I grew up in a very religious family. Guilt was a constant companion. From snitching a bite of a cookie to playing with ourselves. If we were caught touching ourselves hell was the only solution. We were deathly afraid of masturbation. Our bodies were sacred, to be cared for and given to a husband.
I was 21, I had finished my college education at a small Baptist college. I was ‘pure’, never masturbated, never exposed myself, never touched, or kissed. Pure as the driven snow, a very valuable virgin for an older man to make me pregnant.
I was married, given away like a piece of old bread, taken by my husband for his sexual pleasure. My wedding night was the embodiment of my fears, my body assaulted, my guarded virginity stolen.
My husband was an experienced husband, he had a young woman at work who was libertine and willingly exposed herself, and offered her body to him. She was the example my husband wanted. I hid in the closet, locked myself in the bathroom.
But my wedding night rape resulted in pregnancy, which itself produced a daughter. I could not breast feed, expose my breast like that. My husbands libertine lover, sat beside me holding my breast in her hand to feed my baby.
I was embraced by her, she wasn’t embarrassed. She exposed her ‘sex’ to me. She was determined to desensitize me. She exposed my sex, she sucked milk out of my breast, she tickled my ‘love button’ with her finger. Not once did she suggest I allow my husband, this was about learning to love myself and share that love with her.
I am, and was the day I got married, a lesbian. She is too. A man takes his liberties with us, for his sexual pleasure. But we share something a lot deeper. We share our bodies with each other, and are tied to one another by a much deeper feeling.
