Sooooo, I recently shared a day in my life—-What I didn’t reveal is how extra I am, rolling up to that school at 7:00 am. My teen always enjoys the lengths to which I have no shame and snapped this pic of me right before I was about to shovel dog shit out of the garage. When I dilly dally about in this attire, my husband swears and I quote he, “can hardly control himself!”
My mother was dressed beautifully with hair and make-up done to perfection EVERY DAY OF MY CHILDHOOD. I found this to be a form of torture. Now, I am teaching her in her retirement the ins and outs of errand-running minus the hassle of all that Jazz! It does my heart good to see her bare faced, in her velour sweat suit in the Taco Bell drive thru. This is us, subtly sticking it to the man!!!
Don’t take this the wrong way, but in the voice of Randall and his Honeybadger narration, “Momma doesn’t give a shit.” I promise to always have my kids to early morning practice on time- but do not expect me to be a HOT mess when I get there. Mess Always, Hot mehhhh.🤷🏼♀️
It’s been 20 years to the day, since my first encounter with sex. And first of all, let’s get this out there—-
Virginity is not a real thing——— The most accurate words I’ve heard expressed about it (though I can’t recall who to credit?) is, “Virginity is a social construct created by arrogant men who thought their penises were SO powerful that they could actually change a woman.”
Bitch, please! My bicycle seat did more damage to my hymen then sex ever did.
Did I walk a little broader for a couple hours afterwards, maybe? Was there an ever so slight red splotch in my panties that evening? Sure… but I’m not certain it had anything to do with virginity? It may have simply been that I was an unprepared and completely inexperienced fourteen year old, dry as a bone, with an inexperienced, gentle yet ambitious 14 year old partner, wearing a rubber who was simply ready to do the damn thing. I can’t say the experience was good or bad. No absolutes. It is what it is. Two horny teenagers who’d been fooling around for a good 6 months prior. It was simply the next step in our “relationship.”
I giggle as I type the word “relationship.” Ain’t no relationship happening, we were two kids, who’d always hung out with the older crowd, so naturally we chose one another for things like such: make-out sessions, escorting one another to class, I sat in the stands as the little blonde cheering him on, we dropped each other letters through the day that had zero substance. This guy had always found me attractive and I appreciated that to a fault. I’d known him forever, and had known forever that one day, he’d get me in trouble.
I recall sitting proper as a 5 year old little lady in the church pew. He was, a few people down, on the floor playing with small cars. I’d lean forward and peek down the aisle, his excited little eyes would brighten and smile back, happy I had noticed him, this tiny tot flirting would continue, and even at 5, I knew I’m in trouble with this one.
Fast forward 9 short years, with countless welcomed smooch-fests and fondlings, and there we were, me flat on my back in his bed, panties down, legs tense-so tense, him putting on the rubber and us, trying to figure the shit out. There was the putting it in, is this going to fit? There was the trying to maintain a rhythm, while hoping to be romantic with continued kissing…..We tried, God knows, we tried! We tried to get all the parts running together.
>>>>All of these things, we’d later laugh about in our adulthood when he chose to give a quick apology for having literally destroyed my soul after breaking up with me like less than a month after this first sexual encounter.
Yes, bull shit- I know. But he was “just a boy”—and deep down I knew this was simply about getting the deed done. It was kinda like, “Sweet, high five, buddy, we did it, team work.” I was glad to no longer be carrying that neon light “V-Card,” and rising from his bed there wasn’t an immediate guilt or shame, but the reality that I was expected to feel guilt and shame, and he wasn’t. This realization caused heart-ache to come on strong….For him, it was hell yeah——Nods of approval from bro to bro down the hall, and then emotional unattachment. But for me, it was a different story….
Unfortunately for romanticized me, he strung me along for a couple weeks afterward and blew me off. How could this be? I’d allowed myself to love fully. Was I not good enough?
……Not good enough… I still battle that thought today…..
I can say this boy did me one favor. I asked one morning after our sexual experience and multiple realizations waving over me, “Hey. When is the first time you think about me during the day?” He was honest and replied, “Right now, when I see you in this hallway at school.”
His honesty cut deep, “I should’ve asked that question before I laid in that bed,” my intuition whispered. In an instant, I knew I’d given a part of me away that was unhealable. I moseyed down the hall holding back tears. He had been my waking thought for nearly a year…
So how did all this come to be my fate on that Super Bowl Sunday, 1999? Let me set this up for you:
My parents were the cutest and *still are lovey dovey high school sweethearts that set the bar. My sister and I both, were led to believe by our own inexperience with other places and stories, that our future husbands were right there walking the halls of our very high school. In our minds it would be a tragedy to not have the love story our parents had.
