My Sex Story

I sat yesterday for a photograph that will be fifteen feet high when the show opens in Paris later this year. Under the photograph of me will be the story of the first time I had sex. Here is what I wrote:

June 2002

I had no idea how people went from dressed to naked and fucking. Thirty-one and a virgin. I did not even know what I looked like naked! I stopped paying attention.

I spent my thirtieth year looking hard in the mirror at my naked form. Imagine my dismay to learn that my breasts fallen down after years of ignorance and lack of care! When did my belly become so squishy? I hate my arms. This is me? My skin glows! I have beautiful shoulders. I love the turn of my chin and full lips. The small of my back has a tuft of wispy blond hair that calls out to be caressed.

I will admit I had phone sex prior to having real sex. The phone sex did nothing to keep us from being shy and anxious; it did not last long. Soon we found ourselves naked, kissing, holding and fondling. He touched me where I wanted him to touch me. We did not have sex right away, but when we did—damn. I could not tell up from down or left from right. I was taken completely unaware by what it felt like to be touched by a man. We made love; we had sex; we fucked. My first time with him was sweet, passionate, lovely but not tentative. I remember that, but it was not the best sex we ever had. The best sex came one night when he and I made love at four in the morning, and I could see this orange glow in my room even though it was pitch black.

June 1977

I was six when my father died. It was just my mother and me.

March 1978

After my father’s death, more than anything I wanted to be normal again and have a Daddy. The first time John put his hands on my crotch and fondled me, he asked me if it would be okay if he married my Mother. I happily said, “Yes.”

He would tickle me on the outside of my clothed private parts until I would pee all over his hand. As my tiny breasts began to poke out, he would tweak them under my shirt or point to them. He played with me never pushing me to act too much like an adult; it was all a dress-up game in high heels and shorts. His hands running up my thighs while we watched Little House on the Prairie.

January 1982

I threatened to tell on him and what kind of person he was. He pulled me by my hair into his bathroom. I remember how tiny the little glass bottles with metal lids lined the top shelf. He pointed to them and told me that he could kill Mother any time he wanted. He was a doctor; he could do it in ways no one would suspect. Then it would just be the two of us. I needed to “shut my God damn mouth.”

He kicked me on the floor when he turned to leave.

July 2007

I fell totally in-love last year. The woman I saw reflected in his eyes was the same one I see in my own. He left me, and I almost died.

But I did not die. I am stronger than that. No more games of Hide and Seek for me. I still get scared that I will not survive Love’s brutality, but I also know the walls must never be stronger than the woman I truly am. My beauty comes through. I see me, even when men don’t.