First Sexual Awakening

I was in the third grade when my first sexual awakening came. My clitoris just woke up one day and began to throb in my panties! It was a very distracting sensation that startled me. My first thought was that somebody must be thinking nasty thoughts about me. I believed I knew who was doing it, too. But how can you prove something like that? If I told on him, he would just say that I was crazy. It would be his word against mine. It seemed there was no choice but to ignore the miserable sensation while waiting and hoping and praying for it to go away.

After a few weeks of ignoring and enduring I became alarmed because the twitching continued to pester me at unexpected times. It felt like an invisible finger tapping on my clitoris instead of my shoulder, commanding my attention. The bizarre sensation felt similar to a tiny little spontaneous intermittent heart beat. Every once in a while my clitoris would suddenly wake up and start hopping about without any obvious reason. It might throb once or twice or several times, pause for a few seconds, and then start throbbing again. Everything would then go back to normal for a few hours or days before happening again.

The throb I speak of is a pulse. Try to imagine receiving morse code messages with your genitals. The sensation is reminiscent of that. When the insidious twitching subsides there is a lingering residual of feverish angst in my vagina. It is very troublesome in the same way that having an itch in a place where you aren’t able to reach and scratch is. The twitch came and went for several weeks. Eventually I began to worry that I might have an infection, but there was no way I was ever going to tell my mother about it because she would have taken me to the doctor. And I would have rather died than let that bald-headed old man who delivered me when I was born take a look around down there.

The sensation was annoying and seemed to have mind of it’s own. I knew all about mating and giving birth, but I was still too young to be interested in boys. Sex was the last thing on my mind. It was unrelated to going to the bathroom. And it often happened at the oddest most inconvenient times, like when I was sitting in church, or helping my Grandmother wash dishes, or watching Lassie Come Home on TV. The sensation was terribly distracting and riveted my attention away from whatever I was doing causing me to worry and wonder what was happening.

If penises go crazy like that when men see beautiful women, it would certainly explain why patriarchal countries have passed laws prohibiting women from being seen. But the sensation I kept feeling had nothing to do with me being attracted to the opposite sex. In fact it was quite the contrary. I still hated boys. And I especially resented the man that I believed was responsible for making my clitoris twitch. Even though I did not yet have the words to describe it, the sensation felt like a violation. Today I call it energetic rape.

Desperate matters require desperate measures. My gut instinct was screaming that someone was making my clitoris twitch by thinking nasty thoughts about me. Hoping I was wrong about that and the odd twitching sensation might be an infection that could be easily cured, I decided to take matters into my own hands, so to speak, and wash myself really good down there. My intention was to wash the germs away and make the twitching stop, or at least diminish the intensity of the feeling as much as possible to make it less unpleasant. Never having paid much close attention to my clitoris before, the result was quite astounding.

The first thing I noticed was how sensitive my clitoris was. To touch it directly without great painstaking care would have been excruciating. For some reason direct stimulation conjured up thoughts of being cut with a razor blade for me. But if I just very gently tugged, jiggled, or pulled on the little fold of skin that was hooding and protecting my clitoris, the clitoral nerve underneath it felt exquisite. Noticing that it was possible to intensify the glorious sensation by holding my breath, I was certain something extremely pleasurable would result in tremendous full body relief and stop the twitch if I could just hold my breath and keep washing long enough. But I was afraid that I might accidentally suffocate myself and die, so I was afraid to try.

Yet my heart knew there was something in it for me. If only I could find the courage, and figure out how to do it exactly right. My mother used to have trouble getting me to take a bath. Although she kept the bathroom supplied with Mr. Bubble to make bath time more enticing, I still asserted that I wasn’t dirty when it came time to clean up. Now she couldn’t get me out of the bath tub. And I made sure she knew about it when the Mr. Bubble bottle was getting low. Bathing became an orgasmic meditation ritual for me as I sought relief from the misery that plagued me.

Someone wrote “fuck” on our schoolroom door that year. Nobody was willing to confess, so the teacher held an inquisition. Under threat of “no more recess for the entire rest of the school year” everybody started pointing fingers at who they thought had done it. Speculation narrowed the inquest down to Ricky or Rodney. Neither was willing to rat on the other, so they were both held accountable and the principle was called in to administer licks in front of the class. Ricky and Rodney were instructed to bend over and hold on to their ankles while getting paddled so hard they cried. It was hard to watch.

