Fifth in a series, explained here. My parents were raised conservative Baptists. From the time I was a small child, my parents made sure I knew that they had only ever had sex with each other. My cousin got married when I was seven, and though I personally saw no reason for the outrage, my mom assured me that their marriage did not erase the fact they were living together beforehand.
They were my parents. I believed them. I wanted to do what they told me was right. So I became very careful about how and if I touched people, just in case I touched them in the wrong ways or got too close. I still struggle with this. I made friends who drank and went to fraternity parties and I felt young for the first time. One evening my sophomore year I was standing in an alley between two of the fraternity houses when a group of young men came up to me.
I was wearing something moderately low cut and was a little drunk. They liked the way I looked and wanted to kiss me. I clearly told them no. They kissed me and touched me for a while, and I was so afraid.
In my mind it was confirmation that everything my parents said was true. While I know it could have been much worse, I remember feeling like I deserved what I got because for one evening I had felt pretty.
I told some friends about it the next day. They laughed. I felt so foolish. I waited a decade to mention it to anyone else. I was 30 years old before I allowed someone else to touch me, and before I allowed myself to touch him. I was 30 years old before someone I wanted kissed me. I was 30 years old before I found someone who made me feel safe, someone who saw me and wanted nothing from me, other than to make me feel good.
