When I was a freshman and sophomore in high school I’d go to bars to drink, play pool, and find guys. Bars didn’t card so heavy back then, you know, when life was better and we were treated like human beings. I met a thirty-year-old in a park once and took him to the apartment that my mom and I shared. She was often out of town for work, which gave me free reign. My friend’s parents soon learned that a night at my house often ended up with blue hair (keep in mind that in 1984 blue hair wasn’t haute couture). Even though I did whatever the fuck I wanted, I still ended up moving out weeks before my sixteenth birthday. Park guy went down on me on the kitchen floor. I was fourteen. Don’t judge him too harshly though, I didn’t act or look my age, and you can be rest assured that I was the one driving that train. Granted, I was obviously not old enough for him, but this was two years before my breast reduction, I easily passed for eighteen, and I lied all the time.
Even if I was using sex for slightly inappropriate or unhealthy reasons, I owned my decisions and never apologized for them. I never placed blame on the other party either. I believe in taking responsibility for my actions. In fact, of all my sexual exploits, I’ve only regretted a few…that’s pretty good considering.