THE FIRST TIME...

The first time I felt ashamed

I must have been four or five years old when I first experienced the feeling of being ashamed for doing something I felt was natural. I remember that day like it was yesterday, I was upstairs playing in my aunt's house with her two step granddaughters -- who, by the way, have no relation to me -- when the oldest of the two decided that the next game to play should be House. Now for those who have never played the game: it is when young kids act out what they believe are the traditional roles of a mommy, a daddy, and their babies. In that moment I thought nothing of it, especially since I had played house so many times before and just like every other time, I knew was going to be the 'daddy' since that was the role that always came naturally to me.

Everything was going as normal until the oldest, who was playing the role of the mommy, suggested that we should "make a baby" in the bed, and without thinking twice about it I said, "yes." Once sneaking into my aunt's -- her grandmother -- bedroom, we hopped onto the bed and dove under the sheets. After staring and smiling at one another for what felt like an hour, she leaned in to give me a peck on the lips.

Although this was my first time kissing a girl, it wasn't a big deal because that is what I knew any mommy and daddy would do in bed. After sharing a few innocent pecks with one another she took off her tie dye Minnie Mouse shirt and told me that it was time for me to get on top of her, and again without hesitation, I did. It was obvious that this was the extent of our knowledge on conception because the next few minutes consisted of us giggling and planning the next scene of our game... until suddenly, we heard the door swing open and someone yelling, "What in the hell are y'all doing?"

I instantly jumped off of her and froze. My aunt then grabbed me by my tiny arm and started spanking me with her hand, all the while yelling, "Don't do that nasty shit anymore!" over and over.

Once finished with both of us, we were no longer permitted to play upstairs with one another alone, so we were led to the middle of the living room where we sat in fear, eyes filled with tears, forced to listen to the adults making jokes and calling us "little nasty dykes."

Dyke? What's a dyke?

That question played over and over again in my young mind -- it wasn't until a few years later that I discovered its meaning. All I knew in that moment was what we had done was a bad thing, and the fact that I enjoyed it was something I should hide because I never wanted to feel shamed like that again.