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From Sex To Celibacy.

As far as I know my sex life started when I was around four years old.  If it began earlier than that I don’t remember it.  The issue of whether to write details of what happened to me back then is a sore point.  Those who do such things to children like to read about such things being done to children as well.  I am not keen on the idea of being used as porn so I think I will keep the details to myself.

I am expecting to have to write about this subject more than once as there are many things to say about it.  My resolve to write neat descriptions of each blog entry for people who get the feed means I need my entries to be clean and contain one, perhaps two, main themes.

For that reason I will look at the whole picture in this entry.  It will be an overview of how my sex life went from too much sex to none at all.  In other entries I will examine these experiences from specific angles including psychological development, religion and a parenting perspective addressing the role of fathers in the development of their daughters sexuality.

This, however, is the basic overview of my sex life to date.

Please believe me when I say there will be no explicit details of any kind so, if that is what you are hoping for, try somewhere else.

As I mentioned earlier, I was about four the first time someone decided I would make a good sex partner.  He was babysitting me and he was a relative.  He was neither vicious nor violent but, nevertheless, I repressed some of the memories of what he did until just a year or two ago.  As a child, I was confused, I didn’t understand how such an unpleasant experience had happened when all I had wanted was a cuddle and some attention.

Subsequent attempts to get a cuddle and some attention from males in my life had hit and miss results.  Most times I was ignored, rarely I was hugged, sometimes I was molested.  As I got older the experiences got nastier.  The molesters began to accuse me of asking for what they were doing to me.  I developed the belief that, either men were really stupid, or I was really bad at communicating with them.  Somewhere along the line I also came to the conclusion I was, in fact, asking for sex because sex and love were actually just two words for the same thing.

By the time I got to my teens I had experienced more sexual activity than innocent hugs from men and had come to accept males just could not interact with me unless sex was involved.

Because there was no love available to me I measured my value as a human being through sex.  The one thing I was good at was getting any man I wanted.  The only power I had in life was the power to control men through their sex-drive.

There was no man who would not do just about anything to get his hands on my body or that was how it seemed to me.  They would break the law, lie, steal, cheat, beg, pant, and roll over and all I had to do was flash the flesh and look at them.  Sometimes I didn’t even have to do that much.  Several times they took it by force and, in one instance, by group force.

My contempt for men became a bottomless pit from which anger would flare every now and then.

Why did they have to be such slaves to their penises?  Why was it not possible to relate to them as human beings?  Why did they make it so impossible to trust them, believe in them, or rely on them?

I wanted to be able to respect men, to love and be loved, to trust but it seemed as if the blood that created an erection came directly from a man’s brain.  With no blood supply to his brain he temporarily turned into a dribbling, zero IQ, imbecilic moron.

The flip side of my contempt for men was anger and hatred.

All the power I had over a man disappeared once he had satisfied his lust.  Once they had got what they wanted from me they discarded me.  If I did not give it willingly they would take it and then discard me.  It didn’t seem fair.

Somewhere along the line I also developed a massive hatred for myself.

I could get any man into bed but that was all I could get from him.  Other girls could get a man to love them but not me.  I could use men but nowhere near as thoroughly as they used me.  I had to get their co-operation to be able to use them.  They did not always bother to get mine.

I suspected the truth was there was just something terribly wrong with me.  Some flaw that made it impossible for any man to care about me let alone love me.

I hated myself for lacking whatever it was that would have made me lovable.  I hated myself even more for having too much of whatever it was that aroused men and made them want to use and hurt me.

By the time I gave birth to my son I had given up on men.  The man who could love me did not exist so I decided to raise one myself.

I remember thinking my son would have had a father if only I had not been the one to conceive him.  I was convinced if any other woman had conceived him his father would never have left.

Never underestimate the power childhood abuse has to twist a person’s view of the world and cripple their ability to think clearly!

When the father of my son offered to marry me I barely heard him and I certainly didn’t think for one second he was serious.  He was trying to pull my leg but I wasn’t fooled so I laughed at him.  I told him he did not want to marry me and I didn’t want to marry him.  I said I thought it would be best for our child if he had no father.  I said no father at all was better than a bad one or one who came and went the way my step-father had come and gone from my life.  I told my son’s father to go away.

