My Clit Has Anxiety

Dragana Stepicby:

Love & SexRelationships

This is my secret thing. And I don’t all the way want forever to know about it because forever is what reads the internet. But who knows – maybe it’ll connect with a human and maybe that’s reason enough.

When I feel something awful, I feel it physically. I guess everyone does, right? You feel it in your heart, your stomach, right behind your eyes. And I do, too, but often my stress bone, my fear bone and my humiliation bone are all connected to my clit bone.

It wasn’t always that way. It used to be that the only bone connected to my clit bone was the arm of my couch bone.

One of my first memories is of my mom walking in as I pushed my crotch into the arm of our couch. “Mom!” I shouted with the excitement of great discovery, “When I go like this it feels like I have to pee!” I don’t really remember what her response was, but I think she told me that was great but it’s something I should do by myself when I’m alone. I hope that’s what she said, because I think that’s the right answer. That’s what sexual discovery should be. It should be a series of awesome realizations as you smash your tiny child genitals on furniture, with an understanding, knowledgeable, sex-positive adult nearby to explain what’s happening and teach you about self-respect, respect for others, and physical safety.

Source: Pinterest

The clarity and contentment of my genitals would only stay intact a little while longer. One afternoon, early fall or maybe it was spring, I went to a friend’s house — let’s call her Sam — and when I got there, she and another friend — we can call her Cindy — were upstairs with Sam’s brother. I don’t remember the walk upstairs. I don’t remember much of what happened after I got up there. I remember that Cindy’s long blonde hair was tied up in a red scrunchy, and she was wearing that purple and black striped shirt that I loved so much. The one with the ruffle on the bottom. I remember Sam saying they had a play they wanted to show me. I remember her brother pushing them on a bed. I remember that we were five-years-old, and he was 17.

As my mom remembers it, I came home from Sam’s and went right to sleep and didn’t talk for a while. And I didn’t sleep well after that. And I asked to go to a new school.

I repressed the memory of that sexual abuse, and when I became a victim again when I was 9 or 10, I did my best to repress that as well. But even though my brain wouldn’t acknowledge my abuse experiences for another decade, they worked their way inside of me … and inside of my junk.

My earliest sexual dreams involved me giving Hitler and Frankenstein sensual neck rubs so that they would not kill my family. I can still feel their prickly, sweaty necks. I remember what started as a plan to distract them from murder, ended up with me actually being turned on and too young to understand it.

Source: Pixabay

This sexual confusion got worse in 7th grade. I was taking a math test after I moved from a terrible school district to an excellent one. I had no motherfucking clue what these numbers and symbols meant and why they were together on a page and why Mr. McNeil was being such a dick and why did we move and everyone hates me and—

Oh great I have to pee SO bad. But wait … this is different than having to pee.

I went to the bathroom, which smelled like Pine-Sol and vanilla body spray. I sat there, and a little bit of hot urine that totally wasn’t ready to come out, did, but it didn’t help. The feeling took forever to subside. I didn’t know I needed to masturbate. Because I didn’t know what masturbating was. We had abstinence-only education.

I’m happy to say my first orgasm wasn’t during a math test, it was maybe a month or so later and it was just me and a body pillow emulating what we saw on “Emmanuelle in Space” — an ambiguously ethnic couple softcore humping while Emmanuelle hid and watched.

So not all of my wires were crossed, just some of them. But those crossed ones, the conflation of stress, pain and sex, got worse as I got older.

In high school, I occassionally napsturbated. That’s what I call it when you take a nap because the world is too much and you don’t know who your real friends are and your grades aren’t as good as your sister’s and you think Valerie is mad at you and you don’t know why — and you’re dreaming of something, but then you wake up coming aggressively hard, only to see your entire family is in the room watching “Malcolm in the Middle.”

Source: Pixabay

To this day I don’t know if I was physically touching myself in front of my parents, my sister, my dogs, and Frankie Muniz.

When my college boyfriend e-mailed me at four in the morning in August of 2006, to say that after doing some thinking he thought I should know he was over me and he made out with another girl, I crysterbated for the first time. I felt the pain in my stomach first, and then it was like humiliation was licking my pussy. The same thing has happened with each subsequent infidelity and personal betrayal I’ve suffered. With each new devastating detail, my vagina goes insane.

What’s worse is that this doesn’t just happen with personal stress and pain. It’s with everything — reading about violent crimes, watching Holocaust documentaries, simply being inside a Catholic church. Some fucked up part of me sends all of those signals of discomfort and fear and tragedy directly to my twat. I try just to go for a walk or ignore it. Because you DON’T want to be that girl who DeathCampsturbated to “Schindler’s List.”

This is really the only lingering effect of my abuse. I don’t feel shame or guilt over what was done to me, and I’ve forgiven the people who hurt me. I don’t really have nightmares about it anymore. I enjoy sex, I pursue it and I have fun with it, though I sometimes don’t want my partner to touch me in certain places or ways, but I’m good about communicating that. I did a great job of deciding that I was going to take ownership of sex and make it lovely and only do it on my terms when I’m comfortable. And I’m proud of that.

But my angsty little clitoris is as complicated as the mind of the girl she’s stuck to.

I had a stress dream awhile back: I had a job interview, but I was also appearing on “Saturday Night Live” that night — wait that’s in five minutes and suddenly I’m backstage, even though this is obviously Chicago’s Storefront Theatre the Conservatory and not “SNL.” Wait, it is “SNL”! And I’m talking to Lorne Michaels, but wait, I forget all my lines and the cue card guy died and fuck I have to masturbateI’m masturbating right there in front of Lorne Michaels on the stairs backstage, I am staring directly into Lorne Michaels’s eyes while I pants-off masturbate right in front of him, desperately trying to remember lines, and whoa whoa whoa I am coming like Jed Clampett just struck oil inside my vagina. I woke up and I masturbated again. Because I had to. Not because I wanted to.

And now you know my weird secret, my emotional deformity, my crossed wires, my fucked physiology. And you know what that does to me.

Source: Pixabay

Original by Julia Weiss

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