There are many ways to tell this story. Do I begin with the sorry incident that clouded my early life, or do I start at the point where I first tasted the possibility of redemption? Let’s try the optimistic approach.
Life was a befuddled mess that became even worse when I reached puberty: my body felt wrong. My breasts were killing me; I felt hopeless seeing them grow bigger and rounder everyday; and what was happening down there?
I dared not tell my mother, she would surely equate this with my disgrace. My peers were hostile; they were spies trying to catch me doing something bad, waiting to ridicule me. I was alone.
I tried to shower myself clean, as my mother had done years ago. The scalding water pouring down my body turned my skin pink. My toes curled from the temperature, but I must endure it. I scrubbed myself carefully so as not to miss a spot. The washing cloth was gauzy from frequent use; the blue fabric rubbed down my body from my neck, my shoulders, my arms to my swollen breasts.
My movement slowed as I reached my bosom. The friction from the fabric seemed too rough on my new, full breasts. I dropped the cloth and cupped my boobs; they were extra soft and somehow pleasing to touch. I gingerly thumbed my nipples: they were perky and sensitive. Damn, that sensation again. It was most confusing: a heat, something instant and strong flaring up inside me, from somewhere in my spine traveling both up to the back of my neck and down to my thighs at the same time. My swollen breasts and delicate nipples caused it often: whenever something brushed against them, or just a change in temperature would harden my nipples and I would feel that warmth build up inside me.
I had fought that sensation many times, but that night in the shower, I was overcome with a boldness that was new to me. Instead of burying the feeling, I rode it. I closed my eyes as I allowed my fingers to glide over my nipples. Sure enough, the heat was re-ignited. I pressed down on my nipples in slow circles, memorizing the accumulation of primal desire within me, of something coiling up in me. It was intense, this beast overtaking me. The urge reached downwards to my private part. I bit my lower lip as I let my right hand venture down to feel myself there.
It was amazing: my own body, but it felt so electrifying. My finger was moving millimeter by millimeter but the smallest movements created such differences. My mouth hung open, my eyelids drooped, my cheeks were flushed and the water on my body no longer emitted heat.
One tiny round bead of flesh that protruded was making my knees weak. Even my ears were burning up. I allowed my finger-tip to caress that tender spot. It was heavenly and engulfed me completely. I slid my finger down a little to explore myself further: such warmth, and I was so wet. I glided along my moist opening. My body begged for something I did not understand. My finger ventured in, my muscles there clenched and clamped my finger in. I wanted more. I pushed two fingers in, thrusting deeper inside myself. I alternated between finger-fucking myself and moving up to stimulate my clit. It did not occur to me that first time that I could use both hands. When I finally came, it was a mixture of sheer fright at how explosive pleasure could be and an uncontrollable happiness at the release of pent-up passion.
I was in a daze after the waves of ecstasy eventually faded. Any shame I had felt before, the disapproval from my mother and the bitter disappointment and anger I had harbored in my lonely heart were completely obliterated for a brief moment. Physical release brought a calm and strangely, assurance of myself as a human being for a while.
My experience may sound unnaturally restricted for you, my dear reader, but for a molested child, my emotional norm had been a clouded mixture of uncertainty and unidentified guilt. Relief had been a foreign concept to me.
Giving myself physical pleasure was the first step towards releasing emotional baggage and loving myself. Everyone’s journey is different, but for me, sex healed me.
I think, all things considered, I grew up okay.