“Your decision to kill your addiction will become a reality only if you believe and reinforce the fact that you have the capacity to do it.”Oche Otorkpa
Life can be difficult for a girl in a third world country with a sex addiction. For many, it’s near-impossible to survive if anyone knows you’ve had sex before marriage. I know this because, all my life, I heard ‘caution’ stories; they were about girls who were disowned, raped, or murdered by their own family for “honor’s” sake. And I didn’t hear about it like it was happening somewhere in a faraway village. I knew it was happening in the families of the maids that came to my house to work, and also in the families of my father’s and grandfather’s bosses (albeit in a more secretive and ‘sophisticated’ manner).
When I first started thinking about sex, I remember asking my grandfather, “Everyday on TV these Americans kiss each other – on the street, in restaurants, even at work! Why do they kiss so much? And why don’t we?” I recall so clearly the monologue he delivered after that. He said, “Well, if Indians kiss each other, they might get arrested, or worse, dishonored. Take the famous actress Karisma Kapoor. Her marriage ended after 13 years because her husband found out that she had kissed a co-star before they were married. Now the children, the family, all’s distraught – just because she couldn’t keep her libido under control until her wedding. And then of course there was your cousin, who was caught by the police for kissing some girlfriend on the beach. Do you know what they did to them? They called all four parents and humiliated them for letting their children go out late and do these things. It’s incredibly embarrassing!”
I’m sure I wanted to ask him what libido meant but I suppose I forgot. The point, though, is that this obviously terrified me. I wanted to kiss a boy! I always had. I grew up idolizing Disney movies and American Sweethearts.
By the time I was 12, I had romanticized the Kiss so much that I dreamed about it every night. Soon, my dreams overwhelmed me. I shut down the part of my brain that echoed my grandfather’s words. I spent entire days writing romantic stories just to feel like I’m experiencing something. I couldn’t wait for my dreams to become reality.
After what seemed like too long a wait back then, I did kiss a boy – but I hated it. So, for the next few years, I kept living in my fantasy world – where kissing and sex felt good. And I was happy masturbating daily if that meant my idea of love would remain pure.
But then I met someone I liked (probably the only thing that doesn’t make sense when I look back on it now). We started dating in a couple months. As a 16 year old, it’s easy to get lost in the new sensations your body experiences. I was with this boy for three-fourths of a year, but we never went beyond third base. He wasn’t ready. I was.
My frustration grew by the day and, ultimately, led to the relationship’s demise. Almost as soon as I broke up with him, the boy I had first kissed four years ago sent me a message on Facebook saying he was back from university for the summer, so we should “hang out or something”. He was older than me and his domineering nature always drove me wild. I thought, “Maybe I didn’t like him much at age 12, but now I’m older and wiser, so why not ‘hang out or something’?”
The summer, somewhere between the stolen kisses and the ‘adult approaching’ alerts, we both ‘lost our virginity’ to each other. Somehow, the extreme pain I went through in this process (I was never really sporty so I imagine my hymen was pretty tight), didn’t make me budge. The first two times, over two days, were torture (the second time was torture on a rooftop, though, so it balanced out). But, on the third day, the penetration didn’t hurt at all. And when I asked him to go again on that day, 3 times in succession, a part of me felt like I had just grown up. I had entered a new world, and it was just waiting for me to explore it.
But the boy I had entered this world with had to leave to university.
In no time, I found someone else. I dated him for the next year, and truly experienced my sexuality. By this time, I had also changed the perspective of my family, or at least my parents. From how outspoken I was about feminism and sexual liberation, they realized that I was never going to be the poor little girl that needed her husband to give her a spine, so they didn’t try to make me that person anymore. They let me bring my boyfriend home, and do what I wanted with him there. Whether this was just to protect me from getting caught elsewhere, or because they truly understood what I was fighting for, I’ll never know. But thankful, nonetheless, I am.
The very feeling I had when I first started to enjoy sex came back to me when it was time to go to university. My university was halfway across the country, at least a two-hour flight. I wasn’t ready to commit to him from that far away; I wanted to be free to have the ‘real college experience’. So after three dramatic fights, a few false cheating accusations, and a week’s worth of long teary nights, we broke up and I left to college.
It was on the second day of college that I got laid, and my callous ‘slut phase’ (according to my friends) began.
For a year and a half, I had the most ‘Hollywood’ experiences. I trekked across lakes and hills with a man I had only met once before; I drove around the city all night with another one; and I even had sex under the stars, on a snowy peak, with a third. I had so many insane experiences with all these men, that I thought they could be spontaneous and romantic only in casual relationships. And I clung to that idea.
“Two sad eyes and one skanky smile, I practically pulse with the promise of promiscuity. I’m easy to catch, but too slippery to hold onto. Men love a challenge if the prize is guaranteed. I know how to start a fight while deep-throating a white flag.”Kris Kidd
…Until I realized that the source of all this pleasure was also the source of my greatest pain. And that was when things went south.
To be continued