Eliza In General

Missiles

I’m back in Brigit Delaney’s #EroticJournalChallenge and this week’s prompt is another one that’s got me reminiscing:

What were you taught about sex as you grew up? What did you not know that you wished you’d known? What/how did you teach yourself? Who taught you the most? Did anyone teach you something “wrong” or in the “wrong way”?

“Don’t get pregnant.” That was the extent of sex ed in my house.

Sex and relationships weren’t heavily discussed when I was growing up. It was innately understood that those were adult topics and any child – especially a girl – bringing them up was fast-tailed. I imagine that the conversation was a lot for my mother, especially since I was already proving to be a fan of boys before high school. I developed early: B-cups before my 8thbirthday, menstruation by 11, and had shot up to 5’8 by the first day of high school. While some girls at that age may have been embarrassed by having these strange growths poking beneath their undershirts, I embraced it. My Coke bottle glasses and gapped teeth may not have attracted ninth grade boys, but my boobs had the exact opposite effect. It was awesome because, while I had the goods on display, I was still a virgin and proud of it.

I was frightened at the thought of being completely naked with a boy, especially the concept of penetration YIKES. However, I was intrigued about the mechanics of sex. My best friend Angie* had done it before me when we were 14 so I pried her for play-by-play information. 

“Well, first of all, it sticks straight up in the air.”

“Oh.” I blinked. I’d never seen a penis besides my baby brother’s when changing his diapers. “What does it look like?”

“Weird. Like a big brown missile.” Angie grabbed my shoulder, seeing the obvious horror on my face. “But it feels good! When you meet The One, it’ll feel good to you, too.”

A year later at 15, I met The One and we lived on Third Base for months. We made out like it was going out of style, but the thought of his big brown missile getting anywhere near my vagina scared the living shit out of me. I was spooked about tampons. There was no way I was going to have sex. Luckily, he respected that but offered an alternative. 

During one particularly heated make-out session in his bedroom, he breathed in my ear, “Can I taste it?”

“Taste what?” I asked, half-pissed that he was thinking about food while his hand was halfway up my hoohah. 

He brushed a finger against my clit. “Taste this. You don’t have to do me back.”

Well, this girl knows a bargain when she hears one so I eased off my Cross Colours baggy jeans and let him go for it. It was the best decision of 1994. Sex followed in the weeks thereafter and it wasn’t nearly as scary as I had expected. Being with him taught me a lot about what my body responds to and set the standard for my sensual proclivities after our relationship ended.

I think that if there were any era that taught me the most lessons about men and their missiles, it was the late Nineties. College life in rural Iowa consisted of drinking, drugs, and more sex than any of my dormmates and I deserved. My college years taught me, first and foremost, that no dude between the ages of 18 and 22 should be trusted – especially if he’s been inside of you. I made the rookie mistake of thinking that every sexual experience in college would mirror my first. I learned fast that wasn’t the case. 

And once I knew better, I moved better. 

If I had to pinpoint when my one and only ho phase started, I’d say it was when I returned to college from holiday break during my sophomore year. I was barely 19, all boobs and ass, and ready to play. For months, I had a mix of great sex and ‘OMG why girl why?’ terrible lays. It was a great time. I was safe but carefree, keeping a literal Black Book filled with reviews of my suitors (a notebook I’d bought from Claire’s for three bucks). My two college BFFs would be an apt audience as I read back the DickFax to them from my Black Book, smoking joints in my dorm room and sipping Boone’s Farm from the bottle as we laughed about the guys I’d conquered. 

College was the first time I didn’t feel bad about being sexual. I was fortunate that all of my sexual experiences were consensual; sexual assault was rampant on campus and, unlike today, no one was talking about it except in blurred whispers and tainted gossip. I look back on all of my sexual experiences with pride, a little laughter, and a lot of education. 

And I survived the missiles. 

(READ last week’s #EroticJournalChallenge HERE!)


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2 thoughts on “Missiles

  1. You crack me up! I love this blog entry. My laugh out loud moments, “It sticks straight up in the air.” True, but sometimes it goes a little to the left at my house. 🙂 And, “best decision of 1994.” hahaha Thanks for a fun read. Windy

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