Mona Darling ~ The Dominatrix Mommy Blogger
The Other Women: Tizz, from Baby Domme Blues
This is a guest post from Tizz and Baby Domme Blues. This is the first of two parts. If you would like to be part of my The Other Women series and write about your sexual identity, contact me! Your story can be silly, sexy or sad. There is no normal and all points of view are invited to join.
We were under the bed, hidden from the light, and Jamie told me she had a new game for us to play. “Pull down your pants,” she told me. Ignoring my refusal, she pulled them down herself. Jamie was always in control. The memory becomes obscure after this, stripped down to the view of the coils under the mattress and the sound of her voice. Her mother called for us, and we scrambled, filled with worry and guilt, caught with our hands in the cookie jar. Her hand, rather. She hastily rolled out from under the bed, and yelled at me to do the same.
At three, my mother found blood in my underwear. Years later, the story was told that my cherry was popped while riding a bike. Somehow, that sounded better than being forcefully fingered by another child.
I had sex for the first time with my first boyfriend. I had been sneaking on to the porch for make out sessions in the balmy Sacramento heat every other night of the summer. He had been pushing for us to have sex, and each time, the pressure grew in intensity. We had met when I was ten, and he was fifteen, but years had passed. There were no particular illusions about my virginity being some sort of flowery treasure to withhold, but I knew that I wanted to be in love with the first person I slept with. He had been telling me how beautiful I was, and how much he was in love with me for months, but I couldn’t bear saying it back. It made me uncomfortable. Being too young to understand how to process such profuse and incessant expressions of affection, I was instead awkward, uncomfortable, uneasy. It wasn’t until the fall, when mornings became full of hot tea and frost-covered grass, that I realized I loved him too.
I ditched class to go to the clinic to get birth control, and sat him down to tell him that I would be getting an abortion if I got pregnant. I told him thirteen was too young to be having a baby. He nodded along and agreed. After all, what hot-blooded seventeen year old boy is going to say no based on such stipulations? We had sex at the end of the bed. It was over quickly, and I remember thinking, “That’s it? That’s what all the hype was about?” He laid on top of me, breathing heavily, and I said aloud, almost to myself, “Oh, we can do better than that!” He leaned up on his arms, moving frantically, and with a quiver of insecurity asked, “What?” I couldn’t bear to tell him that it wasn’t as good for me as it was for him.
He had gone down on me already, and had even gotten a tongue piercing to improve the experience. He stood at my front door, showing me his swollen tongue and waving at my mother. I wasn’t yet ready to return the favor. I convinced myself that maybe if I tried it, I would get turned on. Already I knew that most fears could be overcome by unabashed boldness, and concluded this would be the case.
Once, in the dark of my room, we started. I sat on his legs and put his penis in my mouth. I sat up, a stone of discomfort in the pit of my stomach, and he begged me not to stop. I told him how much I didn’t want to anymore, but he put his hands on my elbows, begging me to continue. I said to him, “B, I can’t. Please, let’s just stop,” and moved to get off of his legs. His arms, thick with teenage muscle from playing football and getting in street fights, held me in place.
“Please, please don’t stop,” he said.
Please, B. I just don’t want to anymore.
“Just a little bit more. Don’t stop.”
He wouldn’t let me move until I continued. After that I didn’t want to have sex anymore. We dated for another eight months, but the memories are blurry at best. Strangers rape people. Crazy people rape people. People who want to hurt women will rape them, but people you love (and who love you) don’t want to hurt you, so they would never do such things. It couldn’t be that.
The following January, it snowed in the valley for the first time in over ten years. I am never entirely sure what constitutes a miracle. I have never been sure of what love is supposed to look like.
“Oh, did your cat do those?”
Melissa responded to the question with a sneer, glancing down at the jagged marks across her wrists. The freshest lines were scabs, bright red and swollen around the edges, and beneath them there was another layer of faded scars. She rolled her eyes and muttered, “Uh, yeah. My cat. That’s it.”
She glanced over at me, and when our eyes met, there was a moment of mutual understanding. Everyone who is part of the “Fucked Up Kid” crew knows the subtle exchanges that serve as membership cards. One of the first lessons in a childhood filled with vicious outbursts and misdirected vitriol is in learning to read subtext. You learn how eyes communicated love, or regret, or violence. You learn what it means to fight or flee. You learn how to dissect intellectual armor and brokenhearted pokerfaces.
The ponytail of the girl who had asked the initial question bobbed as she yammered on about her cat, but we had stopped listening. Melissa still hadn’t taken her eyes off of mine. She knew that I knew that those cuts weren’t from the paw of a fuzzy creature. From that moment, at camp, we became friends. She was fourteen, three years older than me, and absolutely, undeniably the first girl I wanted. The shivers of graceless teenage adoration shot through me. Melissa, with her shaved head and sliced arms and torn jeans, is burned into my brain, leaving my head spinning with memories of tingling pubescent lust and confusion.
Check back this weekend for Part Two.