Diary Thursdays: Mortified

Last Saturday, I went to go see a performance called “Mortified.” It’s a monthly show in which people read out loud from their old journals, song lyrics, poetry – anything that they wrote when they were a teenager and that’s completely embarrassing. One girl read erotica that she’d written at age 17. Another girl presented a Christian comic strip she wrote to ask a boy at church to the dance. She actually gave it to him too!

I actually auditioned for this show a few weeks ago, but I got the feedback that my stuff (the same stuff I’ve been posting on the blog) wasn’t “mortifying” enough. Funny and innocent, sure, but not that personal or embarrassing.

So I was forced to dig a little deeper.

I went into diary #3, 1992, the year I “discovered my sexuality,” to put it bluntly. Of course, growing up with my hippy Berkeley midwife mother, I already knew all about sex. I knew about the technical act of it anyway, and the importance of using a condom. I learned that stuff when I was barely out of diapers. However, mom never explained to me the finer points of being with boys. Phenomena like dry-humping, for example, never got taught in my Sex Ed classes.

I think that is very clearly illustrated in this entry, where I have no idea what’s going on, yet I actually use the word “intercourse.”

Sunday, May 24th, 1992, 15-years-old.

He turned off the light and we got under the covers. We kissed and sort of rolled around. We didn’t even really go that far, I mean, his hand never went beneath my underwear. But we did do something I’ve never done before.

We did, what I can best describe as, sex with clothes on. We did exactly what I would assume people who have sex do, only I was wearing shorts and a T-shirt, and he was wearing underwear.

At first I thought, “My God, he’s trying to have intercourse and forgot I was wearing clothes!”

But then, I realized that no one is that stupid.