Sex

I find myself walking down this nostalgic path.

The emotions that follow on my heels are almost unbearable.

From a young age sex was something I never quite understood, was never properly explained to me, I was the one of those few spared of an awkward conversation or 2 about reproduction. Rather, I was set in front of a television. If i do recall I even remember the program in hand that was meant to educate me involved Oprah (explains a lot) and perhaps Prince... once again, if my memory serves me that is.

At the age of 14 or 15 I had discovered a new urge within myself that constantly needed fulfillment, although by no means was I unaware of the capabilities of my right hand. After so long my curiosity grew and took form. It took the form of a 17 year old standing in front of me. I had carefully made my way out of a side door praying I wouldn't get caught at such an hour of the night. His name escapes me as almost all of them do. He had just driven back from a party and told me stories of drinking sparkling juice and how if it was the real thing he wouldn't have made it to this park we made the strange decision of meeting at.

He kissed me.
He fulfilled me.
He took me down with him.

Walking back into my darkened house I almost couldn't remember what had just happened. Those old black pants seemed to be covered completely in dirt...

My second sexual experience was the one I find myself forgetting above all the others.

He drove a truck. Nameless. The bitter of winter nipped at my senses, all 4 of them.
In my juvenile pajama pants I somehow scaled my way into the truck of this nameless being without a
question in mind.

We drove forever, or at least that's what I felt. I remember a highway and trees. So many trees passing in my peripheral vision and so much snow engulfing the world around me. I had chosen not to bring shoes for some odd reason, so when we arrived at his vintage house somewhere in the outskirts of reality, I darted for the door of a house unknown to me. He followed not to far behind. He lead me through his house telling me bits and pieces of his life through the furniture and odds and ends left about. It smelt like mold and perhaps the abandoned dreams of intimacy. True intimacy...

Now the bed was of same taste, large and covered with a cheap comforter. He left me there while he disappeared into another room. As I sat there in that room, my mind was so empty. No question and no thought. My heart, though, pounded. This was all so new to me. I didn't know what was going to happen I didn't know where he was. I didn't know where I was.

He returned eventually.
Placed me naked on the bed.
Kissed me.
Bent me.
Broke me.
Hurt me.
That was the night I was forgotten about.
The night I stopped existing.
The night I became just another piece of the night like one of those trees I passed along the pathway here.

Somehow, between blurred moments of his teeth gleaming from out of his beard in what I can only recall as a smile, I made it home.

The lights were on.
What do I do? Do I dare come back? Do I dare say what happened? Do I dare?
No.
I wove a web of lies tying me to the story of wanting candy and sneaking out for it with no luck of actually obtaining it.

That was the night I lied.

I made it through that day....
holding myself together.
Wishing I had a glue gun or a nice role of that shiny silver tape to do the recovering for me.


I never found that glue gun, that band aide, or the shiny silver tape...
eventually I stopped holding myself together and let the broken reminisce of myself give into what
I felt was the only thing I knew how to do.

Then came the drugs.
Then came the pills.

Then came the lust.
The most potent drug of them all.


Over time the path just seemed to roll out behind me more then seen by the naked eye before me.
I placed myself beside many men in my time and even to this day, with the chemicals years behind me, I find myself afraid to do so. Should it be lust? Or should it be love? It doesn't really matter any more.
The fear that comes to my mind when a man opens his lips just too wide, is something I can't bare to admit. But it's there. Every man I talk to I fear a little in one way or another. Things have gotten better over time but I guess some wounds just take a little bit longer to heal than others.

And so that's what sits on my mind lately.
I keep stumbling across these feelings making me want to cry.
Perhaps, I should just...cry.
They say tears are simply liquid prayers.