the white picket fence

I lost my virginity to a white picket fence. I will say so much because I need to get this secret out of my head, as it has been something that I have been holding in for quite a while now.

I have told my best friends that it was in fact, a bicycle seat. I told them that I was riding along one day with the bouncing and vibrating seat pressed up against my warm sweaty crotch, and the friction rubbed me right along that red carpet to the pleasure café. I won’t lie now, as I am unveiling to you how it really happened. I simply heard another girl say this to another while I was in the same room. I think it was a grocery store, actually, if you can believe it. She and a couple of her friends were talking about their first orgasms, and I guess that is how she had hers. Well, at least that’s how I remember it.

The truth is that one day while watching the movie, “Secretary,” at home, I began to feel some kind of kindred roll with the lead in that film. Certainly Maggie G. had a great performance as the secretary getting her fanny smacked like she did, but I won’t lie---I started to want the same. In fact, I wanted more than having my own fanny smacked. I must admit, I went to the store, bought myself a small pack of razorblades, some medical tape, rubbing alcohol, as well as some gauze, in case the bleeding got too out of hand.

I live in the richest suburb of South Australia. This white picket fence extravaganza is known as North Adelaide. With an average income of nearly $85, 000 a year, everyone’s father is at work during the day with his dutiful nose to the grindstone. Mom, who had upped her dosage of Valium from 15 mg to 40 mg, was conked out on her fainting couch upstairs. I was, needless to say, bored out of my mind, and antsy—wanting gratification.

What kind of gratification? That is the question, isn’t it? It seems that whenever we decide that we want something, we can never really decide on what it is exactly that we want---and then we realize the dilemma---we want to want something. My own wants all twisted up inside me, as I rewound my favorite scenes of Maggie’s movie over and over, culminated in my decision. I was going to inflict pain upon myself in hope of sexual release.

So I sat myself down on mom’s plush couch. I say that it was mom’s, because my father would never have spent good money on such an aesthetic monstrosity. Still, it was very comfy, even if the paisley design made one want to throw up. After sitting down, I unwrapped all that I would need, my razorblades, my gauze, my medical tape and rubbing alcohol.

That first cut brought a lot of pain, I won’t lie. My body twitched a bit, and through the sensation of the sterile blade diving down into my leg, I felt both a way to release all care in other things---at least for a moment---and that moment was completely peaceful. It was as if the pain just drained away and what I was left with was a pleasant numbness---but one that was only brought about through the deliberate command that I had over my own body---one that declared my own life! I was alive! I wasn’t like the death of my surroundings. The blood didn’t gush so much as it slid in a short stream out of the side where the blade was lifted by me. But I had anticipated such a spill, and I patted the slice with the gauze and wrapped it up with medical tape.

I found in the next few days that the cutting would leave scars and sooner or later someone was going to see them, as they were on my inner thigh, and I still wanted to go swimming. If I was fortunate enough to have anyone check me out when I was wearing my bathing suit, I felt that then they might find my little collection of cuts, depressing at best.

It was July and the weather being so oppressive (I hate the heat), I spent a lot of time inside with the central air belting out the freezing breeze. But on one special day, I got a call from a boy that I had liked for quite a while. His name was Winston Smith. For some reason his father had named him after the protagonist in George Orwell’s “Nineteen Eighty-Four.” Still, he was cute. He had a jaw line like Johnny Depp. Anyway, it was when he called that my excitement sent me through the roof. I was parading around the house chatting quickly on the phone, and my brain almost busted when he asked me what I was doing later that evening. To make a long story short, I ended up going to meet him at the movie theater at 5 pm.

When I shut the front door behind me I was all dressed up for my date with Winston. I had my favorite sexy jeans on and a tank top that screamed out loud a color pink that couldn’t be matched by the brightest neon sign in the darkest of the night. My lips full of my energetic youth & passion, my eyes wide with the innocence that I pretended to eradiate, & the sheer horny nature of my very being at that moment---propelled me forward. I hadn’t cut myself that day, and I felt that maybe that had something to do with my current blistering anxious situation. I was buzzing and bouncing all over the place.

Trying not to step on the cracks along the sidewalk as I hopped and skipped along (not wanting to break my mother’s back), I felt an itch down where I hadn’t touched myself for some days. Actually, the odd thing was that when I was cutting myself, I wasn’t touching myself. It kind of worked out that way, and as cutting myself was a new thing, and bye-golly-gosh, I’d been touching myself for a couple years at that point---I felt that it might have been the newness of my new thrill which made it all the better. I would have chosen slicing myself over an orgasm any day of the week at that point in my life.

As I was skipping along the sidewalk on my way to meet Winston, I began to pass this house which I had passed a hundred times before. It belonged to the Trappersons. My father and mister Trapperson played golf twice a month, and you know, I never did know what it was that Mr. Trapperson did for a living, but still, he must have been a nice guy if my dad hung out with him.

