I know, I know, I’m a victim. It wasn’t my fault. Blah blah blah. But it was my hand that reached between my legs. It was me, myself and I alone in my bedroom at night. It was me that molested myself day in and day out. Was I the only one? No. But I also had a very literal hand in it, and on it. 

My problem doesn’t lie in not accepting the abuse, my problem lies with my own participation. Yes, I was a child only doing what any child would do when exposed to such things. But I still feel ashamed of it. I’ve always felt ashamed.

I was eight years old…

I was eight years old…

I was eight…

When I first remember being exposed to porn, I was eight years old. It was skinamax, so pretty tame in the grand scheme of things. Nonetheless enough to pique my curiosity. Later that evening, I sat on the side of my bed. I was wearing nothing but a fur coat, attempting to recreate the scene from the television.

I don’t know where it went from there. I know it wasn’t until I was eleven or twelve that I had my first orgasm. By this time I had discovered the stash of magazines in the bathroom, the images on our computer and American Pie (the first one). The sexual components were exciting. 

It wasn’t until I was 13 or 14 that I snuck one of the VHS tapes and kept it in my room. I had a small tv with the VCR built in. It became my after school ritual. It made me feel better and helped distract from the stress of home. 

My mom caught me around this same time. That and she found some lewd images and conversations with one of my friends on AIM instant messenger. I was grounded. But “not for what I caught you doing”, rather the profanity I used in my messaging. I was already so embarrassed, so it cut me to my core to overhear her telling my aunt. The shame and embarrassment I felt filled my body with a fire that never went out. 

Fast forward a few years, my mother took me to a sex toy party. I had just turned eighteen and was dating someone and having sex. I remember my dad finding out about the party and my purchase. He made a big scene about it. She tried to defend her decision and I left the house. I left to meet my boyfriend on his lunch break, vibrator in tow. 

The shame has been around so long I don’t know what it feels like to be free of it. It’s almost as old as I am. Even at eight years old I felt what I was doing was shameful. But it quickly became a compulsion and I used it for the good feeling. 

It was my first drug, one that still remains in my back pocket for those ultra sad days or when those abandonment feelings creep in. It grew from a little girls compulsion to full blown hypersexuality. And now I’m left with questions. 

Can the shame and guilt of hypersexuality be fully released? Is my hypersexuality something I’m okay living with? And if so, can it exist within a healthy romantic relationship?