'being Sian' - Losing My Virginity

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‘Being Sian’ Losing My Virginity I grew up in the rigid trap of a strict religious cult. This meant feeling guilty about sexual arousal. Sex acts were forbidden, within marriage as well as before it. Only penetration, without foreplay, was approved. Anal, oral, masturbation, sex on a woman’s period, etc, were all banned. Anyone found breaking these rules were considered ungodly and under the influence of the Devil, and consequently, cast out. It often occurred to me that how would they ever find out? I couldn’t imagine a husband admitting to having his cock sucked just before ‘the meetings’– as these congregation sessions were called. Then I realised that accepting the cult’s rules automatically led to a self-maintained guilty conscience. Also, if you censor people for so long, they’ll eventually enjoy reporting crimes of other members to the ‘elders’ (or priests), because if they can’t ‘get away with it’, why should anyone else? My mother had a serious sexual hang up. I can never remember her being ‘open’ about the subject. My earliest memory of her broaching it was seeing her face boil up in fury, as she shoved a cult magazine into my hands as I stood, shocked, in the doorway of my bedroom. I was nine. ‘Here. Read this’ She hissed. I looked at the front cover. It portrayed a blurred image of a Chinese woman running. (Why it was blurred, I don’t know. Perhaps it would have been too arousing to all the frustrated husbands who couldn’t fuck their wives properly.) Because she was so embarrassed, I was, and it made me feel that there was something terrible in the idea of sex. The only reason it was being

3 mentioned at all, was because the magazine had printed it, and we were all required to read them. Also, it saved her from dodging the subject for another few years. I got the impression that she preferred the subject of rape, rather than love making and romance, because this way, there was a serious penalty to opening my legs. It was going to invite sexual violence, ‘So I better not do it.’ She never mentioned it again for a long time. Of course, I couldn’t wait to get my knickers off. I just had to find a man first. So I did. He was thirteen years older than me, an alcoholic ‘nobody’ living on state benefits in a council flat, but he had a penis and was prepared to use it. And I was prepared to ‘lose it’, as fast as possible. I was breathless in anticipation- I’d heard that sex was great (from the girls at school, not the cult.) As we lay in bed naked together, I hadn’t much idea what was going to happen. Of course, I knew that his ‘bits’ would go into my ‘bits’- from a ‘jigsaw puzzle’ point of view, because on a practical level, a penis is long and like a little stick, and I just had a hollow hole. It made sense to me that those shapes would fit. And I expected that when he touched me, my clitoris would explode and bounce off the ceiling, and hit him on the nose. I expected to love his cock so much that I’d want to pull it off (from his body) and keep it, like a favourite pet, ideally stuffed down my knickers or in my pocket. I had dreams of eternal orgasms, wanting to be held hostage in his bedroom like a kinky script from a ‘blue movie’ set. And yes, he fucked me. Wouldn’t you, if the last person you ‘shagged’ was a ‘five pound hooker’ from the East End of London, and you had to fight her over the hand job you demanded and didn’t get, ‘coz she took the cash and ran? Or if you had ‘morning glory’ when you woke up this morning,

4 but you couldn’t find the energy to wank, because you spent all night drinking your last five cans of super-strength beer, and you’d willingly sell your own arse for a can right now? These were the realities of Steve’s life. Of course, when a pretty nineteen year old girl came along to ‘pop her cherry’ he must have thought the beer gave him visions. No need for visions- here I am, lying next to him, as real as the words you are looking at right now. It felt strange letting my naked body be seen by another human being, so close, feeling his breath all over my face, getting drunk off the fumes. Usually, only the bathroom mirror ever saw my nudity. I exposed myself vulnerably now, for his satisfaction. He touched my ‘bits’ for a minute till he got an erection, laid on top and moved about for another minute, then got off again, leaving me feeling uncomfortably sticky and wet down below. And not a single orgasm or ‘horny’ feeling to make it worthwhile. ‘Disappointed’ wouldn’t be the word for it. Devastated, depressed, dreading a lifetime of this ‘sex’ thing, which was now something to avoid if possible. It was no fun at all. Chewing a stinging bee would be more pleasurable. I couldn’t understand why I hadn’t enjoyed a second of it, and assumed that there must be something wrong with me. All those girls at school couldn’t be wrong, with their secret sniggers and unmentionable gossip. They would never say it was great, if it wasn’t. Although I was never part of their ‘group of hyenas’, I guessed a lot about what they were saying by their sly looks, hushed whispers and guilty pauses when they were accidentally overheard. I knew nothing about sex, and was ignorant of the factors that affect its enjoyment, like my emotional state, foreplay and arousal. Masturbation

