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Published March 24, 2013 1:00AM (EDT)
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Adolescents
Editor's Picks
Life Stories
Love And Sex
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Sexual Abuse
Teenagers
Names and identifying details have been changed.
Over the years, I have called it an "inappropriate relationship." I have called it "an incident with an older man." Most frequently, I have called it "the thing that happened that summer." As in -- remember the thing that happened that summer?
I never called it sexual abuse, because it felt like an overly dramatic Oprah-ization of what happened. The word "abuse" seems to imply victimization and has always made me uncomfortable in this instance. Until now, I have been far too politicized to admit the chief reason I never called it sexual abuse in spite of the fact that it would be considered as much from both a criminal and a clinical perspective. The real reason is because I believed I asked for it.
The summer I turned 12, I went to sleepaway camp. I shaved my legs for the first time, dumped Sun-In in my hair and tanned with baby oil. I had my first boyfriend -- a skinny, freckly arrogant kid a year my senior who took me for two paddle boat rides and then broke up with me, declaring me a prude and, I was sure, ruining my romantic life forever.
I turned from real life to fantasy, and eschewed the hazardous boys my own age in favor of a secret crush on Nathan, the 20-year-old swimming counselor. Nathan was sarcastic and slouchy and unusually stylish for a camp full of spoiled East Coast Jewish kids. His dyed black hair spilled over one eye and he wore his shorts low on his hips. Trumping all, he was from New York City, mecca of all things wild and wonderful. I spent countless hours imagining myself into a future in which I strolled through Washington Square Park with Nathan, preferably on a fall day in between college classes.
Nathan didn’t quite fit in and there were all kinds of rumors circulating about him. He was bisexual; he was friendly with Morrissey; he was a model for the United Colors of Benetton. I, too, felt like an outsider, never able to summon the same gung-ho camp spirit as the other girls. I imagined Nathan understood me in some fundamental way, he just didn’t know it yet.
One morning in the chilly lake, Nathan swam up behind me to correct my stroke and an electrical charge passed between us that was unlike anything I had ever felt before. My whole chest seemed to tighten around it. I was flooded with the exquisite realization that I was not alone in my desire. After that, my crush flowered into something more raw and persistent. I plotted and preened and placed myself in his eyeline at every possible moment. I gave myself asthma attacks and stomachaches with the anxiety of it all.
This went on for weeks before I finally found the courage to seek him out alone. I was asking for it, to be sure, but what exactly was I asking for? I wanted to kiss him; I thought about it constantly. But ultimately, I was asking to be loved, without grasping the possible manifestations that love might take.
The night I snuck out to see him, I slept carefully on my hair, set my alarm clock under my pillow and stationed my white Keds at the ready by my bedside. It was a long walk across camp and the darkness outside my flashlight beam seemed alive and threatening. I was covered in a cold sweat when I arrived. Nathan’s bunk smelled like feet and mold and was strewn with the detritus of the 8-year-old boys for whom he was a counselor. I tread silently, aware that the stakes were very different than those of any of my previous transgressions.
I found his bed and stood over him, trembling with adrenaline. What if he sent me away? What if he didn’t? Finally, I reached out and touched his bare shoulder. When he opened his eyes, he didn’t seem surprised at all. A bright moon hung in the frame of the window behind him and he was only a silhouette when he cradled my face in his hands and leaned in to kiss me. I closed my eyes and tried to memorize it, figuring that it was my first real kiss and I would want to remember it someday. When his breath started to get ragged, he whispered in my ear, “Do you even know how I feel when I have to look at you running around in your shorts all day long. You're so pretty and I can’t even tell anyone. Do you even know what you do to me?”
I didn’t know what to say. Of course I didn’t know. How could I have known?
Over the next couple of weeks I went see him every night until I was exhausted and confused. I wanted it to stop and I wanted it never to stop. Eventually we were caught and he got fired. I found myself crumpled in a chair in front of the camp director’s desk, bombarded with impossible questions like, “What were you thinking?”
