I'm not sure how old I was. It had to be young. I guess I can trace it to middle school, because that's when we got all the wooden closet doors in the house replaced with mirrored ones. I only know that because the mirror had a lot to do with it.
I don't know what it is that made me suddenly appreciate my body. If my chronological estimates are correct, I didn't have much of one. Skinny, awkward, no tits, acne. But some carnal urge (most cliche statement ever) brought me on the floor and had me writhing in front of the mirror. I was on my stomach, on my back, on my knees, whatever. Just playing music and doing what I had been told on TV was sexy, and enjoying the fact that I was doing it. Me! The awkward girl at school that none of the boys were interested in. She was sexy (or so I thought)! And she knows it! And then one night, I started grinding on the floor a little. Then it became thrusting, then before I knew it, something happened that I couldn't explain. I know what it is now, but at the time I freaked. I know I can embrace it and enjoy it now, but at the time, I didn't recognize or appreciate the fact that I had just had my first orgasm.
The next feeling was guilt. I ran to the kitchen and grabbed a glass of water, and I remember passing my mom on the way there. And I grew hot and shaky and so incredibly guilty that I thought I might throw up. But I got in bed, and I started thinking, and when my mind stopped racing, I realized what had happened. And I was proud. I had my very first dirty little secret.
Which brings us to now. Orgasms are fantastic, obviously. Pleasuring yourself is a no-brainer, obviously. It gets me relaxed and tired and I always have good dreams after. Not to mention the event itself. The build up, the breakdown. Every aspect is amazing.
But there is one aspect of the orgasms of the 25 year old me that differ from that of the 13 year old me.
I have to think of someone else to help me come now. But when I had my first orgasm, all I had to do was look at myself. I turned me on. Me. I didn't need anyone else in the picture. I looked at myself and loved the way I looked when I was being sexy.
Now, I have to take myself away from me as much as possible. I can't think of where I am, what I'm doing, and especially what I look like. I come up with a fantasy of some sexy encounter with a stranger with the face of my latest crush. But in my fantasy, I'm gorgeous. I'm stunning. I'm thin. The best part about the fantasy is the fact that this imaginary man wants me so bad he has to have me right then and there, and who is so consumed by the experience that he will do anything to make me come. And when I do, he is ecstatic.
And I have to squeeze my eyes shut. Because if I think about what I look like--lying in bed, old shitty tank top on, granny panties, greasy hair back in a headband, bloating stomach--I completely lose it. Because I feel gross and desperate and...guilty. The means have changed, but the guilt stays the same. I no longer feel guilty for the act, I feel guilty that I am the one doing it. Because I feel that writhing around in bed or on the floor is a priviledge that only sexy people deserve.
Why do I care so much what I look like while I'm doing it? Why can't I fully embrace the experience and understand that an orgasm in itself, no matter what the circumstances, is sexy? Will I ever turn myself on again?
And here's the question that just struck me: Is this why I have only had orgasms alone, and never in front of someone else?
Now that's fucked up.
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