- So, this is a first for me, writing about childhood sexual experiences, But the experience of sex is what I’ve spent my life thinking and writing about. I can’t feel as though I’ve explored life’s sexual experience without describing and sharing all of it. If I offend, that’s my justification.
Cynthia was my first girlfriend, though she never knew it. My very first orgasm was an accident and a surprise, climbing rope. I thought I’d broken something. I was dismayed by the spasms that made me uncontrollably spurt a syrupy something into my jeans. I also wanted to break it again—and again. I climbed the rope twice more that day and broke myself both times.
A grade or two later, the eyes, lips, developing hips and breasts became inextricably entwined with my orgasms. Seeing them as sex objects came as naturally as their signaling hips and breasts came to girls. But I was also guilt stricken. I had gone from the honest preoccupations of boyhood to hiding desire, secreting orgasms, washing the evidence from my hands on leaves and bushes, in strange sinks, and bathrooms. A boy has nothing to hide. A boy disdains girls, finds the awkward motion of their bodies funny, and dismisses them. But then a girl’s awkwardness is transformed into an allure, a perfection, and a maturing boy’s obsession . Every rumble of thunder reminded me of my lost innocence. Every misfortune was a sign of my corruption. My desire was like a vine poisonous vine that populated the scaffold of my boyhood with new leaves, that pried into the nooks and crannies of who I was, whose runners insatiably found out the sun and the shadows within me.
Cynthia was in a grade above mine. I was never popular. I had a handful of friends who liked me. I was an introvert and stayed apart from the crowd. But I must not have been subtle. One day Cynthia, short black hair, with beautiful lips and eyes, turned to me and in front of everyone said: Hey, jerk-off. I know you go home and jerk off to me. Perv. I bet you’d go home and jerk off to me right now.
I was mortified. How did she know? I didn’t jerk off for four days, convinced that she had somehow seen me. I’d been sloppy and careless. But on the fourth day I secreted myself where I knew couldn’t be seen. Cynthia became my first girlfriend—a fantasy. I was too naïve to know the language of love making. All I knew is was the combination of her beauty, her scorn and my own humiliation. I spurted my shame just for her, on her hands, lips and thighs. If Cynthia, in my fantasies, tenderly forgave me, I can’t remember. Her scorn and her knowledge of me made her radiantly beautiful.
William Crimson | June 30 2018