And it all Began...Part II
Friday, September 28, 2007
Before I go on with how Turkish got it on - or not. I had to tell you this story. When I re-read my last entry I remembered something that was -well amusing.
I considered myself a sexual child- more like experimental child. I tried everything to see how it felt and really to see how far I can go with things without having the guilt halo hovering my head. Like most young girl, my sexual fantasies played themselves out on the bare floor of my childhood bedroom, with Barbie and Ken and sometimes Barbie and friends (girls).
All sheltered little girls live vicariously through Barbie, that whore. While we learn how to write cursive and do long division, she takes it up the ass and eats Skipper's box. I may have been privy to a strict moral code of conduct, but Barbie got gangbanged with abandon and didn't seem to give a shit about Jesus, STDs or teen pregnancy.
I have to admit that I was not a big fan of barbies but they were the closest objects to resembles the ideal woman that I craved to be one day. I played alone, constructing sketchy situations with the girls and ken. Often, Ken was always invited to Barbies Malibu house. As soon as he rang the door bell, you would hear Barbie shout “come upstairs, I have a surprise for you”. He would walk upstairs to her bedroom to find Barbie in her birthday suit dancing around teasing Ken. Other times, Barbie had major pool parties where all her girlfriends would come over. But the rule was, bathing suits off in the pool.
I was also developing a flair for inventing my own fantasies.
Sabrina was just a regular girl at my CATHOLIC grammar school, not popular or unpopular enough to attract attention. It’s hard for me to remember what specifically motivated me to talk to her. It wasn’t that I wanted to have sex with her. Perhaps I was trying to be helpful; I knew how much I wanted to be found sexually attractive, and she probably had the same secret longings that led me to bang Barbie and Ken’s smooth plastic crotches together. Isn’t it funny that no one in Malibu Barbie world had pubes? Just an observation. Whatever cryptic intention was in my mind, I decided to draft a secret admirer note.
“Dear Sabrina,” it began simply, but quickly spiraled into more lascivious territory. I left it in her desk, then loitered on the edge of the circle of girls that gathered around as she read it. “Dear, Turkish: I want to feel your...” she squinted at the next word quizzically. “I think it says BREASTS,” I interjected helpfully, drawing suspicious glances from her friends. Each preceding line required the same sort of interpretation. They didn’t seem to understand ANYTHING about sex, even the basic facts I had slightly incorrectly interpreted from my father's hidden stack of pornos. Did I just say that?
She read the closing, in which I had signed the name of a boy in class who wore army fatigues to school and so seemed unlikely to mind, but for some reason they were all staring at me instead. I even tried to get the ball rolling by looking toward the boy like “Get a load of this sex freak,” but it didn’t deflect their disgusted but pitying stares. It was at that point that I realized I was in trouble. It wasn’t long before the guidance counselor called me into her office, just to “chat.” I was not previously the kind of child who saw the inside of any kind of School offices.
In kindergarten I had been sent to the principal’s office for biting another girl on the playground, but had used my superior intellect to explain that I was merely standing there with my mouth open when she had decided to hit me. I was not entirely sure what intellectual voodoo it would require to forestall the consequences of dirty-note writing. Yet the counselor seemed strangely nice, tentatively asking about my home life, my parents, school.
When she finally brought up the note, she just wanted to “talk about it.” She dashed my hopes of a career as a private investigator by telling me that Sabrina’s friends had not only seen me scribbling the note at my desk like a mini-Danielle Steele, but had seen me deliver it as well. She had also recognized my handwriting, and everyone had been tipped off by the fact that I was the only one who knew what cumming meant. Faced with this seemingly insurmountable evidence, I did the only thing that could still get me out of this bind. I burst into tears. I cried until she called the other girls into her office, and when they arrived I cried so long that even they seemed a little convinced. I wailed and sobbed and swallowed my own snot and choked out, “I...just...don’t...understand...why you guys would ACCUSE me of this!”
Everyone seemed disturbed by my outburst, especially when my glasses started to fog up from the excess moisture. The other girls even apologized and hugged me before going back to class and still I cried. Apparently desperate to get this nymphomaniac out of her office, the guidance counselor let me go.
I lived in fear for weeks, waiting for my parents to bring up the dirty note. But as I rode home in my dad's car, it became obvious that she hadn't mentioned it. I have no idea what the guidance counselor was thinking letting an obvious psychopathic deviant like myself run around free, but she never did tell my parents.
