The Home I Know: Intimacy
Chapter 18
Thank you for your interest in the section of my memoir below. If your email server clips the message, then you can read the full post on Substack. You can also listen to the post by clicking the audio button at the top of this page. When needed, visit the Bibliography and Support Resources. This post mentions incest abuse. If you’re seeking resources, head over to Incest AWARE or Sibling Sexual Trauma.
“I touch my own skin, and it tells me that before there was any harm, there was miracle.”1
~ adrienne maree brown
~ ~ ~
I applied for a leadership position at a local corporate design dealership and got the job. With a large increase in salary, I was able to move to my dream neighborhood in the Marina District, found the perfect apartment with hardwood floors and a bay window, and arose everyday to make an impact as a leader at my new company. I bought all the nice clothes and the pretty furniture, I grew my hair out long and swam regularly with friends in the sea. My sun-kissed skin glowed. This was my chance to finally succeed at normalcy: to fit in, to keep up with the expectations of my peers, and the economic class I was raised in. To be happy, finally.
A new friend Peggy asked to come visit me by the shoreline and insisted we rent wetsuits, so we could swim with the surfers and play in the waves. I hated the idea. Squeezing my sensitive skin, my weighted body, into a constrained space made me shake. It would certainly serve as protection from the cold, but also potentially hold me in a trapped tension I might not be able to tolerate. But Peggy’s enthusiasm always tempted me beyond the limitations I perceived of my body and its fears that flooded me.
“Let’s just try it!” She announced confidently, fearlessly. We showed up to the surf shop, dropped our credit cards, and I quickly took my rubber suit into the changing room.
Okay, one step at a time.
First one foot, then the other.
One ankle, then the other.
One thigh, then the other.
Over my hips.
Over my torso.
Left arm pulled through.
Right arm pulled through.
Now the shoulders.
The suit was on. I scanned my body and realized the discomfort felt manageable.
“Peggy, I need help with the zipper.”
She entered the dressing room, turned me around, grabbed the long lanyard, squeezed the suit even tighter, and zipped me up. I shuffled less like a human and more like a penguin in my new, thicker skin that would make me buoyant. Quickly, my feet found the sand once again. The familiar met me in all this strange newness. This version of me. This land. This trauma processing. This career path. This community. Safety. Peggy standing beside me. The sea lapping, waiting. I entered my old love.
My feet flushed with cold, while my ankles stayed warm. Then my legs. Then my pelvis. Then my waist. Then my breasts. Then my neck. All warm. My arms came down. My hands knew the chill. Then my face.
“Ahhhhhh!” I screamed under water. The contraction of my face muscles ached. The trauma held in these parts released so suddenly. The sound of my screams softened within the water. Here I could yell out loud. I surfaced silently then subsumed under the sea once again. Another scream. The rage releasing. The trapped feelings. The reelings and rhythms of years of hidden violations becoming known. My face, witnessed by the water. The water, a safe place to let go.
“Are you okay?” Peggy asked, as I was spending a little too much time under there.
“Yes,” I lied, while we shifted the spirit of the day to play.
“Peggy, watch this,” I called as I threw my hands in the direction of the sun, leapt into the air, and prepped my belly to flop hard on the surface of the sea.
“Annie, nooooo!” Peggy screamed, but it was too late.
I landed hard on a sand dune that I couldn’t see. The breath knocked out of my belly. I choked and held my body, laughing hysterically, trying to catch my breath. Peggy giggling with me and at me simultaneously. Together, we swam further, deeper, under the waves, finding our bodies out past the wake. Chasing the water, surfing the whitewash, flirting with the surfers, reuniting with the sea, all with a friend. For the first time in a long time, my body felt joy again.
We returned to Peggy’s for dinner after shedding ourselves of our newfound skins, determined to buy wetsuits and return to the water more frequently now. Peggy’s home was full of hand-me-down furniture: chests, beds, dishes, and art gifted from family. Mismatched and imperfect, her home didn’t compare to mine aesthetically. My apartment was full of brand name, perfectly coordinated furniture in monochromatic ocean tones with ivory and sand tan hues. But hers reflected the love of her family, the generosity of a community that gifted her the overflow of their abundance. Misshapen and misplaced and full of memory, her home glowed with a different kind of beauty, and left me longing for all I had lost.
“So, update me,” Peggy said while beginning dinner prep. “Are you dating anyone?”
I hesitated. I yearned for a romantic partner, but by this time I was so far behind my peers when it came to sexual development. While my friends spent their college years and early twenties dating, marrying, building families and careers, I mostly navigated the chaos of recovered memories and the process of healing. I was 27 now and still had not had consensual intercourse.
I felt flood when trying to learn and navigate all of these skills as an adult, while also managing the activations of emotional and physical intimacy and the difficulties of attachment to someone new. I had no idea how to approach the disconnect between experienced lovers and my amateur body healing from serial incest abuse.
“I joined online dating apps and have been matching with some people,” I responded shyly then quickly changed the subject.
As I drove home, I reflected on what might be the safest access point to sexual exploration at this time in my life considering my constraints. Maybe self-pleasure was a simpler place to start. So I decided that the following weekend, I’d take myself on a date to a sex shop.
I held my breath in my chest as my feet found the front door. Fake penises, edible undies, and luxurious toys of all shapes and sizes passed before my eyes igniting a thousand curiosities. I knew I needed to ease in and had no idea where to begin. The store clerk witnessed my intimidated look and hurried over to check on me.
“Hi! How can I help you today?”
