Sex and Pussy: A Journey Through the Decades Part 1

I'll start my journey of burgeoning sexuality when I was in the 5th Grade at Decker Elementary.  That was the earliest time I can remember when being a woman was discussed.  It was one of those presentations where parental permission was required, and there was some debate as to whether I should be included.  It was for 6th grade girls only, and though I was in the 6th grade, I was a year younger than everyone else since I had skipped the 3rd grade. It was a very serious and mature subject matter.  It was about girls having periods.  I don't actually remember much about it.  I was too embarrassed learning about such things in a room with other girls.  I learned enough not to be afraid when it happened, so I suppose I learned enough.  I don't know what the big deal about it was to this day.  Every girl who lives beyond 14 is going to have a period.  It should be discussed in a more matter of a frank sort of way, instead of getting special permissions and keeping everything so secretive.  Not much has changed since then.  In many states, a child getting her period is still discussed in secret presentations, as if we should be ashamed should someone find out we bleed once a month.   

The next was the day I got my period.  That was a day mired in shame for many reasons.  The first of which was that my period started at school and I had to be sent home.  I don't remember if someone noticed it or how it came about, but I had to go home and tell my mother what had happened.  She said she already knew.  I asked her how and it was because I had forgotten to flush the toilet that morning.  She let me go to school, knowing I would be sent home.  I have never understood why she would do that to me.  Later that night, I was in the bathtub when I heard her tell my father I had started my period.  That was somehow more shaming than being sent home from school.  I had gone from being an insecure, awkward child to being a woman and I had no idea what that was supposed to mean.  It was more confusing than ever, even with the "special presentation."  The idea conveyed to me above all else was that there is something inherently shaming in just existing as a woman.   

Fast forward a bit to the abstinence only dirty tissue method of sex education.  I don't remember if this was the exact analogy used, or if it was the bubble gum one, but the message was received and it was this; my pussy is the most godamn special thing on the face of this earth.  My pussy had special powers over men and the pussy should be used wisely.  Pussy was the vessel of children, and it needed to be kept pure, a clean highway for the expulsion of a cottage cheese, fluid covered, screaming blob of bliss.  It was my sacred purpose in life, to guard this pussy.    It was also my greatest shame, because once the pussy was spoiled by one man, no other man would ever want my pussy again.  It struck fear in my heart.  All my life had been directed that my one and only value was to be valued, wanted and loved by a man.  I needed to protect my pussy at all costs.  It was the only thing I possessed of value.   

I heard of girls in school who were "loose, sluts, hoes or whores."  This was puzzling to me.  I didn't understand why they weren't protecting their golden pussy, nor how it was I could be lied to in sex ed class.  Once the pussy was made available, more men wanted them, not less.  Sometimes they were the most popular girls in high school.  Maybe they weren't the most popular girls per say, but they were certainly the most popular girls with the boys.  Someone explained to me those were the girls boys liked, but they weren't the ones boys married, or took home to introduce to their mothers.  I accepted this explanation, but clearly more observation about the use and effects of the golden pussy were going to be needed before I could discover the truth about this mysterious part of my body.  There truly was power in the pussy, I just didn't know what it was, or why the word pussy was considered a curse word.  There were other words for it: muffin, va jayjay, the hole, beaver, bearded pie,  box, down under, and I have come to find out there are thousands of euphemisms and slang to describe pussy.   I think there must be more words for pussy than any other single word in the English language.  This is more proof of the power of pussy.  It is so powerful, you can't say it or talk about it in polite company.   

A few days before my 16th birthday, and when I was a junior in high school, I was at a bar with my mother when I was to meet my first husband, who would teach me what I needed to know about sex.  He would also teach me many other things no woman should ever learn about sex.  He was a base player in a really awful band that played at the Eagles in downtown Barberton.  They were really more interested in getting high than they were in practicing or making music, but I was soon to become their lead singer.  He was 21 and a dark, troubled man.  His pain fascinated me.  It mirrored my own, but unlike me he chose to embrace his pain and brooding was his way of life.  I brought joy, smiles and happiness into his brooding.  This made me feel special and as if I had a purpose.  I could affect the life of another.  In return, he showered me with attention.  He couldn't live without me, not one single solitary moment.  I had never had anyone in my life who wanted to be with me every second.  I basked in the attention.   

I was a virgin, he was not.  It wasn't long before he was pressuring me into "going all the way."  I was very naive and sheltered.  I wasn't even sure I knew what "going all the way" meant, but it had something to do with the power of the pussy and I was afraid to unleash that power.  Before him, I had rarely dated, an no boy had ever gotten passed a kiss.  This was new territory and it was frightening.  I didn't know what love was, but I thought the anticipation of his call, the feeling I had when I was with him, the protection he offered and the promises he made were love.  It wasn't, but I had nothing else to compare it to.  As the sexual advances proceeded, so did the pressure to go even further.  I wasn't ready for any of it, but the thrill of having an older man interested in me placed me in the position of being fearful to refuse his desires.  As the boundaries became less and less clear, I finally allowed him it put "it" in between my legs, but he wasn't to "go all the way."  It was miserable for me and I was terrified.  My terror turned out to be valid when he "accidentally" broke my hymen.  It hurt and I bled and I stopped everything right then and there.  All was lost.  My pussy was irrecovably damaged and no longer golden.  I cried, sobbed and mourned the loss of my precious golden pussy.  I was inconsolable.  He wanted to buy me a hamburger, an ice cream, anything but there wasn't anyplace open.  Barberton Ohio closed early in the late 70's.   

After this, all was lost.  The next school day, I hung my head in shame.  I flushed at every "hello," every greeting by the friends I knew.  Surely they could tell I was now a dirty tissue.  I had the scarlet letter magically seared into my forehead, yet no one said a word to me about this new me in the school.  I couldn't tell anyone what had happened to me over the weekend.  I had no idea why I felt so bad, and so ashamed.  I no longer had a reason to refuse him.  I wasn't a virgin anymore, so I let him do what he wanted.  Sometimes, I even enjoyed it.  I had a couple of pregnancy scares, so he took me to Planned Parenthood to get birth control.  I wanted to finish high school, and I didn't want anyone to know I was a slut.  The pelvic exam was worse than the accidental sex, and I was in pain for days.  Now I know why being a woman was something no one wanted to be.  It seemed the pussy was more powerful than I had thought, because it had the power to keep an older man interested in me, as well as the power to create a deep an ever present shame.  A pussy wasn't a gift, it was a curse.   

My next observation was when a girl in my graduating class became pregnant.  I didn’t know her well, but suddenly she became an object of mystification.  No one quite knew what to say to her, but everyone knew what to say about her.  I listened to the comments, but I had no real opinion about it myself.  I felt sorry for her.  I had no idea what this meant for her, but I thought life was going to be very hard.  I had my own shame to deal with, so though I couldn't know what she felt, shame must be a part of it.  What I found compelling, what I didn't understand, is how she seemed to carry herself with a sense of pride.  She held her head up high, she ignored the gossip swirling up around her, and she went on.  She continued to go to classes and when she graduated in 1980, she walked across the stage visibly pregnant like she was any other student.  I was in awe of her.  I thought she had to be the most courageous person I didn’t really know.