Your vagina is not a rattlesnake

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Everyone who has read my book, Relative Insanity, assumes it’s a true story based on my life.

When they learn differently they say, “Wait, that was FICTION?”

And I usually reply with, “Didn’t you notice the main character was named Kate? And *not* Shauna?”

That tends to leave them stumped with disbelief.

I find that most people are disappointed to learn that it wasn’t *me* who was pulled over by a police officer for performing oral sex on her husband, but in fact, a figment of my imagination. So for that I apologize.

For years I’ve wanted to publish a book of non-fiction, narrative essays of my childhood. Up until now I worried that exposing my family or revealing too much about my life might cause some kind of harm. I say “up until now” because I’ve recently learned something about me. I don’t care anymore. You can thank my therapist for this breakthrough.

I’m ten stories in to what I’m hoping will be my next published work. It’s funny, it’s sad, but mostly it’s horribly embarrassing. Especially this story–which YES, I’m letting you read NOW.

The Five-Year-Old Masturbator

I was raised this way: Be afraid of everything or God will punish you.

Right out of high school my dad went to college and then seminary school. He rocked that Jesus stuff so hard he was Valedictorian of Arlington Baptist College.

He and my mom got married when they were eighteen. Then they had me when they were nineteen. To say they had no idea what they were doing is the understatement of the New Testament.

Dad was an upcoming associate pastor at our family church. The head pastor, Dr Hall, liked my dad and took him under his wing. Made him his bitch, if you will.

Being raised in the Baptist church was not easy. In fact, it was downright scary. In the foyer of my church hung a massive portrait of Jesus Christ. All us kids noticed that any time you walked past it, it appeared Jesus’s eyes were following you—judging you, watching your every move. It was like being at a haunted house. Every Sunday morning, Sunday night, and Wednesday night OF YOUR LIFE.

I can’t speak for my dad, but my experience of him in his younger years of preaching the gospel was this: he was scared shitless of what God might do if he or anyone he loved went against what the Bible said. So. He did what every other scared shitless person who followed the Word of God did. He obeyed it.

Which also means we (his kids) were to do the same. Even if we had no fucking idea what that meant.

I don’t know how old I was…four, five, maybe. And I started doing this thing where I laid on my hands. Not under my clothes, touching my parts, but over my clothes. I did it because it felt good. It gave me a tingly feeling. I remember lying in front of the TV watching Big Foot with my family, wiggling and writhing with my hands placed underneath my vaginal area—which at the time I referred to as my tee-tee. I would do this for five minutes or so and then the tingly feeling would pass.

I guess my dad thought what I was doing was wrong because the first time he saw me doing it he scooped me up from the floor, took me into the bedroom, and whipped me with a belt.

No explanation. Just a whopping whoop ass on my behind.

I was so young and so confused and didn’t know to ask what I’d done wrong or why I was being spanked. Clearly I had disobeyed him somehow and had to be punished.

A few days later, I laid on my hands again—this time on the sofa in the living room. He walked in, saw what I was doing, and again snatched me up by my blue jeans and gave me a spanking.

After the second time this happened it clicked. Laying on my hands was bad. But why? What did it mean?

It got worse. My church had a daycare that my younger brother and I attended every day while my parents worked. Since my dad worked at the church, his office was just down the hall from the daycare.

Sometimes during naptime I would lay on my hands. Look, I don’t know why I did this. In retrospect I guess I was masturbating (?) but is that even possible? To be five years old and have an orgasm?

Being forty-one now and having had millions of orgasms (I’m not bragging) I guess I was giving myself orgasms as a toddler. That probably makes me the youngest slut in the history of recorded orgasms. But seriously, I had no idea at the time what I was doing. I just knew it felt good.

Anyway, so how the story got worse. My dad must have given the daycare teacher, Mrs. Ford, the 411 about his masturbating five year old and told her to call him if she caught me doing it.

