Denial

My mother had the most intense fascination with sex. It wasn't perverse, but more of a need. Almost as if she believed that if she had sex with enough frogs, she'd eventually bed her prince. I realize now that she falls into the category of "women who use sex to get love", but I didn't have that label then. Early on, I was repulsed by her desperation, her seduction, and her promiscuity. My mom had a tiny body with a huge rack, and she dressed accordingly. She loved to giggle at strange men while flipping her silk mahogany hair across her shoulders. I had an understanding of flirtation before I ever added the word to my vocabulary.

I associated this needy mating dance with our poverty. The smart and successful women I knew didn't act like my mother, with her need for men and acceptance. So, I revoked everything about myself that was sexual and anything that had to do with boys. To me, sex was a pathetic, empty act that would leave me heartbroken, diseased, or--like my mother--pregnant long before I was ready to handle any of those things. I hated my breasts, my legs, and my curves. I disassociated myself from boys who saw me as anything more than an equal companion, and I rejected my own interest in the opposite sex. While my girlfriends giggled about their prepubescent crushes and wrote love notes to boys in class, I allied myself with the boys that I trusted would never take an interest in me. I saw myself as ordinary, plain enough to be overlooked and underestimated as a girl. I denied myself the thrill of being a tween girl because I didn't want to identify with her. It was more than just the men--that was just a symptom of what lied beneath.