A Young Woman’s Dilemma

And the search for a solution.

Disappointed after my first time. I never wanted to have sex again.

In my sixteen-year-old mind, I figured John would never love me if I couldn’t make him happy, and sex was what I believed would make him happy. I needed to please him.

So I searched for information about my problem in the book, Everything You Always Wanted to Know about Sex. But I found nothing to help me, and it left me even disappointed and confused.

How could I solve a problem when no one else had ever experienced it? Had no one else ever been afraid of sex after their first time? Proof something must be horribly wrong with me. There could be no other answer.

Was I still a virgin? I wasn’t sure. I didn’t feel like a sexually active woman. So what was I besides caught in between?

I couldn’t find a name to describe my situation, couldn’t find a label to stick on myself, so I made up my own; I called myself a half-virgin.

Sex was supposed to be enjoyable. Wasn’t supposed to hurt so much. Where was all the pleasure I’d read about?

Who could I turn to for help? I couldn’t ask my best friend, Debbie, and risk her laughing at me. Definitely couldn’t go to my parents.

I had no one but Dorothy. Surely, at twenty-nine, she knew about sex. Even if she was stuck at home. Maybe even more stuck than me.

Growing up I’d received mixed messages about sex.

My mother made sex seem bad. Like I should never do it. She seemed disgusted when referring to other women’s sex lives.

My father, when in a good mood, often told stories of his younger days. He boasted of all the girls he’d had, and all the while, he told his stories, my mother’s lips tightened.

Since my mother discouraged anything fun in life, I decided to turn to my father’s views of sex.

Dorothy was no virgin. At thirteen, she’d been with an older guy. Sex had gotten her into trouble and landed her at our house, just after I was born. So she had to know a thing or two.

I went to her and asked about her first time.

“Shit,” she said, scratching her head. “I don’t remember what my first time was like.”

“Oh my God! How could you forget?”

“It was a long time ago.

“You must remember something. Did it hurt? Did you bleed? Was it better the next time?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged, her face blank. “I don’t think it was ever a big deal.”

“A lot of help you are,” I said, and stomped away.

For quite some time, when out shopping, and behind my mother’s back, I gave Dorothy money to buy me Viva and Playgirl magazines. After I read the magazines, I gave them to her.

I hung the nude centrefolds on my bedroom wall, thinking my mother might comment about them or order me to take them down, but she said nothing. So I hung up more. Then I wondered if she enjoyed seeing them as much as I did. I wanted to ask her if she’d ever seen a penis other than my father’s, but of course, I’d never dare ask my mother such a question.

In one magazine I read about fellatio. I rushed to Dorothy and asked if she knew anything about it.

“What are you talking about?” she said, staring back at me like I’d spoken another language.

“Oh my God!” I said, frustrated at how difficult it was getting across to her. “You know, a blow job.”

“What?”

“Oh….” I took a breath, tried staying calm. “Going down on a guy.”

She looked confused.

“Suck a cock!” I said loud enough I feared everyone would hear.

“No.” She made another face. “I never did that.”

“Well,” I said, like an expert, “You’d better learn.”

“Where do you get such things?” she asked.

“Here,” I said, and handed her the magazine, pointing to the article. “Read this. Then we’ll talk.”

She took the magazine to her room.

Later that week, when my parents went grocery shopping, I stayed home so Dorothy and I could practice how to perform fellatio like an expert.

Dorothy had set aside several bananas, as the magazine had suggested.

I watched her curl her lips over her teeth and move her mouth back and forth over the banana as the article instructed. I tried too, but felt so self-conscious, I stopped.

“Why don’t you use a banana to practice having sex?” Dorothy said, setting the banana she’d been practising with down on the table.

“I’m not sticking that in me.”

“I’ve got a condom in my room. Put it on the banana and try.”

“What are you doing with a condom?”

“Hoping I’ll need it someday.”

I stared at her, shocked. Sometimes, Dorothy was full of surprises.

She picked up the banana and held it out in front of me. “Try it.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“I will,” she said, shocking me even more. “Then you might change your mind.”

She went upstairs to get the condom.

“I’m not changing my mind,” I called after her.

I sat at the dining room table, waiting until she came back down. When she appeared through the doorway, she grabbed the banana from the table and headed into the bathroom.

When Dorothy came out of the bathroom, she said, “Piece of cake. I won’t have any difficulty. You should try this, Barbara. Really, you should.”

I shook my head no, feeling like such a failure. Scooping the magazine off the table, I stomped off to my room.

The next time John and I wandered off alone into the woods, I told John I had my period and didn’t want to mess us up. Instead, I gave him a blow-job, and he didn’t seem to mind.

I asked for nothing in return. It wasn’t what girls were supposed to do.

The message I’d received about sex was that it was all about pleasing the guy. Looking back, I can’t believe I thought of myself as so modern, cool, and sexually liberated, so unlike my mother, but yet had no confidence about receiving my own sexual pleasure. I couldn’t ask a guy for what I wanted.

Finally, feeling confident about mastering something. Relieved to be able to do something right. My fear of losing John’s interest lessened. Plus, it had the bonus of no risk of pregnancy.

BARBARA CARTER is a visual artist and writer with a focus on healing from childhood trauma, alcohol addiction, and living her best authentic life.