Shame Old Game

After my twelfth cycle on the monkey bar I stopped to catch my breath allowing my pubic bone to rest on the warm hard steel. Minute movements gave me an unfamiliar yet pleasurable sensation and I began to gyrate my hips noting that the feeling was becoming more compelling. A rippling crescendo ensued and like contractions the marvel came closer and closer until my eyes rolled into the back of my head, sending waves of ecstatic pulsations throughout my body. I lost my myself and my grip. The fall knocked the wind out of me forcing my gaping mouth to plead for air as I rolled around in the dirt. Jarred by the experience, a swift breath finally moved inward to alleviate my asphyxiation. I got up and took one look at the monkey bar knowing that we had just shared something very profound and more importantly that I would be back.

How each person comes (no pun intended) to uncover their first orgasm is a unique one. Mine was the pleasure pole at the park near my house. Coming from a shame- based culture I intuitively sensed that this was not something to be shared with my family. I took more comfort in the notion that I had probably experienced an isolated epileptic seizure as opposed to an orga... ahem!

Neither sex nor orgasms were subjects up for discussion in my home. Even the word ‘sex’ was veiled from me. When I asked my mother what the term for sex was in Arabic, she replied that there wasn’t one. There was shame in the word alone; my mother fearful this addition to my vocabulary would open up the floodgates of desire.

Once I discovered that this feeling could be replicated, park visitations rose exponentially. My imaginary dog Roscoe and I would perform stakeouts watching others dance on the bouncy bar wondering if they too were having ‘seizures’. One fateful afternoon after I had returned home from the park disappointed that the pleasure pole was occupied; I searched for alternative means of self- love. I identified a household item that looked seductive and began my ascent in plain sight on the living room floor. Did I mention that I was only twelve? Roscoe shielded his eyes with his paws as I unraveled and my mom walked into the room.

My mom came in carrying the laundry shrieking as she witnessed the incident. She threw the laundry in the air and got to me before the last argyle sock hit the floor. What followed were a double barrel assault of insults, shaming and the demand that I never touch myself there again. “Aib” my mother said, the word meaning shameful in Arabic; a word that I would hear regularly throughout my childhood. Shot full of holes and dispirited I was puzzled at why pleasing myself was so shameful.

Shame was something to be actively avoided in my culture. Conscious of this, I was also keenly aware that shame avoidance weighed more heavily on girls than it did on boys. It was understood that boys would find their little tootsie rolls and be congratulated on their newfound carnal knowledge. A girls’ rapture, however, was only to be discovered in her husband’s bed and alternatives would be perceived as the gateway to whoredome. Unfortunately, there is very little room for open discussions on pleasure. What typically arises is the oppression and violence as evidenced by the current climate in this shame based culture.

Wounded and embarrassed about my exposure I avoided the park and eye contact with Roscoe for about a week. Soon after I decided that the benefits of pleasing myself outweighed the risks. Feeling good is a human right I thought to myself and if God didn't want me to have it than he wouldn't have given it to me. I returned to the park, mounted that pleasure pole and began my revolution. Feeling blissful, as I fell from grace and into the shame old game.