Something I look forward to with My Sex Project is looking back years from now and cringing with delight at the thoughts and musings of a 33-year old Carolyn on her sexual journey. Much like I did when I read this rambling I wrote as a 20-year old Carolyn during her sophomore year of college.
I found this writing on an old hard drive and couldn’t believe it was written almost exactly 13 years ago to the day on November 17th, 2005. Here was a Carolyn doing exactly what she’s doing now: trying to figure this shit out. I knew I had a lot to learn then. I know I have a lot to learn now. Crazy how much we change while never really changing at all.
This was awkward as hell to read for me (It will be for you too). I feel embarrassed for the Carolyn who thought she was having super kinky sex when really she was only having…sex. But I am happy for this Carolyn. She was finally doing IT after years of thinking about IT before she knew what IT was. You can’t get that high back no matter how good IT gets down the line.
So please enjoy this, if you will, ‘vintage’ My Sex Project entry.
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November 17th, 2005
I need to get something off my chest. I swear I am not trying to be Christina Ricci from Prozac Nation and I swear I’m not doing this to feel indie, artsy, or cooler than I already am. That’s what my livejournal and myspace are for. I just think having my insane thoughts down in writing is better than in my head.
SEX!
I did it. I wrote it out and now I am going to talk about it. It always amazed and intrigued me even before I even experienced it. I would read my mom’s REDBOOK magazine and skip to the articles about sex tips. I didn’t know what it meant, but it made me feel racy. I’d sit in my basement and find an erotic novel. The ones with the big, muscular men on the cover. The ladies with flowing hair and some royal looking dress properly placed over all the “bad” body parts. They usually took place on some random island or a ship. I’d thumb through the pages until I found the ones with the sex scenes. I had to be no more than 12. Most likely younger.
Back in 7th grade my friend Connie told me redheads and Scorpios are supposed to be good in bed. I am both of these qualities. I don’t find myself to be good in bed though. I am still a trainee when it comes to the tricks of sex. I don’t know what else to do but lay there and I am too scared to try something else. But though I may not be the ultimate sex goddess, I do think my redhead Scorpio traits have made me obsessed with sex. I called it back in my senior year of high school. I said to my friends, I think when I finally have sex, I am going to want it all the time.
My first time was weird as was expected. I didn’t know it was coming. I wasn’t in love. I had no idea what to do. I don’t regret it all which I am thankful for, but it definitely did not fill me with the sexual energy and desire I have now.
One night while me and D* were a little drunk we stumbled upon an apartment. We were promised that in this apartment would be bowls and blunts galore. Like sneaky little stoners we crept ourselves into this apartment and sat with anticipation. There he was. Willy Wonka. Our provider of the green goddess was someone who had a great likeness to Willy Wonka. Blue eyes. Crazy hair. I died a little inside. Weed and Willy Wonka. The two loves of my life.
I confessed to him I had a thing for Gene Wilder and he looked like him. He didn’t know whether to take it as a compliment or be offended. D reassured him it was a good thing. I clung on to his every word. “Do you want to see my cat do tricks?” My heavy, high head slowly nodded yes.
After we were blazed out of our minds we went the apartment next door. D was ferociously getting hit on by some drunk kid while me and Willy Wonka sat on a couch. We watched the attempts of this kid and laughed. The Candy Man leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Your friend is occupied. I’m going back to my place. You’re obviously invited.” And he was gone. I froze. I didn’t know what to do. I was overcome with excitement and fright at returning to his apartment alone.
D calmed me down and said we’ll all go back together. So me, D, and drunk kid returned. A slight disappointment ran through me when his place was filled with people. We sat down and let ourselves become absorbed in our high. I had never wanted someone so bad in my life then at that very moment. So I tried to make it happen.
I did my girl thing and crept off to the bathroom. In the bathroom I didn’t pee or wash my hands or anything. I just stared at myself in the mirror freaking out thinking I need to make out with this guy. I prayed and wished and hoped that when I opened that door he would be there with the same idea in mind. I prepped myself and swung the door open. The darkness of the room overwhelmed me and I couldn’t see. He wasn’t there. I mouthed “fuck.” I took a step out and when my eyes fully readjusted to the darkness there was Wonka’s figure sitting on a couch in front of me. Again I died inside.
My giddy self sat down next to him. We exchanged words. Words I cannot remember. I do remember saying I had to make out with him. It finally happened. We made out and to this day it was the best makeout session of my life. My hair was in pig tails a choice of hairstyle I will never regret. He clung on to them and pulled me closer. I thought to myself, wow. Here’s a masturbatory fantasy I will never forget**. We exchanged numbers before I left then I sadly returned to my lonely dorm room.
That is the beginning of the end.
He crept into my thoughts all the time. When we met up again a week later I gave myself to him. I gave myself to him again before I left for Disney World. And then again. And then a little after that, again.
He’s a drug. Over the summer he would call me and leave voice mails. “Hey girrrrrrrrrl….” The whole situation was and is quite shady. I go there. We get high. I watch him and his friends play video games. They drop off one by one. We get busy. I leave. Rinse and repeat.
Every time on my drive home I say, that was the last time. This can’t be good for me. But then a week later I’d be sitting on the same couch, watching the same video games, thinking the same things on my drive home. I have never had that much action in my life. It got to the point where it was at least once a week. Amateur, yes, but that is a lot in my life. This is when the addiction set in. I needed it. I craved it. I got excited whenever it began. He skillfully led me into his bedroom and pulled off my skirt. He played with my breasts before even taking the shirt off so that when he finally did, my chest was filled with goosebumps. When he removed my shirt he brought my arms with him, pinning them down when the shirt was off. I had nowhere to go but there was nowhere else I wanted to go. This man was filled with skills and tricks up his sleeve.
Unfortunately I have never came with him. I have come close to it but never experienced the spasms of a full-fledged orgasm. This is not to say it was unenjoyable. Far from it. I still was naked with him and he still made my hands and feet go tingly.
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I laughed so hard when I read that last paragraph. This amateur, erotic tale finalized by the harsh reality that this dude did not have my interests in mind and I was having Charlie horses instead of orgasms.
It’s obviously not the sex that sticks out for me about my time with Wonka. What was so sexy for me was the fact that it wasn’t some long drawn out, ‘Will they, won’t they?’ nonsense. I wanted something and I got it. My inner Veruca Salt who wants it now, who insists on pink macaroons and performing baboons, who deep down lives in all of us, was slowly but surely finding her voice.
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* one of my roommates
** I don’t still use this fantasy