5 hadn’t lasted long during my virgin days, (being a fast-route relief) and I figured that I had probably ‘frigged’ myself longer than Steve’s attempt, so it couldn’t be his fault that I didn’t feel anything. It was like rubbing my leg with my elbow, the ‘sensations’ I had felt. It did improve a bit over the next few months, probably because I had time to adapt to it. However, I underwent a very prudish phase, actually retreating into myself and not wanting to do it at all. I remember Steve’s shocked face when I emerged from the shower. With my towel around me, I snapped my refusal at him as he laid me on the bed, peeling it off. I had assumed we were going to ‘do the usual’ but when he tried oral sex on me, I totally freaked out. I got up and walked away, leaving him pining ‘Why? What is it?’ and I couldn’t explain it. I had no idea myself. I was confused and scared, feeling shocked and insecure, but mostly guilty. Months later, we were sitting on a street statue and the topic of women’s body parts came up. I don’t know how, or in what context, but he said the word ‘clitoris’ and I was really shocked to the core. I felt it was an insult, and slapped his face. It was worse than a swear word to me. I saw him as a pervert, a seedy, sleazy creature, who was taking away my dignity. Looking back, I suppose I cannot blame myself. I had been brainwashed by that cult since I was born, and my mother was a constant repressor. She didn’t even allow a television in the house for fear of a sex scene coming on, and any books I read were chosen by her. If I managed to smuggle any past her, she would find them and get into a furious rage, going through every single page for evidence of any kissing or lovemaking scenes. God help me if she found a crude description of cock-sucking. During these events, I would tremble into the corner watching this madwoman, hoping for my sake that she would not find it. I don’t blame myself. It was part of

6 my gradual transition into ‘being me’. I had the rest of my life to ‘make up for it’- and I certainly did. My mother knew that I was living with Steve. I couldn’t hide it from her; I didn’t have the energy to try. Besides, defying her gave me a smug, satisfied feeling. I stood facing her angry glare, genuinely not caring about the consequences of my rebellion. And there were consequences; she wasted no time in reporting my sin to the ‘elders’ of the local congregation. “I’ve arranged for them to interview you tomorrow.” She said with a righteous air, as if to say that I was the only whore in the house. She couldn’t be convicted of the same crime as me, because she wasn’t ‘getting any’. Naturally, child abuse of any kind was acceptable, not considered unholy enough to be reported or taken seriously. My mother had physically and emotionally abused us all, since the day we were born. However, it never occurred to me to try to get justice from the ‘elders’ for that. They wouldn’t consider it a crime. They were forever pointing out scriptures about children respecting their parents. The same rule did not apply to ‘honoring children’– it wasn’t mentioned in the Bible; but disciplining them certainly was; many, many times. I was disciplined now, as I sat in my mother’s living room facing the two chairs, filled with the stern faced men of God. If these were the servants of Jehovah, I didn’t fancy meeting Him personally, ever. He was someone to be feared. Threatened by our certain death at Armageddon, we had to ‘toe the line’ on all matters, especially the matters between our legs.

7 Sex was the heaviest crime, punished by the harshest methods, up to and including being shunned by the congregation, friends and all family members. This would last as long as your rebellion did; as soon as you ‘gave in’ to this intimidation, they’d give you a reprieve. This made me question how valid their methods were; should you have to be bullied into submission? What value would God place on your obedience, given out of necessity, and probably for all the ‘wrong’ reasons? And anyway, what was wrong with having a shag in the first place? I was expected to feel very sorry for losing my virginity to Steve. I couldn’t fake it any more than I could fake enjoying the act in the first place; it wasn’t worth all this fuss. Mother had told me that repentance was the best way to stay within the congregation; defiance would mean ‘disfellowshipping’ or casting out. Knowing all this gave me a liberated feeling. Nothing would make me happier than to be thrown out of the flock; I wouldn’t give a fuck. In fact, my freedom meant more than the approval that these elders would never give; they were never happy, no matter how hard you tried to obey the rules that came out every week in the magazines. Petty regulations would appear as soon as the ‘offensive’ topics arose. From short skirts to body piercings; types of music or television programmes, Hitler-like commands (badly disguised as ‘advice’) told us exactly what we weren’t allowed to do. The subjects were different, but the ending was always the same; obedience would guarantee our eternal life in Paradise, but rebellion would definitely incur Jehovah’s fury. This would mean dying at Armageddon, in horrific, gruesome ways. Although we had never seen the end of the world yet, images printed in the weekly magazines, painted by God’s servants, depicted our fate.

8 One week in particular, a nightmarish picture showed Jehovah burning our eyes out with laser beams, with the explanation that ‘man had brought about the damage to the earth, giving Him the weapons to use when the time came’... and scriptures were quoted directly beneath, saying that ‘their eyes will rot in their sockets, as they stand’. Despite these constant threats of death, I began to wonder why we had to sacrifice our happiness in this life, to be granted our next one. My freedom now meant more to me, and to be truthful, I dreaded sharing eternal life with them. Their ‘punishment’ was starting to sound a lot more appealing than their ‘promise’. With this in mind, I stared defiantly at the ‘elders’ now. I was not going to apologise. When they questioned me, I was evasive and said nothing, trying to remain as neutral as possible. Not wanting to be coerced into their way of thinking, I didn’t let myself be pressured into agreeing to a single thing. ‘Blood out of a stone’ was probably easier to get. They said their ‘decision’ would take a few days, and that they would let me know. I was relieved to see them go. Afterwards, my mother was silent and stony, like a mental patient in a trance. Blank faced and slow moving, I wanted to ‘belt her’ with my hand, she annoyed me so much. I couldn’t stand her face any more, so I left, to the refuge of Steve’s flat.

copyright@emmasharn2009