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More Confessions of a “Good Girl”

August 13, 2008

This one is another part of the possible book “Confessions of a Good Girl” I might write. If you want to read the first installment you’ll have to subscribe to my blog and go back through them all to find it. I welcome suggestions and comments, but be nice this is my very first draft.

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Aside from staring at it I am pretty well-acquainted with the ceiling. I remember feeling like I was floating near the ceiling and looking down on myself during a lot of my other sexual encounters.

Like the afternoon that Shane and I watched a movie – the Rocky Horror Picture show, no less – in his bedroom and then made out. I kept trying to keep his hands away from my breasts. I remember that I just wanted to kiss. After a surprisingly short time I quit trying to stop him.

I just lay there instead. I don’t remember feeling his hands up my shirt struggling with my bra as much as I can picture what it looked like from above – like I was really looking down on the whole thing and no longer inside my body.

Something clicked in my brain and I was no longer in the situation I was just watching it the way I had watched hours of television and hundreds of movies. Outside of it all looking in, floating above and looking down while my body was fondled and maybe even violated by this boy.

I remember that my dad and my uncle came to the house to pick me up and it was hard for me to get back in my body enough to move – and even harder to get into myself enough to actually speak when my uncle started teasing me about being at a boy’s house alone. And I know it’s cliché but I really felt like I had a scarlet letter on my chest. Bright and dark like blood over each breast.

I don’t remember who said what in the car or what my mom said to me when I got home, but I do remember going straight to my bedroom that night – even skipping dinner – another cliché especially for a fat girl like me who doesn’t skip a meal (or even seconds of a meal) for anything.

But I do remember crying myself to sleep that night because someone else had touched – seen – kissed – my husband’s breasts. I just kept thinking, “they’re my husband’s breasts and Shane touched them.”

A year later I also remember looking down on myself – naked – underneath Ric in his bed. That bed with the black sheets – how very fitting.

I remember that I said “no” and I remember the terror that shot through me as I felt him slide inside of me; and then I just remember watching. My face, his back, the tears rolling down my cheeks and my mouth open like I was going to say something – maybe scream something.

But there was no sound during that horrible silent movie of the day I lost my virginity. I just watched each reel from the ceiling.

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