Needless to say, he did as he was asked and vanished from our lives.  I saw that as proof he had never cared.  I felt I had saved my son the anguish of losing his father later on when, like all men, he would have tired of me and discarded me.

After my son was born I still craved love.  I still needed hugs.  I still wanted attention.  I looked for it all in one night stands and brief relationships.  I expected nothing but sex, I offered nothing but sex, and every encounter left me more convinced I would never be loved.

Looking back there are several men who would read this and protest.  They would say they loved me.  Genuinely loved me.  There are men who would say I broke their hearts.  I believe, now, I did break hearts.  I believe there were men who meant it when they told me they loved me.  Men who were serious when they asked me to marry them.  Men whose tears when I walked out the door were real.

Sadly for them, and me, I wasn’t able to tell the difference between love and sex.  Nobody had ever taught me what the difference was or even that there might actually BE a difference.  The minute I had sex with a man I assumed the usual thing would happen – he would discard me after use.  More often than not I would discard him first to avoid the pain of being discarded.

Into this situation came my son.  A male.  The results were not pretty!

He was supposed to be one male I could believe would love me without sex rearing its ugly head but my ability to think had been twisted by abuse.  I believed the accusations that I had asked for what my abusers did to me.  I did not know a male erection can be caused by a full bladder so I believed even my son was reacting to whatever it was about me that turned men on and made me impossible to love.

My anger over my baby sons “attraction” to me knew no bounds.  My pain became unbearable.  It drove me out onto the streets late at night.  I prowled dark lanes and parks hoping someone would attack me and try to rape me.  I wanted to die and I wanted to take someone with me.  I wanted to sink my teeth into the thing I hated most in the world and turn it into a chewed up pile of minced meat.  I wanted to ram my fingers deep into a mans eyes and tear his face off.  I fantasized about torturing and maiming every man I saw.  I craved blood – male blood.

I slapped and pushed, shoved and spat, screamed and hissed at my son like the demented wild thing I was during those black days but I never left one single mark on his body.  I never once uttered the words, not even in a whisper, “I hate you”.  I am VERY proud of myself for that!  I do know the only reason I did not do those things was because I did not blame him for being turned on by me – I blamed me.  I hated ME.

So there I was, at the bottom of the blackest of black holes and no way out.  On the other hand I knew I couldn’t stay there.  It was too dangerous for my son.  That was when God came into my life at my invitation.

The first thing that happened, of course, was the biblical command against fornication.  I had to try and not have sex again until I was married!

What a fiasco that was!

I craved love, I needed affection, I wanted attention and there was only one way I knew of to get those things.  Now, on top of all the other crap I was dealing with, I had to try and stop having sex!

I couldn’t do it.  The best I could manage was to avoid dumping the next man who didn’t go away after I slept with him.  He would dump me, of course, sooner or later but I figured God would not be as mad at me for sleeping with one man as he would be if I slept with many.  I gritted my teeth in preparation for the pain of being dumped and waited.

God sent me a fairly rare specimen of the male race in Bloke (not his real name).  Bloke had been raised in a family that taught him only a coward would raise a finger against a woman.  Bloke was the most patient man I have ever met and he really loved children.

Bloke had an ex-girlfriend who was, I think, the product of an unholy union between a witch and a demon.  She regularly broke into my flat and attacked bloke physically.  She bit him, she scratched him, she abused him dreadfully and he never so much as yelled at her!

One night she broke in after we had gone to bed.  Bloke was naked and she went for the family jewels.  Bloke restrained her but not before she drew blood.  He sent her on her way, again, without so much as raising his voice to her.

Her activities this time had upset my son more than ever before.  He saw the whole thing and had been screaming the whole time.  It took ages to settle him down because he was so upset at the sight of blood between blokes legs and on his chest and face.

I told Bloke this could never happen again.  It was not fair to my son.  Bloke agreed.  He said the only way to prevent it was for him to stop sleeping with me until his ex stopped caring.  I thought Bloke was joking.  I thought he would not be able to do any such thing.

