Shame Shame Shame, I Know Your Name
The whole thing was so predictable it almost seemed scripted.
"Zane, I don't think we should!" she said.
"OK, I don't want you to do anything you don't want to do," I told her understandingly but not understanding.
I was about to turn sixteen and was a counselor at a Summer camp. I met Elise at the camp, and we'd instantly hit it off. She laughed at all my jokes, looked good in a bikini, and was driving me absolutely crazy with the way she teased.
"It's just that I'm not that kind of girl," she told me.
"That's OK, I understand," I said, my erection creating a tent in my cargo shorts large enough for a family of four.
We'd been making out for the last couple of minutes on the dock by the lake one night, and I'd tried to take it up another notch by touching her BOOB! She'd grabbed my hand and put it down.
"I mean, the girls know that I'm out here with you, and if they ask me what we did, I won't be able to lie. I'm a terrible liar."
"The girls" were a couple of heavyset busybodies that Elise hung out with for some reason, who I'll call Andrea Yates and Deanna Laney, for the sake of anonymity. Everytime we all hung out, they tried to pry information out of me regarding the way I felt about Elise, and were constantly shit-stirring things that had nothing to do with them, mainly because, I suspected, nobody wanted to hang around them long enough to start anything worth paying attention to.
Elise's protests were heard, and I resigned myself to the fact that I probably wouldn't round another base with her, which, when you're fifteen, was really no big deal because you're thankful for anything that manages to fall into your lap. I leaned back and lay down, looking at the stars. She did the same. After about fifteen seconds, my mind was on other things, like I wonder if there are aliens out there? and My goodness, will this erection ever go away?, but before I got too far down that road, she'd leaned over, propped up on her elbow, looking at me expectantly. I looked at her back.
"We don't have to stop," she smiled.
So I kissed her, and when I moved up to prop myself on my elbow, she lay back down, pulling me to a position that was next-to on top of her. A minute later, I made another grab for the BOOB! She didn't seem to mind. Sweet.
In the end, I managed some dry-humping, which post-dry-hump, elicited a round of self-high-fives and self-pats-on-the-back.
The next day, I ran into Andrea and Deanna in the kitchen, who were grinning like fat chesire cats.
"So," Andrea said, "did you have a good time on the docks last night?"
"Yeah, it was alright," I said, looking down at the gigantic plastic container of Frosted Flakes I was preparing for the camp kids. The girls questioned me about Elise, and I managed to get away with mostly two-word answers that wouldn't label me as some kind of guy who kisses and tells.
Later in the day, I spoke to Elise, who was furious that I let her go as far as she did with me.
"Now the girls think I'm some kind of ho!" she said.
"The girls should mind their own damn business," I muttered.
"I knew I shouldn't have gone with you to the docks; I knew I was gonna get in trouble."
This, I thought, doesn't look good for me in terms of touching her BOOBS! again.
The rest of the two weeks at camp passed, and although Elise and I hung out, we didn't fool around at all anymore, which was obviously, in my opinion, for the satisfaction of tweedle-ugly and tweedle-fat, who Elise hoped wouldn't have anything else to hold over her when they were feeling depressed or something.
~~~~~~~~~~
This was my first experience with other-enforced female shame. It exists, and it makes girls stop doing things that they'd probably be interested in doing otherwise. The argument can be raised that maybe girls are just using their friends as an excuse, so they don't have to do things they don't really want to do, which is valid, but can be countered.
Fair enough, if a girl really wanted to fool around with me (or whoever), she'd ignore the snickers of her friends, wrestle an alligator, and beat up a grizzly bear in order to do it. If she really wanted to.
But the thing about girls is (and feel free to set me straight if I'm wrong, girls) that while I'll never believe that girls want sex just as much as guys do, they do like it, but they still have problems admitting they like it openly. There's a good reason for this, for sure:
First, girls can't admit to liking sex openly because they'd never be able to do anything else if they did. They'd be hounded by every asshole with a hard-on from sun-up to sun-down, and then twice as much after sun-down. Second, girls can't appear to love doing the nasty because it doesn't make evolutionary sense. Girls can't advertise their libido because they have to be picky--just throwing the booty out there for whoever happens to walk by doesn't make sense when you may end up gestating that douche-bag's kid for the next three trimesters. Third, and most on-topic, girls don't want to act horny because they'll be branded with the scarlet S, and cast out from all the girls who have wisely hidden their hott and sexxy agendas.
"If it happens, it happens," they think to themselves. "But I'm not going to go out of my way to make it happen. And if no one finds out, so much the better."
In conclusion:
Female shame exists, and it really sucks because it stopped me from getting some boo-tay when I was fifteen.