Partner this fantastical view of high school love with a deeply indoctrinated belief that women should please their men, be submissive, and have a man lead them…..
Then sprinkle that misinformed point of view with a little, “Don’t do it”
“SEX IS BAD—- DIRTY EVEN! But it can be so good with the right person….”
>>>>Every High School Girl believes her current boyfriend IS THE RIGHT PERSON.
Mix this all up with parents who trusted me and a dousing of teenage hormones and you’ve got a recipe for a good old-fashioned sexcapade.
Hear me: REPRESSION LEADS TO OBSESSION
Need it again: REPRESSION LEADS TO OBSESSION
Purity Culture is TOXIC right along with fundamentalist Christianity. Telling a teenager not to explore, not to touch themselves, and to abstain AT ALL COSTS is like writing an omen over your child that they WILL partake in teen sex on the regular. And probably not under the best circumstances. This is just the simple truth. It is what it is. Sexuality is as much a part of adolescence as the use of our arms or legs, denying that is detrimental.
If I could go back and summon the Divine Feminine to speak over that 14 year old baby with big green eyes, I’d hope she’d have shown up in the form of a Sister rather than a Mother. In this instance of hormonal neediness, a mother figure would want to protect as she knows the outcome, but my mind was made up, I was going to have sex….An older sister however, would speak sassy truth and that’s the voice I needed.
I can hear this Divine Sister now, “Listen, this won’t be like you’ve seen in the movies, this will not be some spiritual practice in emotional soul bonding. If you want to do this, do it, but know, this is going to be purely physical. This won’t make you closer to your partner. It’s kinda like your first time with anything, this is merely trial and error, practice… You’re going walk outta that room as the same girl you were before. Nothing has changed. You’ll have simply experienced a rite of passage that nearly all the humans telling you not to do this, did themselves. Everything good and beautiful and holy will still reside within you. Do it, then let it go, don’t attach yourself to the idea of having lost something or attach yourself to this boy, you’ll have lost nothing but a label. Do not trade the label “virgin” for the label “guilt” or the label “shame.” You are you— you are you—-you are YOURS. This is your label to give away if you really want to, do this if you must, but walk out of that room-pop your collar, blow on some imaginary dice. Confidence, baby girl—Stand tall, this is like any other first, excitement/ no regrets. Be certain.”
My Divine Feminine voice is always saucy!
…………………………….If every girl was raised in a sex positive, equal opportunity environment, girls could live empowered rather than defeated. If this had been my inner voice, instead of “you lost something you can’t get back,” I could’ve avoided the depths of heart-ache of not being good enough. We set girls up to fail and to remain in bad situations because they’re so tied to labels.
If we could be honest about the toxicity of religion and purity culture than this double standard about sex could be minimized—— you know what I’m talking about, the dirty looks and awful words used for the girls who have sex, and the hope they’ll feel guilt and shame, versus the pats on the back and locker room praise for the boys.
I find it not coincidental, that two weeks after I began having sex, the only 40 year old virgin woman in our church begins, “righteously” training us to maintain our purity, as our virginity is our gift to our future husbands… Our sexuality was always about the man, the goal was guilting and shaming us into compliance in order to support patriarchal constructs. A woman in touch with herself, is a powerful woman, and that is scary in fundamentalist religion.
If girls knew they could explore themselves and embrace their cycles and urges without the help of a man at all, maybe they wouldn’t be so quick to “need” a partner.
I have a 14 year old daughter. She knows my story wholly. She doesn’t want the same experience. Honesty is almost as good a teacher as experience. Tell your kids your stories, the good, the bad, the beauty, and the heartache. We can change the internal voices of our daughters and inherently teach our sons how to be good partners… Join me and let’s change the conversation from maintaining “virginity,” to remaining true to Self and holding ourselves in the love of compassion.
January 31st, 1999, the Denver Broncos won the Super Bowl….. and I lost a label…. I lost nothing more than a label.
My life is a WILD ride right now. I’m talking late night drinks, my tits out all the time, there is some crack involved, there is me- hungover in the bathroom, me- bent over in the shower, and there are even asses in my face, multiple asses… WILD. You get the jist………….
Or do you?
Picture this, it’s 11 pm, darkness has descended and the house is quiet. You sit back, allowing your eyes to close and a smile appears. “It is finished,” echos through your delirious mind. Then: Like thunder erupting from the throat of an angry God, the Three Year Old bellows, “Mooooom! WAAATTTEEERRR!!! I NEEEED Waatteerr.”