Bloke stopped sleeping with me, for my son’s sake, for six months!  Bloke did not find that an easy thing to do.  I made sure of that.  I tested him constantly because I simply could not believe any man could control his sex-drive merely to protect a little boy who was not even his own son.

Bloke took to avoiding being with me after my son went to sleep for fear he would give in to temptation and his ex would find out and start on us again.

After six months his ex found someone new and we picked up where we had left off but I would never be the same again.  I had seen it with my own eyes.  There actually was at least one man in the world who could, and would, control his sex-drive for the sake of a child.

Bloke swore he loved me.  He said he wanted to marry me.  He promised to love me and my son forever.  I believed he loved my son.  I could not believe he loved me.  In my heart I knew there must be something terribly wrong with Bloke because why else would he think he loved me?

I eventually dumped Bloke because my son loved him too much and I was afraid of what it would do to my son when Bloke left us.

When I met another emotionally crippled woman, one with two young daughters, I hooked her up with Bloke.  I had a sneaking suspicion her daughters would thank me for it if I inserted Bloke into their lives.

They fell for each other.  I knew they would.  If Bloke could love me he could love anyone and she needed a gentle man.  She hated herself for abusing her daughters.  She was thinner and prettier than me and a much better housekeeper.  I knew she would abuse him instead of her girls and he would tolerate everything she dished out.

I was right.  They were happy.  The only thing he put his foot down about was her abusing the girls.  She happily accepted that.  She respected him for it.  Her two girls swiftly came to worship the ground he walked on and the last I heard the arrival of his own son just made them all even happier.

It never occurred to me to wonder why I was so certain Bloke would never let those two little girls down or leave their mother when I knew he could never be faithful to me.

For me, it was back to one night stands, as few of them as I could get by on.  I couldn’t run the risk of my son suffering the pain of losing another father figure so I brought them in after he was asleep and I made them leave before he woke up.

He still met them occasionally.  When they returned the next day because they were not aware their entry ticket was only good for one night.  I would give them coffee and send them away.  I noticed only that they didn’t seem to care about my child.

Then disaster struck.  I got pregnant to one of them.  I knew who the father was because, in deference to my Christian beliefs, I was trying not to sleep around.  I tended to cave in to my needs only about every other month – usually just before my period was due.

When I found out I was pregnant I thought it was only fair to let the father know.  I was not asking for anything from him – I was simply telling him something I thought he had a right to know.  Suddenly people started coming up to me in the street to tell me he was furious with me.

I hadn’t seen the man since I went to him in the pub and told him the news but he was telling the whole town I was a liar and a slut.  It turned out he had a girlfriend when he slept with me and he told her I was lying about sleeping with him because I wanted to break them up.  She bailed me up in public and promised to make my life hell if I continued to claim the child was his.

I put an end to the whole mess by having an abortion.  I met the father of my next child while I was in hospital waiting to have the abortion.

After the abortion I ran into the girlfriend on the street again and, again, she came after me with threats.  I told her to put a sock in it because there was no baby any more.  She asked me why.  I was angry with her.  I was angry with everyone who had played a part in my decision to abort my child.  I snarled at her that I had killed my baby to shut everyone, including her, up.  I said I hoped she was happy with herself because the only way I could stop saying her boyfriend was the father was to kill the child.  She looked shocked.  She said she never meant for me to do that.  I started crying and told her it was better this way.  I said it would not have been fair to bring the baby into a world where its father was a liar and he had convinced everyone in town its mother was a cheap, lying, slut.

As things turned out, while I was hooking up with the father of my next child, the father of my last one was losing the girlfriend he sacrificed his child to keep.  I gather she didn’t bother to tell him anything except goodbye because he sidled up to me some weeks later while I was with my new friend.  He was, at that stage, only a friend.

Liar seemed to think he had some sort of right to demand I leave my date and talk to him.  I did not agree and I told him so.  He made a scene.  “We have to talk.  We need to decide what we are going to do about our baby.”  He smirked at my new man as he said it.  A sort of, sorry mate but I was here first, smirk.  My date didn’t blink.  He knew the whole story.  He later bent over backwards to make certain I did not think for one second he thought I was lying when I said I was having HIS baby.