"Zane, I don't think we should!" she said.
"OK, I don't want you to do anything you don't want to do," I told her understandingly but not understanding.
I was about to turn sixteen and was a counselor at a Summer camp. I met Elise at the camp, and we'd instantly hit it off. She laughed at all my jokes, looked good in a bikini, and was driving me absolutely crazy with the way she teased.
"It's just that I'm not that kind of girl," she told me.
"That's OK, I understand," I said, my erection creating a tent in my cargo shorts large enough for a family of four.
We'd been making out for the last couple of minutes on the dock by the lake one night, and I'd tried to take it up another notch by touching her BOOB! She'd grabbed my hand and put it down.
"I mean, the girls know that I'm out here with you, and if they ask me what we did, I won't be able to lie. I'm a terrible liar."
"The girls" were a couple of heavyset busybodies that Elise hung out with for some reason, who I'll call Andrea Yates and Deanna Laney, for the sake of anonymity. Everytime we all hung out, they tried to pry information out of me regarding the way I felt about Elise, and were constantly shit-stirring things that had nothing to do with them, mainly because, I suspected, nobody wanted to hang around them long enough to start anything worth paying attention to.
Elise's protests were heard, and I resigned myself to the fact that I probably wouldn't round another base with her, which, when you're fifteen, was really no big deal because you're thankful for anything that manages to fall into your lap. I leaned back and lay down, looking at the stars. She did the same. After about fifteen seconds, my mind was on other things, like I wonder if there are aliens out there? and My goodness, will this erection ever go away?, but before I got too far down that road, she'd leaned over, propped up on her elbow, looking at me expectantly. I looked at her back.
"We don't have to stop," she smiled.
So I kissed her, and when I moved up to prop myself on my elbow, she lay back down, pulling me to a position that was next-to on top of her. A minute later, I made another grab for the BOOB! She didn't seem to mind. Sweet.
In the end, I managed some dry-humping, which post-dry-hump, elicited a round of self-high-fives and self-pats-on-the-back.
The next day, I ran into Andrea and Deanna in the kitchen, who were grinning like fat chesire cats.
"So," Andrea said, "did you have a good time on the docks last night?"
"Yeah, it was alright," I said, looking down at the gigantic plastic container of Frosted Flakes I was preparing for the camp kids. The girls questioned me about Elise, and I managed to get away with mostly two-word answers that wouldn't label me as some kind of guy who kisses and tells.
Later in the day, I spoke to Elise, who was furious that I let her go as far as she did with me.
"Now the girls think I'm some kind of ho!" she said.
"The girls should mind their own damn business," I muttered.
"I knew I shouldn't have gone with you to the docks; I knew I was gonna get in trouble."
This, I thought, doesn't look good for me in terms of touching her BOOBS! again.
The rest of the two weeks at camp passed, and although Elise and I hung out, we didn't fool around at all anymore, which was obviously, in my opinion, for the satisfaction of tweedle-ugly and tweedle-fat, who Elise hoped wouldn't have anything else to hold over her when they were feeling depressed or something.
This was my first experience with other-enforced female shame. It exists, and it makes girls stop doing things that they'd probably be interested in doing otherwise. The argument can be raised that maybe girls are just using their friends as an excuse, so they don't have to do things they don't really want to do, which is valid, but can be countered.
Fair enough, if a girl really wanted to fool around with me (or whoever), she'd ignore the snickers of her friends, wrestle an alligator, and beat up a grizzly bear in order to do it. If she really wanted to.
But the thing about girls is (and feel free to set me straight if I'm wrong, girls) that while I'll never believe that girls want sex just as much as guys do, they do like it, but they still have problems admitting they like it openly. There's a good reason for this, for sure:
First, girls can't admit to liking sex openly because they'd never be able to do anything else if they did. They'd be hounded by every asshole with a hard-on from sun-up to sun-down, and then twice as much after sun-down. Second, girls can't appear to love doing the nasty because it doesn't make evolutionary sense. Girls can't advertise their libido because they have to be picky--just throwing the booty out there for whoever happens to walk by doesn't make sense when you may end up gestating that douche-bag's kid for the next three trimesters. Third, and most on-topic, girls don't want to act horny because they'll be branded with the scarlet S, and cast out from all the girls who have wisely hidden their hott and sexxy agendas.
"If it happens, it happens," they think to themselves. "But I'm not going to go out of my way to make it happen. And if no one finds out, so much the better."
In conclusion:
Female shame exists, and it really sucks because it stopped me from getting some boo-tay when I was fifteen.
posted by Chris Cusack at 4:38 AM
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