That Tingle by oceania

© 2001

My first recollections of pleasure, perhaps even my first memories were of laying in bed and rubbing myself. I couldn't have been more than 3 or 4 at the time. Momma would put brother and me down for an afternoon nap.

I couldn't sleep. I would try and get up, but Momma would yell and send me back to bed. Later she would exclaim that I was trouble, even at that age.

Reluctantly I would crawl back into bed and wait until brother fell asleep and then I would spread my legs and press my pussy lips together with my index and middle finger, slowly rubbing up and down, creating friction.

I loved how it felt, the tingling sensation, the shortness of breath. And some how too, I loved knowing that momma would not approve.

As I grew older, and the other children would be outside enjoying the sunshine. I would wrap myself in a sheet with my Barbie doll and watch television in a darken room. I loved watching shows with strong men and beautiful women, even Mighty Mouse made me tingle.

As soon as I could feel that sensation in my groin I would take my doll with her stiff legs and press them against my clitoris and rub hard. I would image that I was the maiden in distress tied up waiting to be rescued, but in my fantasies the rescuer would not come and I would be "forced" to be touched and played with until I would cry out. I lived for Saturday afternoons and that tingle.

Momma would often catch me in the act. She would wrinkle her brow, shake her head and say good girls don't do such things and beg me to go outside and enjoy the sunshine and the other children. Momma didn't understand.

As a pre-pubescent I found my father's collection of dirty books. My brothers were allowed to scan the pages of playboy just because they were boys. But because I was a girl this pleasure was denied me. Feeling rejected because my sex I would often hide in closets and cry. It was during one of these self pity parties that I discovered erotic stories.

High on shelf were several musty smelling books. A smell I still associate with sex. The pages were crumpled and dogged eared, covers torn off. I took the first book, opened it, read it. It was a story about the revolutionary war, Inside these pages Washington's troops were entertained by prostitutes following the camps. I gleamed through reading all the sexy parts, looking for pictures. There were few. I put the book back and picked up another. It was a collection of short sex stories. They were fast and easy to read and filled my mind with vivid images.

I knew then that I was addicted to words. Unlike my fantasies, or stolen glimpses of nude women, words made me incredibly hot. I didn't need to touch myself in order to feel that tingle. It was amazing to me the power they had. It still is.

Several times over the years I was caught reading these stories in my father's closet. Each time I was told good girls don't have these desires. Good Girls don't do these things.

But, I was a good girl. I listened to my parents, cleaned my room, made good grades. And I had these desires. How could they be wrong?

I talked to other girls about these feelings, but they thought I was strange and stayed away from me. Maybe they thought my thoughts were contagious. I talked to boys about these things and they thought I was easy and tried to get inside my panties.

I was confused between what I was told was right and what my body wanted to be right. I often found myself wishing I had been born a boy.

As I grew up, moved out of the house and had children of my own I was confronted by other confused adults. People that would laugh at porn, scream about the sins of the flesh and then turn right around and join the nastiest pay sites on the net. I learned about the porn zone and how people regulate themselves allotments of guilty pleasures. Sex in bite size pieces.

I am no less confused by the double standard now then I was then. In my own way I fight against this stupidity. Telling my children that the body is beautiful, that sex between consenting adults or with yourself is celebration of life and nothing to be ashamed of. And I thank what ever gift I was given at birth for a natural curiosity and stubborn streak that has over ridden the many objects I have encountered on the subject of masturbation.

And yes I still masturbate over words, relishing every moment.

~

oceania