The morning after I had sex for the first time, I woke up with a crushing feeing that I’d done something evil and I was going to be caught and punished. The next time I saw my parents, I was terrified. I thought they were going to catch some nuance in my speech or gestures and go “Wait a second… you’re acting like a sex-haver! You are in so much trouble.” This didn’t happen, but the feeling of guilty terror lingered.
And I think it was that guilty terror that led me to my paranoia. I was so convinced that I had been bad and would be punished, I believed biology itself would punish me. It didn’t help that I’d grown up hearing about how pregnancy and STIs were “consequences” for sex. Health class, parents, teachers, media, and peers had always talked about these things not as risks that adults have to manage, but as dire fates (or worse, humiliatingly comical fates) for sluts. At age 15, I took a certain toxic-girl-hate pride in being Responsible and Pure. At age 16, I’d had a penis inside me.
Read the rest at The Pervocracy here