I leap from the recliner, milk dripping from my exposed breasts, Baby Brother unhappy to be bothered with unlatching. My back CRACKS, as I jump up. OhmaLort——This is it, my time hung over the tub in the bathroom is really wearing on me.
Bath administration is getting evermore tedious as my tots rebel regularly and I’m forced to lean and stretch my body in ways that even the greatest yogis would be impressed by. I’ve been a bath time contortionist through four children now, and bending over in the shower to wash them is not only dangerous, it gets painful night after night.
And, did I mention the amount of asses I tend to that are not my own? There is a multitude of ass-wiping and ass-checking that is involved on the daily. Between the two littles, I don’t know that an hour passes where I’m not greeted by that of an ass.
Soooooooo, my WILD nights aren’t exactly the kind of wild I had originally alluded to, but it is wild here, nonetheless. And I freaking LOVE IT, sometimes.
Here’s a small rundown of a day in my life that doesn’t include any of the 4ness that’s happening throughout the day, like me being lost in the depths of my own mind 90% of the time, here’s a go at my day:
I homeschool The Wonderer full time now, She’s a 5th grader. Soul Sarcasm is a freshman and is at school from 7-7:30am and I load the babies up and stay there to bring her home for LA/World Hist and then she goes back to the school at 9, I pick her up at 12:35. During that 9-12:30 slot, I’m schooling the Wonderer and I try to do calendar with the babies, Riot (3) and Stout (14 months) . At 12:20, we do lunch for the littles and hustle to get Soul Sarcasm. Stout falls asleep in the car, we get home at 12:45. We eat “big girl” lunch together then they start their online classes at 1:00. At 2:00, we try to sit down and read poetry/listen to a classical piece, look at a piece of art, study logic/argument/philosophy/Quaker queries/ ancient wisdom from abroad/ or a scientist and read one family read-aloud, right now it’s Big Magic. At 3:20, I have to get Soul Sarcasm back to the school for softball. From 3:40-4:40 I play with the Littles and prep dinner and clean up our school messes. Then I pick S. S. up at 5. Throw in the Wonderer’s extracurriculars that occur at 12:40 twice a week at her school, plus piano and guitar at 6:00 pm and Friends, after dinner, after clean up, after chores, after all the WILD moments added to the mix, I’m freaking spent.
Never doubt that I am not wallowing in a magnitude of gratefulness for this WILD life I live. But hear me clear, choosing to multi-school, choosing to be a full-time care-giver, choosing to spend EVERY DAY, EVERY HOUR with my children is not an instant gratification way of being. There is hardly ever an accolade, or even a praise, but there is always a multitude of, “I love you,” “Will you read to me?” “Can we play this?” “Can you help me with that?” “Momma, I unloaded the dishwasher.” “Momma, I folded the clothes.” “Momma, will you rub my back?” “Momma, that artist was amazing!” “Momma, read that line again.” “Momma, thank you!” And these young voices come to meeeeeee, when it could be someone else, and that is all the glory I need. I won’t end this post right there, because I don’t want you to think I’m lost in the cloud of frufru. Cause the truth is, while there is beauty in this way of life everyday, there is also shit every day, literal shit and metaphorical shit.
And, there is also me, hung over (the tub)—- and crack on every corner (ass-crack that is) —— and let us not forget the lactating titties out for all to see when the neighbor drops by.
See her shirt, “aww man, if I could just unzip it, I’d suck on them titties.”
.Suck on them titties.
But I was 11
But confused the most
Close my locker door
Hustle down the hall
Arms crossed over my chest
But there’s nothing to lick
I have buds, not breasts
I know that’s what this stage is called
My momma read a book to me
About what’s happening to my body
Did I just cause someone to lust
All by simply wearing a shirt
Did I sin, did I sin
Still a child
Crack in my soul
Some dark gets in
Never wore my favorite shirt
>>>>>>>>>>written by: Stacy Johnson, January 23rd, 2019, 10:53 am
This is simply a spoken word poem I wrote on my first experience of being sexualized that I can recall. Allowing myself to go back to these places, is a part of me identifying moments that brought shame and guilt that I’ve carried. While not the intention of the religion I was raised in, it was my internalization of it, none-the-less. I am reclaiming the parts of myself that I lost or let go of long ago. And this moment is one in which I’m calling out to my younger self, “This wasn’t your burden to carry baby girl.”
I have an 11 year old daughter, she is wild and strong. She would yell, “Fuck You,” to a boy speaking such over her. And I would applaud her.