We’ve done so much work, I finally believed I have a body worth reclaiming.
I became comfortable with her. Free with the language of sex. Courageous enough to tell her my biggest worry was my first time. A strange kind of grief followed when I realized virginity was never a virtue, but Camille taught me the concept has been used for centuries to keep women docile.
Untouched, but not whole. Saved, but never safe.
The thought I might have almost lost my virginity to a sixty-two-year-old abuser made my skin crawl. At the same time, I hadn’t ever dated and didn’t trust myself to choose my first lover wisely.
Camille told me about sex therapy.
A way to bring my body in line with my mind.
Sex wouldn’t be for someone else’s pleasure. Only for mine. Choice. Safety. Presence. A path to explore without fear. It seemed like a safer way to learn about myself. What I could be capable of.
Now I get to rewrite the story. If I’m going to allow a man to enter my body, I’ll make the choice. With someone I trust. In a space I control.
So I said yes.
Together, Camille and I created a phased program with no pressure and no timelines.
Phase one occurred over the course of a few weeks. We did exercises where I’d touch a body part and allow her to touch me there too. Nothing sexual. It was like meeting myself for the first time. Arms. Elbows. Chin. Wrists. Hips. Calves. Feet. Hands.
At night, my homework was to do the same exercises alone without clothes. Beneath the blankets, my palm trembling over bare skin, I did the exercises. It didn’t take long before I realized I wouldn’t disappear. There was no wrath or hellfire anywhere.
The lesson was, my body’s not shameful. Or sinful. It’smine.
Phase two ventured into sex education and immersed me even deeper into touch. Camille, essentially, taught me about the birds and the bees. Dispelled myths and horror stories I’d been fed my whole life. Guided me through weeks of learning body parts and how they function.
I studied diagrams of both the female and male body. Using anatomically correct mannequins, she showed me erogenous zones and taught me about reproduction andsex. For homework, I touched myself in the places I’d learned about. Paid attention to what felt good and what didn’t.
Each night, I’d allow my hands to explore my skin without apology. Experiment with pressure, speed, combinations. Sometimes I’d cry or panic or not feel anything. Eventually, I was able to trace patterns across my belly. Nipples. Lips. Thighs. Neck.
One night, I grew brave and allowed my fingers to venture between my legs. The heat surprised me. So did the way my hips shifted instinctively. I slid my hand lower and explored my soft, slick folds. Found my clit and caressed. Brushed. Flicked. Circled.Learned. I stayed with it and the sensation grew and an energy unlike anything I could have ever imagined crashed over me like a wave too big to duck under.
When it subsided, I didn’t feel guilt. I felt…stillness.
Deep, sublime, stillness.
I sobbed with joy. Curled into myself. Thanked myself for surviving and being able to give myself an orgasm. By staying with the process, I discovered self-pleasure.
Phase three was about seeing myself. This part was rough, but Camille guided me through the exercises patiently. In the beginning, I stood facing the mirror, still in bra and panties. Only when I felt steady did I watch myself undress. Over the course of many weeks, I was able to stand fully nude and look at myself. Watch myself touch the pleasurable places I’d explored in the dark.
Eventually, I made myself come in front of a mirror. I circled my clit while my free hand pinched my nipple. Aware of the rosiness spreading across my chest. My belly contracting. The exact moment my climax bloomed and my entire body shuddered with gratification.
A few days later, I did the same thing with a vibrator. Buzzing, against my palm. I started with my nipples then moved downward.
Full. Deep.Perfect. The moment it touched my clit, I shrieked. Then I watched as I guided it inside.
In the mirror, I saw it all. My hips moving, breasts bouncing, mouth open. When I came, I whispered,“God.”
It was the first time I knew, with abject certainty, the woman in the mirror is divine.
Phase four was the introduction to Elijah, my sex surrogate counselor. Tall, medium build and boyishly handsome, he entered the room quietly. Never imposing, never assuming.
In the beginning, I sat curled, arms around my ribs, breath shallow. He spoke to me. Asked me questions and over time, my body softened when I became comfortable. At some point, I uncrossed my legs and let my hands fall open in my lap. One day, when he offered his hand, I reached for it. Our fingers twined.
Warmth traveled up my arm and settled low, where my shame used to live.
In later sessions, he touched my forearm, my shoulder, my thigh, always asking first. I learned to breathe through it, to communicate exactly how I felt. Eventually, we embraced and held each other. Elijah won my trust. Made me feel safe. Whole.
