Shotgun Writes

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    • Sex

      The earliest memory I have of sex is when I was around four years old. I would position my toys (dolls and stuffed animals) in sex positions and smash them together. It would arouse me, but I didn’t understand any of it. My mom would find me sometimes and admonish me. “Little girls don’t touch themselves/play like that.” She didn’t explain what I was experiencing, she just shoved it aside. She would do this a lot to me.

      Later on in life my father would tell me that my mother accused him of molesting me because when I was an infant I had genital warts.

      I don’t know if I was molested as a child. I have dreams sometimes that I was. Are these dreams actually memories? I don’t know.

      Back to my childhood. I entered school and because my mother never explained what I was going through, I was very open about what I was feeling during class. I would talk about sex, humping, masturbating and the teachers would gently tell me not to talk about those things. But still, no one explained to me what I was feeling.

      Eventually my siblings introduced me to porn (horse porn to be exact) and from there a curiosity for sex bloomed inside me. I needed to know all the fetishes. I needed to know all the parts, the positions, the toys. I was given internet access early on in life and I used it to study different things – porn videos, erotica (written porn), hentai, fetish dating sites. I couldn’t get enough.

      At some point I started writing my own porn. My best friend in high school was obsessed with the Beatles and I would write smutty fan fiction about them (sorry Paul and Ringo, her favorites), I would write erotica about my own fetishes that I was discovering I enjoyed. I don’t know if my mother ever looked into my computer to see these files, but I’m sure if she did she would be disgusted by me.

      During high school I began questioning my sex. My mother being abusive and old-fashioned pushed me to believe I wasn’t a woman. Or maybe I was born this way. Either way, I consider myself non-binary, and often I feel more like a man than a woman. I would cut my hair short and I had small breasts, so of COURSE my mother would tell me I looked like a pre-pubescent boy every time I walked out the door.

      However, I think I’ve always loved women more than I love men (I include trans men and trans women in this). Women can be so beautiful and kind, and so sweet and funny. But I am so intimidated by them. All the women I loved in my family would abuse me emotionally, and I don’t think I’ve recovered from that. Men are wonderful, however I’ve yet to meet a man who understands me as well as a woman can. Which is fine! But I’ve never been physically abused by any of my girlfriends.

      Anyway, I was masturbating at least once a day, every day in my teen years. Some days, when the house was empty, I would just sit and masturbate all day and still not be satisfied.

      At 14/15 I started dating Luke and he was the first penis I’d had inside me (I had already taken my own virginity with a toy). He raped me and he beat me.

      After a few years of dating as a teen, I thought it was my responsibility to make myself orgasm, because it took me so long and I could only orgasm from clitoral stimulation. The boys I dated didn’t care to take the time to make sure I finished and enjoyed it. So I faked my orgasms for a long time.

      Back in the 90’s/00’s there was still a stigma around young women being sexually active and enjoying casual sex. I remember once, during the “affair” with my step brother, I was playing Life with my step sister. My dad came in and I said, “Look dad, I’m a -whatever job title- aren’t you proud?” and I will never forget he said, “Oh, I was sure you were a harlot.” and then he walked away, no laughter, no smile.

      Thanks dad.

      Throughout life I always toyed with the idea that I would be a sex therapist, but I never had the emotional support to go through with it. No one has ever really believed that I could do anything with myself, and so eventually I began to believe it too. I was just good for sex.

      My 20’s were spent trying to survive.

      When I got medicated at 29 with Olanzapine, my libido disappeared. I would go months without sex or masturbation. But I wasn’t psychotic anymore. I wasn’t having breaks every day or picking fights with Tom. I wasn’t disassociating or hallucinating. But our marriage took a huge hit

      Then there was a short period – maybe a year or so – where I was trying to find a new psychiatrist after mine retired. It was difficult because I insisted on keeping my as-needed panic attack meds. But one psyche thought I was addicted to them, and that was a two week long nightmare for me.

      Long story short, I found a better psyche and we lowered my dose a bit. I’m not a sex fiend like I used to be, but I actually get aroused by things again.

      Sex isn’t the end all, be all for me, but it is an important factor in my happiness. I don’t know why my mother never taught me about sex. I wonder what I would be like if she had.

