TW: sexual trauma (warning also pertains to any links within)
It hurts. A lot. Just like Momma told me.
He stops and gives me a kiss. A tiny stream trickles from the corner of my eye. I can’t quite tell if I’m happy or scared.
I have come a long way, though. Six years before, it grossed me out. It was this dirty, vile thing. I couldn’t even bring myself to take those pink, blue, and white pills for my acne. I didn’t want others to assume I was “active.” Three years before, the notion of sex disgusted me. You’re supposed to wait until you’re married to do it and even then only out of necessity – to keep your husband happy.
For now, I try to ignore Mom’s voice in my head. All their voices – the pastor and my teachers and that counselor that showed grotesque images of sexually transmitted diseases on a giant screen in our high school auditorium. I am past all of that. I am clear of their programming.
Nevertheless, it feels peculiar. Nothing at all like I expected. Admittedly, I didn’t know what to expect.
I flinch and bite my lip as he goes all the way in.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
He is trying to be gentle. He knows, and somehow, that didn’t scare him away as I thought it might. How often do you hear of a 25-year-old virgin, after all?
I swallow. “Ca-can-can we stop?” I ask.
“Of course,” he replies with no hint of disappointment or dissatisfaction.
He pulls out and lays down beside me. His hand grabs mine, and he squeezes.
“I’m sorry,” I utter in a meek tone.
“Stop that. You have nothing to be sorry about,” he says.
I turn over and lay my arm across his chest.
“Thank you,” I say, surprised and grateful.
His chest is damp from my tears, and this time I know the emotion for sure – it’s happiness.
Two days later, I overcome my fears, all those years of programming, and accept sex as a natural thing between two people. (Though, maybe still a little dirty.)