I considered myself a sexual child- more like experimental child. I tried everything to see how it felt and really to see how far I can go with things without having the guilt halo hovering my head. Like most young girl, my sexual fantasies played themselves out on the bare floor of my childhood bedroom, with Barbie and Ken and sometimes Barbie and friends (girls).
All sheltered little girls live vicariously through Barbie, that whore. While we learn how to write cursive and do long division, she takes it up the ass and eats Skipper's box. I may have been privy to a strict moral code of conduct, but Barbie got gangbanged with abandon and didn't seem to give a shit about Jesus, STDs or teen pregnancy.
I have to admit that I was not a big fan of barbies but they were the closest objects to resembles the ideal woman that I craved to be one day. I played alone, constructing sketchy situations with the girls and ken. Often, Ken was always invited to Barbies Malibu house. As soon as he rang the door bell, you would hear Barbie shout “come upstairs, I have a surprise for you”. He would walk upstairs to her bedroom to find Barbie in her birthday suit dancing around teasing Ken. Other times, Barbie had major pool parties where all her girlfriends would come over. But the rule was, bathing suits off in the pool.
I was also developing a flair for inventing my own fantasies.
Sabrina was just a regular girl at my CATHOLIC grammar school, not popular or unpopular enough to attract attention. It’s hard for me to remember what specifically motivated me to talk to her. It wasn’t that I wanted to have sex with her. Perhaps I was trying to be helpful; I knew how much I wanted to be found sexually attractive, and she probably had the same secret longings that led me to bang Barbie and Ken’s smooth plastic crotches together. Isn’t it funny that no one in Malibu Barbie world had pubes? Just an observation. Whatever cryptic intention was in my mind, I decided to draft a secret admirer note.
“Dear Sabrina,” it began simply, but quickly spiraled into more lascivious territory. I left it in her desk, then loitered on the edge of the circle of girls that gathered around as she read it. “Dear, Turkish: I want to feel your...” she squinted at the next word quizzically. “I think it says BREASTS,” I interjected helpfully, drawing suspicious glances from her friends. Each preceding line required the same sort of interpretation. They didn’t seem to understand ANYTHING about sex, even the basic facts I had slightly incorrectly interpreted from my father's hidden stack of pornos. Did I just say that?
She read the closing, in which I had signed the name of a boy in class who wore army fatigues to school and so seemed unlikely to mind, but for some reason they were all staring at me instead. I even tried to get the ball rolling by looking toward the boy like “Get a load of this sex freak,” but it didn’t deflect their disgusted but pitying stares. It was at that point that I realized I was in trouble. It wasn’t long before the guidance counselor called me into her office, just to “chat.” I was not previously the kind of child who saw the inside of any kind of School offices.
In kindergarten I had been sent to the principal’s office for biting another girl on the playground, but had used my superior intellect to explain that I was merely standing there with my mouth open when she had decided to hit me. I was not entirely sure what intellectual voodoo it would require to forestall the consequences of dirty-note writing. Yet the counselor seemed strangely nice, tentatively asking about my home life, my parents, school.
When she finally brought up the note, she just wanted to “talk about it.” She dashed my hopes of a career as a private investigator by telling me that Sabrina’s friends had not only seen me scribbling the note at my desk like a mini-Danielle Steele, but had seen me deliver it as well. She had also recognized my handwriting, and everyone had been tipped off by the fact that I was the only one who knew what cumming meant. Faced with this seemingly insurmountable evidence, I did the only thing that could still get me out of this bind. I burst into tears. I cried until she called the other girls into her office, and when they arrived I cried so long that even they seemed a little convinced. I wailed and sobbed and swallowed my own snot and choked out, “I...just...don’t...understand...why you guys would ACCUSE me of this!”
Everyone seemed disturbed by my outburst, especially when my glasses started to fog up from the excess moisture. The other girls even apologized and hugged me before going back to class and still I cried. Apparently desperate to get this nymphomaniac out of her office, the guidance counselor let me go.
I lived in fear for weeks, waiting for my parents to bring up the dirty note. But as I rode home in my dad's car, it became obvious that she hadn't mentioned it. I have no idea what the guidance counselor was thinking letting an obvious psychopathic deviant like myself run around free, but she never did tell my parents.
