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‘Being Sian’
Losing My Virginity

I grew up in the rigid trap of a strict religious cult. This meant feeling guilty
about sexual arousal. Sex acts were forbidden, within marriage as well as
before it. Only penetration, without foreplay, was approved. Anal, oral,
masturbation, sex on a woman’s period, etc, were all banned. Anyone
found breaking these rules were considered ungodly and under the
influence of the Devil, and consequently, cast out.

It often occurred to me that how would they ever find out? I couldn’t
imagine a husband admitting to having his cock sucked just before ‘the
meetings’– as these congregation sessions were called. Then I realised
that accepting the cult’s rules automatically led to a self-maintained guilty
conscience. Also, if you censor people for so long, they’ll eventually enjoy
reporting crimes of other members to the ‘elders’ (or priests), because if
they can’t ‘get away with it’, why should anyone else?

My mother had a serious sexual hang up. I can never remember her being
‘open’ about the subject. My earliest memory of her broaching it was
seeing her face boil up in fury, as she shoved a cult magazine into my
hands as I stood, shocked, in the doorway of my bedroom. I was nine.

‘Here. Read this’ She hissed.

I looked at the front cover. It portrayed a blurred image of a Chinese


woman running. (Why it was blurred, I don’t know. Perhaps it would have
been too arousing to all the frustrated husbands who couldn’t fuck their
wives properly.)

Because she was so embarrassed, I was, and it made me feel that there
was something terrible in the idea of sex. The only reason it was being
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mentioned at all, was because the magazine had printed it, and we were
all required to read them. Also, it saved her from dodging the subject for
another few years. I got the impression that she preferred the subject of
rape, rather than love making and romance, because this way, there was a
serious penalty to opening my legs. It was going to invite sexual violence,
‘So I better not do it.’ She never mentioned it again for a long time.

Of course, I couldn’t wait to get my knickers off. I just had to find a man
first. So I did. He was thirteen years older than me, an alcoholic ‘nobody’
living on state benefits in a council flat, but he had a penis and was
prepared to use it. And I was prepared to ‘lose it’, as fast as possible. I
was breathless in anticipation- I’d heard that sex was great (from the girls
at school, not the cult.)

As we lay in bed naked together, I hadn’t much idea what was going to
happen. Of course, I knew that his ‘bits’ would go into my ‘bits’- from a
‘jigsaw puzzle’ point of view, because on a practical level, a penis is long
and like a little stick, and I just had a hollow hole. It made sense to me
that those shapes would fit.

And I expected that when he touched me, my clitoris would explode and
bounce off the ceiling, and hit him on the nose. I expected to love his cock
so much that I’d want to pull it off (from his body) and keep it, like a
favourite pet, ideally stuffed down my knickers or in my pocket. I had
dreams of eternal orgasms, wanting to be held hostage in his bedroom like
a kinky script from a ‘blue movie’ set.

And yes, he fucked me. Wouldn’t you, if the last person you ‘shagged’ was
a ‘five pound hooker’ from the East End of London, and you had to fight
her over the hand job you demanded and didn’t get, ‘coz she took the cash
and ran? Or if you had ‘morning glory’ when you woke up this morning,
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but you couldn’t find the energy to wank, because you spent all night
drinking your last five cans of super-strength beer, and you’d willingly sell
your own arse for a can right now? These were the realities of Steve’s life.
Of course, when a pretty nineteen year old girl came along to ‘pop her
cherry’ he must have thought the beer gave him visions.

No need for visions- here I am, lying next to him, as real as the words you
are looking at right now. It felt strange letting my naked body be seen by
another human being, so close, feeling his breath all over my face, getting
drunk off the fumes. Usually, only the bathroom mirror ever saw my
nudity. I exposed myself vulnerably now, for his satisfaction.

He touched my ‘bits’ for a minute till he got an erection, laid on top and
moved about for another minute, then got off again, leaving me feeling
uncomfortably sticky and wet down below. And not a single orgasm or
‘horny’ feeling to make it worthwhile. ‘Disappointed’ wouldn’t be the
word for it. Devastated, depressed, dreading a lifetime of this ‘sex’ thing,
which was now something to avoid if possible. It was no fun at all.
Chewing a stinging bee would be more pleasurable.

I couldn’t understand why I hadn’t enjoyed a second of it, and assumed


that there must be something wrong with me. All those girls at school
couldn’t be wrong, with their secret sniggers and unmentionable gossip.
They would never say it was great, if it wasn’t. Although I was never part
of their ‘group of hyenas’, I guessed a lot about what they were saying by
their sly looks, hushed whispers and guilty pauses when they were
accidentally overheard.

I knew nothing about sex, and was ignorant of the factors that affect its
enjoyment, like my emotional state, foreplay and arousal. Masturbation
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hadn’t lasted long during my virgin days, (being a fast-route relief) and I
figured that I had probably ‘frigged’ myself longer than Steve’s attempt, so
it couldn’t be his fault that I didn’t feel anything. It was like rubbing my leg
with my elbow, the ‘sensations’ I had felt.

It did improve a bit over the next few months, probably because I had time
to adapt to it. However, I underwent a very prudish phase, actually
retreating into myself and not wanting to do it at all. I remember Steve’s
shocked face when I emerged from the shower. With my towel around
me, I snapped my refusal at him as he laid me on the bed, peeling it off. I
had assumed we were going to ‘do the usual’ but when he tried oral sex on
me, I totally freaked out. I got up and walked away, leaving him pining
‘Why? What is it?’ and I couldn’t explain it. I had no idea myself. I was
confused and scared, feeling shocked and insecure, but mostly guilty.

