My Dad is a great guy. I talked a little about him and the superhero complex I have when it comes to him in my previous post. He’s not all great, though. Last time I checked, Superman doesn’t out and out call women tramps. I don’t mean to villainize him. It’s just his ideals are sometimes antiquated. Though he grew up in the free-loving 60s and 70s, he probably identifies more with the gender constructs and roles of the 1950s. So where does that leave his 90s baby daughter? Confused.
The concept of things being “too sexy” or “too grown” was a common opinion in my households. My Dad explained away things like pornography, crude humour, and sexual appetites as things Men (capital M intended) liked. He has a love for artistry, but has trivialised every artist-type boy I eventually flocked to as a “Nancy boy” or “gay”. Likewise, my Mum was always frank about her sexuality, but only after many glasses of wine or in the comfort of the hushed giggles of her girl friends. I’m sure both of my parents would say they did better than their parents at giving me “The Talk”. What they might not realise, is A. They didn’t give me “The Talk” so much as they gave me a fear of ever having children out of wedlock and B. I never felt safe enough to talk to either of them about my own sexual nature in a way that wasn’t either sneered at or laughed at.
My learning curve was cemented in the things they objected to. Both had opinions on various Disney Channel stars becoming sexual in the public eye. They had lots of opinions on the rare appearance of my bare midriff. They had telling facial expressions in the face of my freer friends. I knew, just by the tone in their voice, that the things I felt whenever I saw a shirtless fragrance ad dart across the TV screen or a candle lit sex scene in a film was wrong somehow. I began silently feeling that I was wrong.
I’ve never mentioned this to them, even as an adult. I haven’t told my parents what I’m oddly comfortable confessing on digital paper. I’m the child of two kids who had unprotected sex one too many times. A child like that grows up feeling unwanted, a mistake, no matter how many times they try to tell you you were a blessing. Sex was something to be feared, when I was growing up; it brought unwanted children into the world. Desire was fearful, too. It was for men, not women. Only loose women were open about desiring sex.
Well guess what:
I’m 26. I’ve never been in a real relationship. I am heterosexual. I enjoy watching porn occasionally. I like crop tops and bralettes. Bondage makes me uncomfortable, but biting doesn’t. I have a thing for pretty boys. I am falling in love with my body, and I would love for someone to love it, too. I’m not afraid of sex. I’m not afraid to be sexy. I’m only afraid of letting fear of judgement hold me back.
I guess I’ll tackle that first.