Mrs. Ford was a mean lady. She was tall with red hair and a voice so deep she sounded like a man. When I think back she must have been a big time smoker (that would explain the deep voice and the over-wrinkly lips) because she was always going outside and warning us preschoolers, “Behave while I’m gone or Miss Ford will get the flyswatter.” You did NOT want to be hit with that thing. Trust me.

During naptime Mrs. Ford would walk around each cot, checking to make sure your eyes were closed. I believe she did this because she didn’t want any of us kids to tell our parents what went on during naptime. Well, I’m sorry, Mrs. Ford, but I’m telling EVERYONE.

After lunch, every kid (who was of walking age) had to get a cot off the stack of cots and place it on the floor, in a row. Then we lay down and Mrs. Ford turned off all the lights. That’s about the time the TV was turned on. To All My Children. Mrs. Ford had a soap opera addiction and nothing (not even her JOB) was going to keep her from watching her stories. Never mind the fact that thirty-five little kids were skillfully and secretly ALSO watching All My Children. Because who can sleep when the “Queen of Pine Valley” Phoebe Tyler had so much going on in her life!

Anyway, so to “prevent” us from watching TV and “ensuring” we were getting the downtime we needed, Mrs. Ford would walk around carrying a flyswatter. If she saw your eyes were open, you got swatted on the behind. Now on top of having to keep my eyes closed for an hour, I quickly learned I couldn’t lay on my damn hands either.

One day I’m laying there, on my cot, pretending to be asleep while wriggling on my hands, and then all the sudden I noticed my dad was standing over me, hands on his hips, not looking very happy. I was totally busted. He snatched me from my cot, dragged me to his office, and spanked me. Then he said he was sorry, gave me a piece of chocolate and sent me back down the hall to daycare.

You have never met a more confused five-year old girl in your life.

I couldn’t even get away with laying on my hands at Grandma’s house. Dad had that covered too. Although when Grandma caught me doing it she didn’t have to call him to come do the spanking, she just whipped me herself. And then gave me a cookie and told me to go watch Family Feud with the other grandkids.

Eventually I grew out of the laying on my hands thing. Partly because I was tired of being spanked and the other part being I think I forgot to do it.

Fast-forward twenty-two years.

At the age of twenty-seven I had never had an orgasm. I had never touched my vagina other than to put in and take out a tampon. And even that grossed me out.

I was at dinner one night with my friend, Amy (the same girl who told me what happens on your wedding night—she’s so knowledgeable) and we were talking about how you “make it” between boyfriends. Meaning, how do you get off when you’re without a partner. I was like, “what do you mean? I don’t do anything.”

She got this weird look on her face. “You don’t even use a vibrator?”

“What? NO! I have never even seen one must less USED one.”

“So you just use your hand?”

I was beyond humiliated. Were we really talking about masturbation?

“Amy,” I said as I leaned in closer so no one at any other tables would hear. “I’ve never had an orgasm.”

“WHAT? How is that possible? You were MARRIED.”

“Yeah? So? I never had one. I don’t even know HOW.”

So being the good friend she is, Amy explained in very explicit detail, how to give myself an orgasm. My mouth was agape for most of the fifteen-minute explanation.

“So, you actually touch the area like with your bare hands?”

“Shauna, it’s your vagina, not a rattlesnake. You’ll be fine. Go home tonight and do it.”

I nodded. Although I had no intention of touching my naked vagina. Ever.

Amy knew this about me. “Shauna, I mean it. I’m going to call you tomorrow morning and you better tell me you masturbated.”

“Fine.”

And well, now I’m pretty sure I know why people don’t mind being single.

Thank you, Amy. Oh, and thank you, Jesus.

************************************************************************

PS. In case you haven’t read Relative Insanity yet (seriously?) and want a signed copy, leave a comment. I’ll randomly draw a name and send you one. But only if you promise to buy a copy for your mom. Or your best friend. Or your kid’s teacher. Wait, don’t do that. You want your kid to pass the year, right?