The director responded, “You’re 12 years old, you don’t know what love is.”
Which is foolish, of course. I’m a grown woman now and I can say without reservation that I did. I loved him truly and with all the audacity of youth, which is to say with absolutely no sense of consequences.
I don’t remember it with anger. I still remember the initial deliciousness of getting what I wanted, of feeling truly desired for the first time, and in such a transgressive and erotically charged way. And yet, upon closer inspection, I’m not sure I asked for "it" exactly. I was just asking for my longing to be answered, for the suffering to be relieved. I asked with all of the need and chaos of a burgeoning sexuality I did not yet understand.
At the website of the Department of Health and Human Services, one of the qualifiers for the clinical definition of sexual abuse is a “knowledge differential.” It states, “An act is considered abusive when one party (the offender) has a more sophisticated understanding of the significance and implication of the sexual encounter.” This is certainly true about my "inappropriate relationship," my "incident with an older guy."
Whether or not I feel comfortable identifying as a victim, I acknowledge the profound and lasting impact that my relationship with Nathan had on my life. My first kiss was not about pleasure but about power and for a long time those two things became indistinguishable. I learned to trade sex for affection. This was a dangerous lesson for a young girl, and I believe one that ultimately kept me from deriving much authentic pleasure from my body for a long time. And while it would be too reductive to say that this led me to spend a number of years as a sex worker, I do believe that it was an ingredient in the mix.
Furthermore, when it all came to light, I learned that my parents and others in authority positions concurred that the incident had been, at least partially, my fault. I learned what kind of girl I was: I was a boundary-pusher, a rule-breaker, a girl who was always in trouble. This was what happened to girls like me. When the incident at camp somehow managed to make it to the gossip mill at my school, I immediately went from a girl who had never been kissed to a notorious slut.
I wonder what I would have learned from not getting what I asked for. Would I have learned that there are other things about me as valuable and compelling as my sexuality? Would I have learned that some men are trustworthy? Would I have had more options than the ones available to "that kind of girl"?
I recently spent an afternoon at the beach with a friend and her 12-year-old daughter. I noted the sharp lines of the daughter’s body (perfection, by our media’s standards), so like my own at that age. She was dazzling and precious and still unaware of the ruckus she was causing among the male onlookers. I realized that regardless of what this girl asked for, if someone eight years her senior touched her, I would unreservedly call it sexual abuse. In that case my politics and my emotions would have no quarrel at all.
So that is what I will call it. Feelings around abusive dynamics are often complex and ambiguous, but that doesn’t lessen the impact in the lives of the victims. I was abused. And I liked it, some of the time. I loved him, certainly. But that doesn’t change the fact that I have lived with it for the rest of my life and I couldn’t possibly have foreseen the extent of the reverberations. That is meant to be the job of the adults in the equation.
Jillian Lauren is the author of the new memoir "Everything You Ever Wanted" about adopting her son from Ethiopia. You can find her on Twitter @jillylauren.
Copyright © 2022 Salon.com, LLC. Reproduction of material from any Salon pages without written permission is strictly prohibited. SALON ® is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office as a trademark of Salon.com, LLC. Associated Press articles: Copyright © 2016 The Associated Press. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
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Literotica: 5 websites to quench your online erotica thirst
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Websites like Literotica to get you hot and bothered. (Pexels)
Literotica, and other sites like it, will fill your evenings with erotic passion.
Imagine this: You’re at home and in the mood for some sexual mischief with erotica.
Except you’re alone under the covers and you don’t quite know how to satisfy those urges.
You’ve tried a couple of sites already, but it’s just not doing it for you this time. Sure, the internet has trillions of options when it comes to sexual fantasies, but it’s easy to get lost in the mix.
Without realising, you end up scrolling through the pages of Google for hours but, much like Bono, you still can’t find what you’re looking for.
Let’s consider something new, something exciting, something that will bring us that oh-so-personal release.
