I must deconstruct it.
What is it, about it, that draws me in so tight? I was thoroughly convinced– and that perception, after all these years, is hard to shake– that women don't like sex. I had come to conclusions before, but I have started putting the pieces together. The picture so far is a hunt for a woman, usually seemingly impossibly beautiful, that would be appreciative of sex– no matter what. If I detected a hint of fakery, it shattered the vision. Of course they would be surrounded by at least one, if not many, "perfect" men.
The men have had to be perfect in a supposedly balanced way– Grecian physiques, manly, but not TOO manly. If they reminded me of crusty old jocks or any other male stereotype I hate, they tended to get trounced pretty fast. I must admit I nitpick them as much as the women– perhaps even more. Penises have to be perfect– a glans shaped just so, and bigger in circumference than the shaft. A slight curve to the shaft was a bonus. It all had to be to a certain proportion… all incredibly unrealistic as I found quickly that penises have an incredible variety of shapes. The ejaculations had to be perfect– ribboned streams. But even Al Racine seems to have bad days.
The "bisexual" niche should have been the Holy Grail. The women I found were usually refreshing– relatively few, if any, had breast implants. Unfortunately, the men never measured well to my expectations much. I admit most of the subjects were usually young– but that also meant that the males looked too boyish at times. But at least they were touching each other. The fantasy was easier to achieve because it wasn't just a woman involved in the action, if that makes sense. There was one other man I could pour my imagination into.
What was it about my parents' abuse that drove me so deeply to this? Certainly, you understand, that I was too young to understand what was being put before me. I had no clue of the sexual energy tied to such body parts– and when my mother expressly pointed them out to me, what was I to think? For some time, it seemed she didn't make enough effort to cover herself up in my morning visits– on the other hand, my father seemed all too quick to cover up.
Of course you also remember that skin mags and the like were part of my fractured self-education on sex. It was even more thoroughly confusing when I contrasted that to the books in the library that I eventually read. I gravitated towards the explicit at first– the Joy of Sex series, but I also spent a little time reading other books, even the fairly dry Masters and Johnson. I remember my thoughts when I first delved deep into porn. I was terrified of women, for the most part, and figured all attempts at romance with a woman were incredibly doomed to failure. Here were women that would not reject me, would not berate me, condemn me, or criticize me, although I was quite aware that the images were steps removed from reality. It's funny, because what I figured was the "gateway" was Sears and JCPenney catalogs, and even Mom's old Good Housekeeping magazines. I would cut out pictures of the women– and at first, it was a thing of admiration– to admire their fashion sense in manner of dress, their haircuts, their facial features. Only later did I begin to focus more on the sexual side of things. At the same time, I was doing fairly similar things with men. Then there were the swimwear magazines. It went horribly downhill after that, especially as the Internet made so much so much more widely available.
I don't know why, but I seemed to gloss over anything in the library books or any sort of academia that honestly suggested women might like sex. I really had spent so little time researching actual sexuality. It was porn that seemed to spark such to life– I found men attractive, I learned how to masturbate to ejaculation, and until I actually had sex when I was about 22, it was the overwhelming majority of what I actually knew about sex. Looking back, I found sex education laughable. Porn seemed to fill in all the blanks of what I had questions about. I do remember when it started in fifth grade– I think I was the only one in my group (we were gender segregated) that eagerly asked earnest questions about sex without laughing. And the instructor was a woman! I did not really learn about anal sex until later, but I do now remember that when I asked, she said without hesitation or embarassment that it was possible. Her sheer unflappability was incredible.
My parents were so strange about affection. When I was very little, they were very touchy-feely. When I got older, it seemed to grind to a halt. And yet my own acting out seemed to bring out information I couldn't handle: Mom relating details about her sex life with Dad. She had a habit of confiding things to me I couldn't handle– sometimes when Dad wasn't around, sometimes when he was. It seemed such a curious paradox that at times she was brutally frank about sex at times and at others, seemed positively embarassed about it. Or maybe that was my father. I can't remember which. Neither seemed to understand how I was trying to work out my confusion.
Rather strangely, it was my maternal grandmother that was willing to have a discussion about the mechanics of sex– but she was cryptic and vague. It was her house that had cable with scrambled porn, and yet she was willing to have a discussion when my parents usually acted hot, bothered, and embarassed. They devised all sorts of ways to have the TV off so I couldn't sneak it at bedtime on visits, but I always found a way. This is why I will tell anyone in D2 or my other support groups that I find filters rather useless. Of course, you have your own opinions about our experiences with it.
If you haven't realized it yet, Julie, this is locked to just you. I was going to write it to a word processing document or some other text file, but I rather wanted to be sure that this document had a permanent home somewhere. It shall remain to our eyes only, although… if I see the need someday, perhaps I will let it out further than that. I don't know. I had to get it down, although I'm sure I've told you parts of all of this many times during different occasions.
I hope you aren't jealous of the odd company I keep sometimes– some of my female contacts– either on Runescape or the blogging world in general, seem to have robust sex drives. I really do look at them from afar most of the time, still wondering how they enjoy it so much. Talking to most of them, I think, is an attempt to assure myself that women *can* enjoy sex. And yet, that old notion still persists that they are unusual or unique somehow. I know *you* enjoy it, but it is so frustrating when real life gets in the way– either on your end, or mine.
I know sometimes you don't feel pretty enough, or sexy enough. Let me assure you that there are many days I feel the same way. I'm amazed how I much I scrutinized myself when I was still reasonably thin. It was always something– not enough muscle tone on my arms, no six-pack abs, buttocks too big… something. Of course, maybe you remember that I had to be on stimulant drugs before Mom would use the word "thin" connected to me. It was strange, as you remember me telling you, how she would admire my body in a way I found uncomfortable, yet seemed so ready to criticize it later.
I think, ultimately, I will not break free of this awful grip until I have vanquished those fears of my childhood, that every old bogeyman is slain, every demon is banished, and every ghost that haunts me still is laid to rest.