    • Reading

      Growing up I always had an affinity for reading and writing. My father loved to read to me and he would put on voices and act out scenes. When I entered school I was pretty far ahead of my class mates in terms of reading and writing. Although my handwriting is atrocious.

      I remember we used to do creative writing in elementary school and I would make up these ridiculous stories and use my classmates as characters to make them laugh. Later in life I would write smutty fan fiction about The Beatles for my best friend in high school and once in English class I made a teacher cry with a story about my dad’s second wedding.

      When I hit middle school I was reading books meant for adults. I somehow got my hands on a copy of Kiss the Girls by James Patterson. I don’t know where I got it, or if someone gave it to me. There is a specific scene in this book where a man ties a woman up, fills her ass with milk and lets a snake coil up inside her.

      Obviously that’s not the stuff you want your middle schooler reading. My mother found out, either she read it herself or someone told her I had it.

      She.

      Went.

      Ballistic.

      I blocked out most of the rampage but she reamed me out, took my books away and humiliated me for reading about subject matter that she deemed too mature for me. I was, like, twelve!

      So I stopped reading for fun. Every time I picked up a book I felt depressed and ashamed, like I was the one who wrote that scene. I did read the books that were assigned to me in high school – Pride and Prejudice (a favorite of mine now), Siddhartha, 1984. What was that horrible book where the kid has two dogs and they die? That was traumatizing.

      Anyway. I grew up, moved out, at 25 I started taking care of my mental health. I found a shop called Half Priced Books and became enamored. At first I thought I was a fantasy reader. Lord of the Rings, The Sword of Shannara, Mistborn. But they kind of bored me. My husband bought me a kindle and signed me up for Kindle Unlimited and from there I explored other genres.

      I became friends with a man who was a huge comic nerd. He took me down the rabbit hole of comics and I bought way too many. I would read comics in between books. At some point I realized I still carried the same fascination for the grotesque as I did when I was a child. There were many afternoons spent in Blockbuster in my hometown, I would wander off to the horror section and gawk at the terrifying covers. Hellraiser. The Blob. Dead Alive. Then I’d get my sno-caps and we’d all watch a comedy at home together.

      Eventually I picked up My Best Friend’s Exorcism by Grady Hendrix. This book wasn’t anything of note – no crazy deaths. But it opened to door to other horror books for me, and from there I really started to get my reading motivation back.

      Every few years I re-read Pride and Prejudice. It’s one of my favorite books. I posted this sentiment on Instagram and my mother saw it and commented, “I love that book!”

      Hey mom. Fuck you.

    • The affair with my step brother

      I grew up with nine siblings – 5 step siblings, 2 half siblings and 2 full blood siblings. The first house we all lived in together was 3 stories tall with a walk out garage/basement (which is rare for California) and a lot of rooms.

      I was given my own room in this house, but my step siblings who were mostly all 5+ years older than me, also lived there. I don’t remember connecting with any of them at this point, I think I was too young. But this was the point where I saw my first pornography.

      In the garage/basement was an old computer. My brother and sister and one step sister were crowded around the monitor. I was behind them, ignored as usual. For some reason they looked up horse porn, and that was my first introduction to sex.

      Before all this, I was obsessed with masturbation, even if I didn’t know exactly what that was. At my mom’s house (after the divorce) my mother would catch me masturbating and admonish me, “Little girls don’t do that!” I didn’t understand it, it just felt good. Later in life my father would tell me that my mother accused him of molesting me as an infant because I somehow had genital warts before the age of 4 years old. I don’t remember being molested at that age, but I would believe it.

      After the horse porn incident all the younger kids would dog pile onto our step brother, Kyle, and joke that he was into horses. He never got mad, but he did not like this made-up fact. I think joking about Kyle having sex opened the doors in my mind to the idea of having sex with him, even as young as I was (around 8-10).

      There was one incident, I believe I was 13, I was disciplining one of our dogs. I stood over the dog, legs on either side of him (he was a small/medium sized dog) and I lightly swatted his butt and said, “No, Kotey, bad!” Kyle was at the dinner table and said, “I wish I was that dog right now.”

