I touched upon the fact that in my tight knit suburban upbringing, gossip and rumors run like wild fire and a girl could lose her innocence to the public eye if one slip up was made. I was in no way going to compromise my social status to where I would be included in the dreaded group of the S-L-U-T-S.
I had powerfully needy erotic thoughts and proclivities that needed to be fulfilled and if sex wasn't really the focus until after I was 16, the power of an encounter with a man, not to mention an older man was remarkably empowering. It wasn't just power, it was an ego-boost that I could attract a confident, determined and already made man. Me, the singing bookworm actress who got straight A's and was seen as a beautiful, though shy, honor roll daughter.
I had sexual power and I didn't ever really need to try to activate it.
That was it, I came into my sexual own in my way, my secret way and that's the way I wanted it to be kept. Secret.
Older men with children, jobs, even wives couldn't spend time dropping their indiscretion to their fellow men, it would not only possibly endanger them, but embarrass them.
If you keep my secret, I'll keep yours.
So at times I kept my late afternoons free for exploring someone's sexual side, or maybe a night where my house was mysteriously empty to talk all night on the phone with men who in my daily life were figureheads. In the night and with desire, people change, their needs change.
Its not to say that my innocence was taken by terribly too many, but sharing your body does not always include that final invasion. I let them take little and gave nothing. I think it was always the height of emotion and the toxic chemical of wrong doing that fueled my activities with some of the men I've encountered.
Sex is a lot, but its not everything. The act of giving and taking was what represented the most for me. The roping and words were what mattered the most to me, and not the many colored options that abounded for the pleasures of the flesh. Not always.
In that misty room, I knelt on the bed, my soft kitten lowered over his soft lips, over his hungry mouth. My hands ran down my body, feeling the light vapor that clung to my heated skin, trailing down my hips to his soft hair, stroking his head as he pleasured me. My whimpers escaped but my mind wasn't in the act, it was in my disbelief that this is what I had wanted, what I had allowed and yet I couldn't connect. I couldn't care. He was lost to me and though as my body shook with a powerful orgasm, I didn't want it. He had already given up his virtuosity and he was a lost man.
Perhaps it was a misled attempt to weed out the bad from the good.
What good man would go down on a 15 year old girl who they taught music to?
Maybe I liked that wickedness, that I could pull the evil from a good man with just my charms and my lips, my body. I provoked the evil in them and let them pour it out over my flesh, feeding that spider-like desire inside of me.
Was I a bad girl?
Was every man I was with a wicked man?
Oh my, but I hate labels...