A few days later, undaunted by torture, Ricky bravely told a dirty joke while the teacher was out of the class room. Everybody else laughed, but I didn’t get it. What was so funny about how good it feels if a girl loses control and pees all over the guy when he’s coming? I guessed you had to know what coming was. But I didn’t want to reveal my ignorance by asking. The only place I had ever heard the word before was in church when the preacher was talking about Jesus coming in the clouds. I didn’t realize there were two kinds of coming and one was spelled c-u-m-m-i-n-g. All I knew was that people are supposed to disappear in the twinkling of an eye when Jesus comes. It is a rapturous event. And those who disappear go to heaven.

It certainly felt like the rapture was about to happen between my legs when I washed the hood of my clitoris. But Jesus was the one who was supposed to come up in the clouds, not me. Committing sin by touching myself and trying to relieve the twitch was a terrible burden to bear. I wondered if all the people going up in the rapture were dying from holding their breath while waiting for Jesus to come? What would I tell Saint Peter at the pearly gates if I died trying to make my twitch go away? Would he let me in or send me straight to hell? Tormented and terrified, yet determined to try anything that might give my crotch some relief, I wasn’t sure if I could ever find the courage to make myself come like Jesus. If it hadn’t been for the advice of Patsy’s pediatrician, I probably never would have.

Patsy was my mother’s best friend and hair dresser. She had two sons who were both younger than me. I over heard her talking to my mother about a problem that she was having with her children. Donny and Dicky like to play dizzy games. They liked to twirl around until they got dizzy. And they would hold their breath until they got dizzy too. Pasty kept telling them to stop but they wouldn’t listen. So she called their pediatrician and asked him for advice because she was afraid the children were going to hurt themselves. The pediatrician said not to worry. The worst thing that can happen to kids who play dizzy games is they might get a few bruises or a broken bone if they fall down. A lot of kids like to make themselves dizzy. It isn’t possible to commit suicide or give yourself brain damage by holding your breath because you will faint and your body will begin breathing involuntarily just as soon as you lose consciousness. That piece of information is all I needed to find the courage I needed. Eager for Patsy and her family to leave so I could take a bath, “When are you going home?” I asked. Mother was shocked, “Don’t be rude!” She exclaimed.

Later that evening I poured two capfuls of Mr. Bubble in the tub, ran a very shallow warm bath, and buried my body in bubbles. I took the longest deepest breath I could possibly hold because I had noticed before that the more air I was holding in my lungs, the more pleasure I could feel in my crotch. It was the first time I had ever enjoyed washing my clitoris without any fear of dying. I closed my eyes tightly and held my breath. Determined not to stop and take another breath until I felt the rapture, I was going for a full body release from the energetic tension that was causing my clitoris to twitch and leaving my crotch in misery.

Relief came in waves of pleasure that emanated out of my clitoris. The tremendous pleasure did not last as long as I'd hoped. Nor did it encompass my whole body. For a moment I panicked and was afraid to open my eyes after the orgasmic bliss subsided. What if I had gone up in the rapture? How would I explain what happened if this was my judgement day? Temporarily relieved of my fear by the sound of pots and pans banging in the kitchen, my mind immediately found something else to worry about.

“What if an orgasm changes the way people look?” I wondered. My mother was calling me to come out of the bathroom and help wash the dishes. I was afraid to let her see me. I jumped out of the bath tub and looked in the mirror. The blue part of my eyes had dark rings around them. I had never noticed that before. “Wedding rings!” I thought to myself. “I’m married to Christ now! What if that is how the virgin Mary got pregnant with baby Jesus? What will I say to Mother if it turns out I am going to have a baby?” I came out of the bathroom terrified that she would be able to see it in my eyes, but she didn’t seem to notice.

I thoughtfully washed the dishes without any protest that night and went to bed early without being told. Standing in front of the mirror examining myself from head to toe, I pondered what had happened that night. I had sinned and given myself an orgasm instead of saving myself for marriage. I had an orgasm with my finger instead of letting my husband do it for me with his penis. Penises are a whole lot bigger than fingers. Maybe that is why the good feeling only emanated into my belly and thighs instead of filling up my whole body. It would have been worth it to get rid of that pesky clitoral twitch. But the next day I could feel it again. Maybe if I sinned no more my husband could make the twitch go away on our honeymoon.

Every day I examined my belly to see if it was growing. A few months later it still looked the same, so I stopped worrying about being pregnant. Memories of the marvelous feeling that let me down by limiting it’s reaches beckoned me to try again. Perhaps I didn’t hold my breath long enough. I told myself I needed to practice so I would be an experienced and knowledgable wife on my honeymoon. I knew there had to be some way to make that annoying twitch go away permanently, if I were to get married and have sex with my husband.

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