I snapped at my dead baby’s father.  I informed him his child no longer existed.  He looked as if I had punched him.  He looked hurt.  He asked me why.  I told him what his lies had cost his child.  He looked sick.  I did not care but I was surprised that he seemed so upset.

I kept my legs closed for some time after all that.  It occurred to me God might have some good reasons for wanting me to stop fornicating.  My new friend did not seem all that worried about sex.  He worked in the oil field and was away for a month, in town only a few days, then back to work.  He was more interested in having a companion to go out to dinner, go for drives or generally hang out with.

The first thing I noticed was how well he listened to me.  He never seemed to be bored or want to talk about himself.  The only thing that could take his attention from me was my son.  The only time he seemed annoyed or unhappy with me was when I ignored, or was unkind, to my son.

My new friend expressed no interest at all in having sex with me.  His main interest seemed to be in getting me to agree to do things where he could spend time with my son.  I instantly suspected him of being a child molester and went on guard.  Once I satisfied myself he was not trying to be alone with my son, ever, I relaxed and set out to get him into bed with me.

I succeeded, of course, but nothing changed.  He continued to come around, continued to listen to me, continued to seem to care about my son.  He did not, and I knew it, love me.  He did, as expected, dump me for someone else.  He cheated on her too, with me, but he did not try to deny his child when I conceived her.

He deserted us, of course, but I stayed faithful to him.  I believed God was going to make him come back and marry me.  When our daughter was almost two years old God did send him back and he did marry me.  He even said he loved me.  I did not believe he loved me, not really, but I did believe he loved my children.  I did believe he would never leave me again.

That was when I discovered a different side to sex.  However flawed the love may have been there was an element of trust between us I had never felt before and it made a whole world of difference to sex.

Suddenly I realised I had been getting nothing, not even a poor cheap imitation of love, from all those one night stands.  I regretted every single night I had wasted apart from the ones that had produced my son and my daughter.

The more I grew, learned, changed the more self-esteem I developed.  The more self-esteem I had the more clearly I saw what damage I had done to myself by giving myself away so cheap.

One day it dawned on me.

I would never give a strange man the keys to my house or car so why had I been so quick to hand over my body?  Surely my body, the thing I would have to live inside of for the whole of my life, was more valuable than some car or house?  If I give a man the keys to my house and he steals everything in it then burns it down I will be able, eventually, to replace it all.  The same goes for a car.

Where will I get a new body from if some man burns it to the ground with AIDS or damages it in some other way?

How can I feel good about myself if I act like I am worth less than a cheap second hand car???

Life continued.  My divorce came and went.  I gave my body away cheap to a young man so he could take the place of my husband as the last man to touch me.  He cared about me so the sex was pretty good but we were not in love so it was not good enough.

After my revenge sex, the sex I had to remove my ex husbands stamp of possession from me, I swore off sex.  I needed to heal from the divorce not rush into another man’s arms.  Once I was ready to consider sex again I was not willing to settle for bad sex.  I’ve had my fill of empty sex.  Empty sex is bad sex – it’s got no depth to it.  It’s like comparing a puddle to an ocean.

I’m not interested in sharing my body with anyone I would not be willing to give the keys to my cheap little three thousand dollar car, or the keys to my rented flat, to.

The longer I go without sex the less trouble my sex-drive gives me.  Sex is an appetite just like any other.  If you go without food for long enough you cease being hungry.  Just look at any anorexia victim if you don’t believe that.  The less they eat the less they want to eat.

They will only get their appetite back if they eat enough food to bring their body back to normal.

I will only get my sex-drive back if I indulge in sexual activities and I am happy to go without sex now for as long as it takes to ensure if I ever do have sex again it will be worth the effort.

I know the difference between sex and love now.  I know sex without love is like wetting your feet in a puddle when you are hot and what you really want is a swim.  Wet feet may cool you briefly but you will need to do it again and again and again to keep the heat at bay.  The contrast between cool feet and the rest of you just makes the longing for a swim intensify.

I’m celibate by choice now.  I have yet to find a man with enough depth to him to allow me to swim.  The one man I thought might be right for me disappeared before I could even paddle six years ago.

If he came back I suspect I would consider a paddle but I’m not sure I would do it.  I would really prefer to swim or stay dry!

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