Videos are fun, but you’ve been there done that and it might be time to switch things up. Why not try to titillate your mind with some words instead of images? Rather than seeing the hairy butts of ageing actors, why not imagine your own, fictitious, perfect bottom?
Well, consider this our gift to you: A shortcut to the wonderful and inventive world of online erotica, where imagination is your only restrain (unless you’re into bondage, of course). This selection of erotica sites will hopefully save you some precious minutes next time you’re bored of Pornhub, YouPorn or GayForIt.
It is the place for free erotic fiction, and there are many websites that you can go to.
Needless to say these steamy reads are for 18+ only. Underaged readers need not apply.
When it comes to online erotica, Literotica is a titan of the genre – the clue is literally in the name. It leads the field like a Russian dominatrix, offering thousands of erotic stories with hundreds of tags that explore every sexual fantasy.
From vanilla to hardcore BDSM to everything in-between, we guarantee you’ll find something to float your boat to completion. It even has audiobooks for those who’d rather lie back and relax.
One of the most popular genre tags of this site is actually literotica cheating in which there’s an erotic story about cheating partners. Some people have some naught fantasies, it seems. No judgements here.
Literotica lesbian and Literotica gay erotica are also very popular on the site. There are many Literotica tags to pick from.
Of course, if you want some fiction erotica that caters to the LGBT+ community, PinkNews has you covered too, pals. Just head over to Nifty for some hot gay, lesbian, bi and plus action . With 23,000-plus stories, we guarantee it’ll leave your little gay heart satisfied. You won’t be disappointed with Nifty .
Bright Desire also features a wide range of free sex stories open to everyone, with a focus on what often missing in porn : the fun of it all. Not only is Bright Desire sex-positive, but it also offers videos and erotic stories that are all about passion, intimacy and straight up pleasure.
Much like Literotica, Lush Stories is a leader of the genre. Ghost sex? Check. Sex through portals? Check. Watersports sex? Check and check. Sexy ghosts playing water polo?
Probably. With 51,018 stories and counting, plus some 198,898 blog posts and 3,041,349 forum posts, we’d be surprised if you don’t find something that toasts your buns on there. Lush Stories works as a social network, too, giving you the chance to connect with other readers and maybe write your own stories.
Celebs you didn’t know have an LGBT sibling
Slightly differing from Literotica, this next website Sssh is operated by women for women—and we’re not complaining. It counts thousands of erotic stories, as well as sexy sex education articles so that you know the best way to do you.
Looking for something a little bit more refined? Erotic Review actually has editors that make sure you only read the best erotic stories out there. No typos or poor grammar here. It’ll satisfy your inner nitpicker and the most high-brow of your fantasies.
Have fun reading the erotic literature, my darlings. Happy Reading!
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Sleeping With My Sisters
By Adele Slaughter
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Nights we all piled into the same double bed.
Five girls, a huddled mass of elbows and rear ends.
Each one massaging, scratching, begging
another to rub her back.
The little two got crammed in between
our arm pits, honeysuckle on the vine.
All those girls and I was the biggest,
the one that took everything first,
even stepped on a rusty nail
saving my sisters the shot, the infection.
Mary fought me—
a sister with more hip and bigger breasts.
She was choppy: red cut curls, round stormy eyes.
Her nails bitten, not any moon showing.
Contrary, a curl, so proud of being so very good
and so very bad.
Sister—dark and wild.
Her hips are wide and spread easily
but tight like a wet wish bone
she opens to let men in.
They only get one wish
which they can’t tell.
She was like humid weather,
something I learned to endure.
Her temper sat in a cold bucket
turning her white skin red.
When her lower lip shoved out
the others gave her anything she wanted
to keep her calm,
but not from me. Not from me.
Fighting was a kind of loving in our family.
That Sunday all us girls were crammed in the back seat
I got the window
She pinched my thigh.
After church, I took the bottom sheet off her bed.
She ripped the bedding of
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