Growing
Up Kinky How I Learned About Sex
by
Nancy Ava Miller, M.Ed.
The following article is an excerpt from For Love and Money: Why I Dominate Men, the autobiography of Nancy Ava Miller. Nancy leads support groups for men and women interested in dominant-submissive erotica.
I learned about sex from Cousin Lois. She was months younger than I, but much wiser in the ways of the world.
Cousin Lois’s figure at age 12 curved and protruded in a manner that made the junior high boys gawk and stare. Her soft, blonde hair flowed to rounded shoulders. She wore the latest styles—bobby sox with brown loafers, a shiny new penny displayed mid-shoe, and plaid slit skirts with a gigantic safety pin in front; the pin clasped the skirt folds, so no one could catch a glimpse of her thighs. Tight sweaters accentuated her little girl tits, already large and hard as apples. She could dance the jitterbug, the stroll. and the bunnyhop—all with quick, jerky motions that looked cute on her, but clumsy on a fat kid like me.
Friends till the end. Close as sisters. That’s what we were like at age 12, Cousin Lois and I. She slept at my house. I slept at hers. We talked till way beyond midnight, woke up early, and talked some more. We promenaded to the drug store, transistor radios pressed to our ears. When a good song came on—Elvis or Buddy Holly or The Drifters—we’d sing along, or start moving in rhythm with the tune. We drank Coke together, chewed Double Bubble Bubble Gum together, and set our hair together with painful rollers and rusty bobby pins; I’d do her hair—those soft, yellow locks—and she’d roll mine, all red and frizzy.
But at age 12, I was becoming aware of a certain word. Someone had scrawled it with paint on the walls of the Wallace Memorial Chapel, which loomed at the end of my block: “Fuck!” (Wallace Memorial, at the time, was under construction; the word disappeared when the church building was completed).
I heard Johnny Becker next door bellow it, too, once when he was mad: “Fuck!” I asked him what it meant, but he just laughed and turned away.
Finally, one night during a family gathering, I questioned Cousin Lois about the word. The rest of the relatives were downstairs shouting around the card table while playing a raucous game of poker under a glaring overhead bulb where cigarette smoke floated ominously.
Lois and I created a tent with blankets on the bed of her parents, my Aunt Florence and Uncle Whitey. We huddled beneath the covers, immersed in the human odors of my aunt and uncle, aware of the drone from a T.V., and of the loud banter from the card game downstairs.
Lois my mentor. Lois my cousin. Lois my best friend. I knew she would have an answer. I cuddled near to her—this precious creature who was the closest thing to a sibling I had.
“Lois,” I whispered, “What does ‘fuck’ mean?”
She didn’t laugh like Johnny Becker. She didn’t ignore me.
“It’s when a man and a woman get together to have a baby,” she replied, matter-of-factly.
I cogitated on the statement. My parents once explained that babies occur when a husband and a wife desire children. Then, at night, as the two sleep, the egg cell and the sperm cell merge and pregnancy begins. My parents never elaborated on the process: how the egg and sperm united. In my 12-year-old brain, I envisioned the couple dozing back-to-back, and some exchange—some rendezvous of cell and sperm and soul—transpiring through their bodies where they touched gently, spine-to-spine. Nine months later: A baby! Simple as that.
After a minute or two, I said, “Well, what’s so important about ‘fuck’?” Then I described my version of how babies originated.
Lois listened with eyes bulging in the dreary dimness of our tent. After I finished speaking, she said: “You don’t know how babies are born?”
Then she told me her version: “The man puts his thing in the ladies’ thing, and that’s how babies are born.”
Like so many children before me, I didn’t believe her. I was convinced Mom and Dad would never indulge in such behavior!
But later, I queried my mother about Cousin Lois’s assertion. After the card game, we sat in the car awaiting my father.
“Mommy. I said, “do you know what Cousin Lois told me...?”
I cuddled near to her—this precious creature who was the closest thing to a sibling that I had.
I expected her to dismiss the story with a wave of her hand and a comforting cliché, like “Cousin Lois is telling tales out of school.” But instead, Mom grew serious, and just as my father clicked open the car door, she confirmed that Lois’s story was indeed true. On the ride home, through quiet D.C. streets, we spoke no more about it; the presence of my father embarrassed us to silence.
A few days later, books began appearing in my room. Books about babies and hymens and menstruation—books with antiseptic, clinical drawings of cartoon figures resembling naked men and women. The words and illustrations in these books were all geared to the 12-year-old mind. I was fascinated! Frightened! I felt as if I’d been let in on a universal secret which few people were privy to.
The stuff about the monthly period amazed me. To think I’d soon be bleeding from my wee-wee! It could happen anytime, the books said, because age 12 to 14 was an average starting point.
I waited in dread. What if I began flowing at school? What if the blood seeped through my Carter’s cotton panties and my skirt, and when I stood up after Mrs. Glensler’s science class, I left a pool of hot fluid on the seat behind me? Jerry Cunningham, the short kid who always called me “dirty Jew,” would see it and shout “Look, the Jew is bleeding!” Perhaps I would stroll the halls of Rollingcrest Junior High School with a big red splotch on my behind, and no one would be brave enough to pull me aside and whisper that my dress was wet.
My mother gave me a Kotex, and showed me how to use it with an elastic belt. I practiced with the napkin; it felt bulky stuffed in my little girl crotch—still naked from lack of pubic hair. I stashed the Kotex in my school locker—shuddering to imagine that someone might discover it.
Meanwhile, I became more and more aware of the word “fuck.” Everywhere I looked, the word appeared: in girls’ bathrooms, on the iron steps at Rollingcrest, and on the cinderblock walls of the school stairwells.
“Fuck!”
The boys at Rollingcrest said it constantly:
“Fuck you!”
“Wanna fuck?”
“Fuck me!”
“Let’s fuck!”
“Fuckin’ teacher.”
“Fuckin’ A.”
With each new exposure to the word, I would smile a secret smile—not unlike the Mona Lisa’s, I imagined—for I was now one of the initiated. I smiled when Stan Goldstein blew up a rubber like a balloon and released it in the school cafeteria; the thing whizzed high as the fluorescent bulbs above, and then landed in Janie Katz’s lunch with a fart-like sound. I smiled when boys gave the fuck-you finger to other boys. I smiled because I was now one of the chosen few. Thanks to Cousin Lois, I now knew the meaning of life; thanks to Cousin Lois, I now knew the meaning of “fuck.”
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