sex does not mean shame, guilt, blackmail and successive abuse.
I grew up in a village in Buzau, where boys learned from an early age that all women are prostitutes. That was, by the way, the explanation I received from my boyfriend, Andrei, the boy I had sex with for the first time, when he offended me without doing anything wrong to him. She told me calmly, without understanding why I was hurt: "All women are whores, I don't just mean you."
I started exploring my sexuality around the age of six, when I noticed that the pressure applied in the navel, then in the pelvic area, arouses a kind of pleasure in me. But because I didn't know how to explain that feeling, I kept it to myself.
The word "sex" was foreign to me. So is "menstruation", "penis" or "vagina". No such words were mentioned at home. Whenever I caught an erotic scene on TV, in a movie, my family would quickly change the channel or tell me to cover my eyes until the misfortune was over. But the pleasure, which I would find out much later that it was the result of masturbation, was not foreign to me.
On the contrary, I looked for her whenever there was no one around. Each orgasm was accompanied by a deep sense of guilt; even though I had never been told about it, I felt like what I was doing was bad, dirty.
At home, I repeatedly drew the bodies of naked women, whose round breasts I carefully outlined, I always drew their nipples hardened, and I drew their pubic hair without removing the pen from the sheet. The female body, the only one I had access to, fascinated me with its curves and depressions, which I had not yet acquired. My mother never shyed changing her clothes in front of me, so a mature, mature female body was no secret. But when he saw my drawings he didn't know how to react, so he scolded me and told me not to draw "nonsense" anymore.
Then, when I was about 12, I shared my pleasure with Ioana. He was a year older, had green eyes and curly hair, and everyone told him he looked like Thalia in the Marimar soap opera. She came every summer vacation to her grandparents, who lived in the same village
One day, among the jokes and acting games, I would find out that Ioana has the same dirty habits and, moreover, that she wants us to share them. I was in the yard in front of my house, on a flowery blanket spread on hard cement, when Ioana climbed on top of me in a play that had become a kind of prelude. I could feel his weight and a surprising heat flooded my body.
"Don't you want to go watch TV?" He said, and I got up without thinking. I left the blanket in the shade of the sweet apple, but did not go to my family's room, where the TV was, but to the last room in my house built like a train, which I crossed from one end to the other through a parallel row of doors. . Neither of us really knew what to do, so we rubbed our bodies together until we both got what we wanted.
Meetings in the last room immediately became a habit. After each visit, Ioana quickly went home, and I was left alone. I shared only the pleasure, the feeling of guilt and the confusion, I lived them separately. For a few days we were too ashamed to meet, and then we started over. I followed the pattern for the next two summers, and with each meeting the word "sex" took on new dimensions. In the same room we began to give up clothes, slowly, and to look more closely at each other. Sterile, almost clinical. I noticed so much. We undressed and that's it. We were touching each other.
Until I did it again.
About that time I fell in love with Dragoș. We had been together for several months when his friend told me that Dragoș would like to kiss me. I knew from family that you can't really say "no" to boys and that love is often conditioned. I didn't think that Dragoș would beat me if I didn't kiss him, but I liked him and I kissed him. I regretted the second I felt his cold saliva, my tongue like a mollusk and the strange taste, so I quickly found an excuse and ran away. All the first kiss had caused me was terrible nausea, but because I couldn't say no, I learned to like it.