Months later, we were sitting on a street statue and the topic of women’s
body parts came up. I don’t know how, or in what context, but he said the
word ‘clitoris’ and I was really shocked to the core. I felt it was an insult,
and slapped his face. It was worse than a swear word to me. I saw him as
a pervert, a seedy, sleazy creature, who was taking away my dignity.

Looking back, I suppose I cannot blame myself. I had been brainwashed by


that cult since I was born, and my mother was a constant repressor. She
didn’t even allow a television in the house for fear of a sex scene coming
on, and any books I read were chosen by her. If I managed to smuggle any
past her, she would find them and get into a furious rage, going through
every single page for evidence of any kissing or lovemaking scenes. God
help me if she found a crude description of cock-sucking. During these
events, I would tremble into the corner watching this madwoman, hoping
for my sake that she would not find it. I don’t blame myself. It was part of
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my gradual transition into ‘being me’. I had the rest of my life to ‘make up
for it’- and I certainly did.

My mother knew that I was living with Steve. I couldn’t hide it from her; I
didn’t have the energy to try. Besides, defying her gave me a smug,
satisfied feeling. I stood facing her angry glare, genuinely not caring about
the consequences of my rebellion. And there were consequences; she
wasted no time in reporting my sin to the ‘elders’ of the local
congregation.

“I’ve arranged for them to interview you tomorrow.” She said with a
righteous air, as if to say that I was the only whore in the house. She
couldn’t be convicted of the same crime as me, because she wasn’t
‘getting any’.

Naturally, child abuse of any kind was acceptable, not considered unholy
enough to be reported or taken seriously. My mother had physically and
emotionally abused us all, since the day we were born. However, it never
occurred to me to try to get justice from the ‘elders’ for that. They
wouldn’t consider it a crime. They were forever pointing out scriptures
about children respecting their parents. The same rule did not apply to
‘honoring children’– it wasn’t mentioned in the Bible; but disciplining them
certainly was; many, many times.

I was disciplined now, as I sat in my mother’s living room facing the two
chairs, filled with the stern faced men of God. If these were the servants
of Jehovah, I didn’t fancy meeting Him personally, ever. He was someone
to be feared. Threatened by our certain death at Armageddon, we had to
‘toe the line’ on all matters, especially the matters between our legs.
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Sex was the heaviest crime, punished by the harshest methods, up to and
including being shunned by the congregation, friends and all family
members. This would last as long as your rebellion did; as soon as you
‘gave in’ to this intimidation, they’d give you a reprieve. This made me
question how valid their methods were; should you have to be bullied into
submission? What value would God place on your obedience, given out of
necessity, and probably for all the ‘wrong’ reasons? And anyway, what
was wrong with having a shag in the first place?

I was expected to feel very sorry for losing my virginity to Steve. I couldn’t
fake it any more than I could fake enjoying the act in the first place; it
wasn’t worth all this fuss. Mother had told me that repentance was the
best way to stay within the congregation; defiance would mean
‘disfellowshipping’ or casting out. Knowing all this gave me a liberated
feeling. Nothing would make me happier than to be thrown out of the
flock; I wouldn’t give a fuck. In fact, my freedom meant more than the
approval that these elders would never give; they were never happy, no
matter how hard you tried to obey the rules that came out every week in
the magazines.

Petty regulations would appear as soon as the ‘offensive’ topics arose.


From short skirts to body piercings; types of music or television
programmes, Hitler-like commands (badly disguised as ‘advice’) told us
exactly what we weren’t allowed to do. The subjects were different, but
the ending was always the same; obedience would guarantee our eternal
life in Paradise, but rebellion would definitely incur Jehovah’s fury. This
would mean dying at Armageddon, in horrific, gruesome ways. Although
we had never seen the end of the world yet, images printed in the weekly
magazines, painted by God’s servants, depicted our fate.
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One week in particular, a nightmarish picture showed Jehovah burning our
eyes out with laser beams, with the explanation that ‘man had brought
about the damage to the earth, giving Him the weapons to use when the
time came’... and scriptures were quoted directly beneath, saying that
‘their eyes will rot in their sockets, as they stand’. Despite these constant
threats of death, I began to wonder why we had to sacrifice our happiness
in this life, to be granted our next one. My freedom now meant more to
me, and to be truthful, I dreaded sharing eternal life with them. Their
‘punishment’ was starting to sound a lot more appealing than their
‘promise’.

With this in mind, I stared defiantly at the ‘elders’ now. I was not going to
apologise. When they questioned me, I was evasive and said nothing,
trying to remain as neutral as possible. Not wanting to be coerced into
their way of thinking, I didn’t let myself be pressured into agreeing to a
single thing. ‘Blood out of a stone’ was probably easier to get. They said
their ‘decision’ would take a few days, and that they would let me know. I
was relieved to see them go.

Afterwards, my mother was silent and stony, like a mental patient in a


trance. Blank faced and slow moving, I wanted to ‘belt her’ with my hand,
she annoyed me so much. I couldn’t stand her face any more, so I left, to
the refuge of Steve’s flat.

copyright@emmasharn2009