Welcome the first chapter of my journey in overcoming sexual shame. If you’re new here, you’re jumping into the middle of my story—an honest and ongoing exploration of shedding the shame that’s been tied to my sexuality for far too long. Each post adds another layer to this process as I dig into the beliefs and experiences that have held me back. Whether you’ve been following along from the start or are just now joining, this is a space where we can reflect, grow, and break free together.
My eyes opened to the now familiar glow of the maroon sheet covering the window. Red sheets surrounded me. Just as the small apartment bedroom became familiar, so did the feeling of his stubby hands on my nearly naked 16-year-old body. These hands I only ever invited to touch me when drunk. Now, with warm sun rays peeking through the makeshift curtain, his unwanted touch positioned my young body underneath his more mature form.
We never spoke any words. Instead he religiously climbed on top of me, attempting to spread my legs for him. I would use my hands, arms and legs to defend myself, silently. He felt heavy on top of me. I used all my strength to push him off. We would dance this morning tango every time I stayed the night and I would always hold my ground until he got bored or something. Until one time I didn’t win.
This tango felt confusing. You see, every night I partied with him, got drunk then threw myself at him. “Have sex with me,” I slurred and pulled my outer shirt off to reveal the soft purple lacy tank I wore underneath. I could only see his silhouette in the dark room from the moonlight coming through his covered window. He would put me to bed instead, making me feel safe in my stupor. “No, you’re drunk,” he said, pushing me onto his bed. “I want you sober,” he would tell me softly. I didn’t understand. So I continued this dangerous dance at every opportunity.
I eventually reached my breaking point.
Nothing stands out to make this morning particularly different from any other. I suppose he finally wore me down and I couldn’t hold onto the religious construct of my virginity that Christianity taught me anymore. I felt tired, worn out from the war of mind and body. This time while he lazily rolled over on top of me I thought, “I’m tired. What if I just let this happen?” But my body didn’t agree.
My thighs squeezed together instinctively while the rest of me lay still and silent. This is the moment that set my life on a different course. Everything changed. My shame spiral began. And I didn’t have a clue.
My thighs now the only barrier between his penis and my vagina, he pried them apart. I looked toward the wall on my left, letting his strength take over my own.
My fault.
Time to pay the piper.
I asked for it the night before, I ought to give it up now.
This is the bed I made for myself.
I believe I used sex to exercise some self sabotage on this day, almost like I needed to prove to myself I am the fuck up I believe myself to be.
Looking back, I wish 16-year-old Jessica could have 35-year-old Jessica in her life. But I hadn’t grown up yet and learned how to advocate for myself. All that would come with time.
He pushed my legs open all the way. I didn’t make it easy, my thighs refused to quit. Then his hips moved to align with my own. With my legs spread open wide, I felt exposed. His penis entered my vagina anyway. I felt some sharp pain. He continued to thrust while I lay there staring at the crinkles of the off white wall. After a few minutes of him thrusting, the pain dissipated and then I didn’t feel much of anything.
Imagery of a flopping fish is the analogy I would use in later years to describe this encounter.
The way I saw it, I gave up my autonomy. I quit fighting for something I didn’t understand. My vocabulary at the time didn’t include concepts like consent, rape or safe sex practices. So, I would hate myself for years to come.
As I lay there with new shame sprouting up all around me, his rhythm increased to ensure his unprotected ejaculation inside my vagina. That’s when I began to feel a little sensation somewhere deep inside. Is this what sex is all about? I wondered. This new feeling felt like a whisper, a light at the end of a tunnel. I wouldn’t reach the light or realize the whisper during this traumatic encounter, but someday with the right partner I would understand.
Putting everything together, I experienced pain, then I didn’t feel much of anything, and then I noticed the faintest notions of what my Sex Education would describe as pleasure.
This last piece made the experience even more confusing for me in later years. I knew even back then the sex wasn’t for me or about me. The sex had everything to do with him, his desire, his power. Later I would learn from a co-worker that the man penetrating me had one goal: To take my virginity. As if being a virgin is somehow so tangible that someone could take it away. But I didn’t know that then. All I knew as he finished inside me is I am a virgin no longer.
He rolled off me onto his side of the bed and lit a cigarette. Then he said the first words of the morning. “You’re bleeding,” he said as he inhaled. More shame sprouted as I lay in his bed sheets, naked, and now apparently bleeding from an area I couldn’t see.
I wonder if he knew this might happen. I sure as hell didn’t.
He was so nonchalant, as if this weren’t a big deal, as if we did this all the time. I, on the other hand, felt frozen. I didn’t want to move and reveal whatever mess he acknowledged so carelessly. But I must. I couldn’t stay here and needed to clean up and get home. In fact, this would be the last time I spent the night with him.
So, feeling humiliated, I put on some clothes and walked through the silent house to the bathroom. I shut the door, looked in the mirror. Once the tears started I couldn’t stop them. I stared into the reflection of the girl in front of me. Her face looked red and puffy. As silent sobs released from my body, I believed all the thoughts running through my mind: This is your fault. You are ugly, disgusting. Worthless. How could you? You are dirty, soiled forever.
These words I taught myself to believe about me would take about twenty years to heal from.
This is how my own sex shame spiral began.
This story of overcoming sexual shame is one part of a book I wrote called Freedom Between the Sheets. As I edit my first draft of all 11 chapters, I am publishing the stories for free right here. I hope to take these stories and publish them one day soon. Your feed back is important me. Please comment below. ***Some names have been. altered for those who wish to bed removed from this narrative.
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