The Trapperson’s house was surrounded by one of those white picket fences that people rarely had anymore, and I believe that those that did, did so either out of a bout of nostalgia from the “golden age,” or the good ol’ days of the 1950’s or something. My own dad always told stories about how when he was growing up things were easier, and people were more decent to each other. He was living in a dream, I felt, and I never passed up the chance to point out the various cultural stupidities that existed during these so-called perfect times that he was growing up.

But the fence, that white picket fence, with its acute angles making little triangular edges along the top of each board, each “picket” if you will---it drew me in. That is, as I was walking (horny as all hell, sweating because of the heat thumping on my skull and having gone without cutting myself that day and chasing the thrill), I began to move closer to the fence, tracing the edge of it with my index finger. And as my walking lessened and my overall paced slowed down, my mind started to drift into the gutter.

It wasn’t like I jumped right in. My mind floated in there, like watching a sheet of paper coast back and forth in the wind when dropped from a balcony. But I eventually landed there, and all the rainwater, dog piss, sewage, and every other disgusting liquid that one can dream of, washed up all over me. I wanted nothing more at that instant than to get off. I wanted to explode, to gush all over the place. I simply couldn’t wait to see Winston---not that anything would have happened with him anyway. I couldn’t risk it. I felt like if I didn’t have an orgasm right then and there, that I would do insane from wondering what it might have been like if I had gone through with my instant fantasy. It brewed inside me quickly and there was really only one thing that I could do---indulge myself.

I let my animal instinct take over. I let my mind narrow down into one impulse. I let my legs open over the fence (I still had my jeans on). I pressed my hips down with the palms of my hands. I rubbed myself through my jeans and because they were so tight, it felt as if there was really nothing between me and the fence itself. I moved my hips around, grinding the fence against me and it got so warm down there. It started to burn so hot, and as I began to sweat even more than I had already, I closed my eyes. It was still sunny out and in the late afternoon, and by this time, there was bound to be someone on the street who was watching me. Even if all the parents were at work still, and most of the kids were on the bus coming home or elsewhere, I felt that I wasn’t alone. I never really felt like I was alone there. The suburb of the city of churches always seemed to be watching my every move.

But I didn’t care. I felt a tingling in my nipples and I started to perspire on my belly as well as my lower back. There were little beads of sweat dripping down the side of my face from my hair which had been done up in a hairstyle which at this point I couldn’t even remember what it looked like. I was rocking back and forth on the fence, with my tippy-toes holding me up on both sides. My hips rolled around on that thick wooded triangle, and the only word I can really use in describing my lover is “divine.” The hard phallic monster was delving inside and I knew that wherever I was going with this, it was going to redefine my whole existence. It was better than cutting my leg, as it was uniquely bringing me a sacred mix of pain and pleasure in my most “holy” of “holiest” spots!

My rocking became faster, as if I didn’t even motivate myself any longer---I was on autopilot. The machine that I had become had a reservoir of energy that just couldn’t be stopped. And I continued squeezing the fence, squeezing and then releasing it---tensing all my muscles and then allowing them to relax, and then tensing them again. When I did this I felt my abs tighten, my thighs tighten, as well as my buttocks. Really, if I had pursued this as a form of exercise further down the road in my life, I feel I could have started a regiment that when put on video, would have made a hell of an infomercial for those folks still up at three in the morning feeling fat and alone!

With my eyes shut tightly and my mind only focused on my impending orgasm, it couldn’t have been long before it happened. I had lost track of time, of course, and so I can’t be specific as to how long it took. All I felt was a flush of heat shooting out from between my legs up through every part of my body and my mind pulsated with a repeating, undeniable pleasure. My muscles down below contracted and released and I was drenched. I was so wet that it seeped through my jeans and looked like I had pissed my pants.

I saw the wet stain when I opened my eyes and looked down. I dismounted the fence and saw that with all my rocking and squeezing the fence, I had rubbed a good portion of the tip down to the bare wood again. Mr. Trapperson would have to paint it again when he realized that it was rubbed off. I held my index and middle finger of my right hand to my jugular to see how fast my heart was racing, and it was pounding like the engine of a racecar! I eyed the vicinity of my neighborhood was surprised that no one had been watching---or at least no one had stopped to watch. Honestly, I was a bit disappointed that no one had been watching, because I bet that it was a pretty good performance. Certainly if someone had caught it on video, it would have been thrown up on Youtube in a manner of minutes.

But no matter, I had just had the best orgasm that I can remember from that part of my life. When I did eventually have sex with Winston, as he was my first human, I felt disappointed. He couldn’t do better than a white picket fence? Ugh. Boys needing to learn a thing or two from an inanimate object depressed the hell out of me.