months later he realized he loved me. However, in typical girl fashion I got a new boyfriend. I was ready to be saved. Somewhere between point A and point B I contracted the word slut. Whenever my name was spoken that word was usually attached to it. I confided in a girl the abuse I had undergone. It just became a campfire story of masturbation in front of guys. It was something much more sinister that I can’t be willed to write. I couldn’t even let the second boyfriend touch me. On the inside I had given up. I would never experience pleasure of my own, but I could please my partners. I was use to pleasing men from an early age and I figured that was the only thing I had to offer. Except, I didn’t t think like this. This wasn’t my initial conclusion. This was my normal.
No one had to know except what was being said and I still don’t know if the rumors were worse than my reality.
At 15, I was a slut with a boyfriend whom I wouldn’t let touch me.