      Time moved on and I grew up. I grew closer to Kyle. We had the same birthday 8 years apart, we loved hanging on the couch together while he programmed or I read. We would game in the same room together even when not on the same game.

      One day, I was tired, so I laid down in Kyle’s bed. This wasn’t unusual for our family, we were always lying in each other’s bed.

      This is where it gets complicated. I was maybe 14-15 and I considered myself a nymphomaniac at this time. I was masturbating a lot (multiple times a day for lengthy times each time), I was looking at a lot of porn and I was role playing sex on the internet. When I got my first vibrator I would block out days specifically for masturbating all day.

      Was I attracted to Kyle because I was in love with him, or was it because I had a high sex drive? Was I too young to know the difference?

      So I was tired. I crawled into Kyle’s bed and fell asleep. Eventually, Kyle got into bed with me. I woke up but pretended to be asleep and turned to him to embrace him. He put his hands on me and we had sex. After that we had sex whenever we could. He would sometimes come downstairs to my room and wake me up in the middle of the night, begging for sex.

      Kyle was always kind and gentle to me. He never hurt me and it didn’t feel like he manipulated me. From my point of view, I knew what I was doing. I had consumed a lot of sexual content at this point and had already had sex with a guy before Kyle.

      At some point, Kyle confessed to putting a camera in my shower. He showed me multiple videos of me masturbating in the shower (as well as nude drawings he had done of me). He told me once I looked directly into the hole that he hid the camera, and he thought he was caught.

      The funny thing was, I 100% thought there WAS a camera in the ceiling hole, however I wrote it off as me being paranoid.

      I’m not sure how long the “affair” lasted. A year? Six months? But one evening Kyle and I were having sex and my brother came home. He heard us having sex and assumed I was Kyle’s girlfriend. But then my brother caught me sneaking out of Kyle’s room.

      This is something I’m not proud of. I gave my alcoholic brother a small bottle of whiskey to bribe him not to tell our parents. He ended up telling them and I gaslit him, saying that never happened. Our parents believed me. Many years later my brother would use this affair as fodder for his arguments with our father.

      Eventually I ended the affair. I told Kyle it wasn’t appropriate for us as step-siblings to be together. He lost it. He cried and yelled (not at me) and spoke to me less and less until eventually we never spoke again.

      So. Was I raped? Statutorily, yes. Do I consider it rape? No. I loved Kyle, or at least what I thought love was at the time. He and I spent every minute we could together for so long and I don’t remember a single negative thing about the whole ordeal.

      I found out later that he did the same thing to my sister who is four years older. I was never close enough to my sister to ask, but I always wondered – was I first? Or did she neglect to warn me for whatever reason?

      I never spoke to Kyle after that. I left California and he got married and moved to Sweden or something.

      I don’t know how I feel about it all. Society demands that I be a victim, that I cower back with eyes watery and a meek voice. I don’t feel like that for sure, but I’m not sure how to feel. I get uncomfortable using new showers and I used to have boyfriends check the showers for me in strange places. This invasion of my privacy was probably the most traumatizing part.

      As for my family, my mom doesn’t know and my dad doesn’t care. I don’t think I’ll ever discuss it with them because they have this strange, permanent painting of me up in their heads, staying young while I age. Like Dorian Gray except its just a normal painting. (Here’s a picture of me when I’m older!)

      I guess that’s all I have to say for now.

    • Another post about my dad

      Yesterday my dad privately messaged me on discord and sent his condolences because he saw a message in the Jokester’s discord about me being depressed. In his message he said he “wanted to hear my voice”.

      In the 36 years of being his daughter I have never once enjoyed phone calls, especially with my family. I hate it. I hate being questioned and lectured and given “wisdom” from someone who has never been invested in me or my happiness.

      I think I’ve moved on from wanting a traditional mother and father. I was never given emotional support. I was always mocked or dismissed for my feelings. They never gave me unconditional love and the worst thing I ever did was cry a lot. Meanwhile my sister pulls a knife on my dad and sends nasty messages to his wife. But still he gives her most of his attention. It has always been that way.

      There are a lot of times when I think about my parents dying. I’m pretty sure I would not go to either funeral. Actually, I’m very sure.

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