“Hi,” I addressed her trembling. My voice cracked with deep and shameful shyness.
“I’d like to explore your vibrator options,” I sputtered reluctantly.
“Great! We have a variety of toys!” She replied with an alarming amount of enthusiasm.
She led me over to a glass case filled with phallic shaped wands in pastel pinks and purples. Some small, some medium sized, others massive. It was all very intimidating.
“Do you know what size you’re looking for?” She continued.
“Soooo,” the shaking became more severe. “I’ve never had one before, so I’m not sure. Can I share something personal with you?”
“Of course,” she looked at me with care.
“I’m an incest abuse survivor and am actively working on healing. I’d like a vibrator that will help me experience pleasure without being too activating or painful.”
“Ah,” she responded. “Well, I’m so sorry that happened to you. We do have a few solutions.”
She met me with confidence and competence, then showed me a wand that elongated and shortened, widened and shrank, so that someone could explore the comfort of different sizes and adjust accordingly. Then, we discussed the external vibrators made for clitoral stimulation without the need to penetrate. That felt like the right place to begin, so I bought one, went home and began exploring my body all by myself.
It felt stimulating, empowering, healing to know that my body was made for pleasure, my pleasure specifically. That I could manage my sexuality by myself, while experiencing the trauma reactions and pain at my own pace, without the complex emotions of relational intimacy and the need to communicate such stigmatizing subjects with someone I didn’t yet trust.
~ ~ ~
One morning at work, a guy walked into the office with the tightest dress pants I had ever seen. He was around my age, just a bit taller than me, fit, with olive skin, and light brown hair. My colleagues saw me light up when he walked into the room, so encouraged me to help him.
“Hi, I’m Anne,” I began bashfully. “How are you doing today?”
“Hi, I’m Dave.”
The sales process went as usual, while the flirting was unusual. We spent hours together discussing leather options, touring his large apartment, and considering the placement of this iconic piece. I tried to maintain professionality, while my heart beat incessantly in his company. Finally, he chose his perfect piece of furniture and we said goodbye. Inspired by this rush of stimulating energy activated by my client, I jumped onto the dating app and started swiping. Fears filled my mind of how I might answer normal first date questions honestly without oversharing:
“Where did you grow up?”
“Where does your family live?”
“Are you going home for the holidays?”
I practiced various answers that filtered my history with different levels of honesty depending on how much I intuited the listener could receive.
“I grew up in Southern CA, but consider San Francisco home.”
“I have an unconventional family system all over the US!”
“I’m spending the holidays with friends this year.”
Additionally, I knew that sexual violence on dating sites was common.2 So, I navigated this process slowly and cautiously to ensure I stayed safe. Then, I saw him. Dave. My client. He was single. Quickly, I swiped right — we were a match! Immediately, a message popped into my inbox.
“Hey! I can’t believe you’re on here! It blows my mind that you’re single.”
“Aw, thanks! Likewise.” I replied bashfully.
“I’ve been dying to ask you out, but haven’t really known how since we’re always at your work. I’d like to come in this week and ask you on a date the proper way, if you’re open to that?”
Don’t sound desperate. “Sure! I’d love to get to know you better.” My pulse pounded now in more than one place in my body.
We went to dinner a few times and the sexual attraction grew. It became clear that we didn’t share the same lifestyles and a long term fit wouldn’t work, but a casual sexual fling might be of interest to us both. I questioned the values of my upbringing. I had tossed that Abstinence ‘Till Marriage (ATM) card years ago. Dave was physically safe, I didn’t question that, but we didn’t have an emotional connection. He knew of my history and held it well, an unfortunately surprising experience. He also knew I had never had consensual sex and had no interest in pushing me. He understood the desire to have my first time be with someone special. My body felt deeply ready, but my heart wanted more. My desires divided me. Dave came over and closed the door behind him.
“Can I kiss you?” He asked gently.
“Yes!” I expressed urgently.
He pushed me against the back of the door with just the right amount of force, pressed his hips into my torso, and gently let his lips find mine. My body flooded with feeling. Our hands began exploring each other as the kissing grew more intense, deeper. We went to the bedroom.
“These pillows are ridiculous.” He judged, as he threw them onto the floor and out of our way. “Do you want to keep going, or do you want to leave?” I teased, as I pulled him back onto me.
We laid on the bed, my head softening into the mattress. Clothes came off. Bodies turned on. Skin on skin. His body absorbing my body. My body receiving his body. Eventually, we were laying there naked once again. Me wondering about my limits, he respecting whatever I chose.
“I want to have sex,” I expressed.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Okay!”
“Do you have a condom?”
“No.”
“Fuck.”
The weight of his body collapsed onto mine, disappointed. Of course we weren’t prepared. “I guess we need to go get some!” His tone switched excitedly. We quickly redressed, jumped in the car, drove to the store, bought condoms, headed home, and started all over again.
“Are you okay?” He asked cautiously.
“Yes,” I responded curiously.
Successfully inside me now, he surrendered his weight on top of me. I held him there, feeling the pressure inside and out. He kissed me, while his hips slowly gyrated forward and backward. Pleasure, pressure, no pain. This was what sex was supposed to be. Tears slowly started dripping down my face.
“Am I hurting you?” Dave stopped and looked at me with so much concern it moved me deeply.
“No, I love this,” I confirmed my consent.
brown, Pleasure Activism: The Politics of Feeling Good.
Gewirtz-Meydan, Volman-Pampanel, Opuda, Tarshish. “Dating Apps: A New Emerging Platform for Sexual Harassment? A Scoping Review.”