Every day at school, a feverish nightmare was likely to occur. Back then, I was unaware of my learning disability and knew nothing of dyslexia.
This is my story. A brutal truth: unknowingly living with dyslexia in 1984.
Fever
“… fever…”
Fever should rhyme with never. Right? This was my only thought as I stared at the foreign word. Standing at the front of the room, I could barely see over the podium. I clutched the open book in my hands. The black letters swelled as the many faces of my grade four class blurred and shimmered in my peripheral.
“What?” Mr. Moir asked, not bothering to leave his desk.
Instead, he pinched the bridge of his nose from beneath his glasses. He was a stout man who liked to wear the color of oatmeal. Strands of hair laid like lines in the sky after an air show, lay across the top of his glossy head. There was no sympathy in his expression once he dragged his palm down his rough chin. He looked tired and even a little annoyed. Meanwhile,
I was the one facing my worst fear;
Standing in front of my entire class, reading a passage I had never laid eyes on before. It took everything I had not to cry or pee my pants, and my teacher looked bored.
He scratched the air with his finger as a gesture for me to bring the book to him. When I did so, I pointed at the word with my chewed-down finger nail.
“Fever.” He said these two ugly syllables in a way that showed his crowded bottom teeth.
I had never been eye level with Mr. Mori before and did not care for it at all.
“Fever.” I echoed in a whisper. “But it looks like never,” I dared to explain.
His face crumpled as if he were refraining from saying,
‘stupid girl.’
Then, from behind me, the tempered giggles and snorts that I ignored became alive. The entire room erupted into laughter, and I saw the jagged line of Mr. Moir’s teeth again. He too, was laughing.
My face grew hot, and my eyes burned. I felt so small and naked. Ice-cold realization hit me;
this was where my nightmares lived.
Closed in by the chalkboard wall, the giant teacher’s desk, and the podium, trapped by fear and humiliation. This moment stretched on and slithered around me, swaying the room. Once the clatter of laughter subsided, there was no apology or even pointless face covering. He did not ask to return to my seat. Instead mercilessly, Mr. Moir pointed to the podium.
Even at the tender age of eleven, I could not climb the stairs from the basement to tell my parents what had happened. What is more upsetting is that I am uncertain to why. I may have been afraid of not being believed, although it is more likely that I feared being blamed. Instead of saying anything, I slipped soundlessly into a chair at the kitchen table to sit next to the middle brother, Wes. The only one in that house whom I trusted.
“Johnny tried to kiss you, didn’t he?”
Johnny was Wes’ older brother, and this omission was in the form of a question. This startled me, but I could only nod. Wes was doing his homework and I sat stunned, scared and unmoving. Until, of course, his dad came in. This wiry man was my mother’s best friend’s husband and he shooed me away to the basement again.
“Wes doesn’t need any distractions during his studies.” His father had said.
The meager smile the boy gave me was meant as an apology. Wes knew what the basement would hold for me and didn’t tell.
Victim Blaming
Slowly, I descended the stairs in my fuzzy pink pajamas with purple feet and mitten-shaped pockets. There, Johnny was with his littlest brother, setting up a board game. The safest place seemed to be on the floor at the opposite end of the coffee table. So, I masked my reluctance and joined. How could I have known that from beneath the table his leg crossed the distance? Every time he tried cramming his foot into my crotch, I smacked it away. On the third try, he sent his little brother upstairs.
“Don’t go” I plead but the words were stuck in my throat, the frights to big for two syllables. I scrambled to my feet in hope to make room for them to free from tongue.
Before I knew what was happening, he had me pinned down on the couch, and I still remember his crushing weight. In my panicked frenzy, I somehow managed to get away. Straight up two flights of stairs, I ran clutching the waist of my pajama bottoms. I hid under the covers of where I would be sleeping that night; except; I didn’t sleep. I sobbed quietly, gripped by the fear that Johnny would try again. Luckily, he did not.
Memory is a funny thing.
Somehow, for a while, I was able to get past
Victim Blaming
that night at my parent’s friend’s house. There were a few years of blissful forgetfulness and denial. Until one day that memory came crashing back fully loaded with the fear of an eleven-year-old child.
Never Buried Forever
In grade ten drama class, we were to perform self-written monologues. One of these performances was of an intimate account of a sexual assault from the point of view of the victim as if he were talking to his counsellor. Everything he said bore into a wound I hadn’t known was there. The memory of my attack resurfaced, and it distorted all that I knew and tainted every relationship I had. Resentment chewed away at me and left a predominate chip.
Mercifully, I never saw Johnny again. But even now, thirty years later, on those rare occasions his name is mentioned in casual conversation, I stiffen and my stomach twists. That night will play over in my head, and the agonizing self-deprecation begins.
I should have recognized the danger in the way he looked at me.
I should have declined the can of pop he offered me.
I should have kept my distance and not stood next to him when we were picking out a movie.
I should not have changed into my pyjamas.
I should have…
I should have…
I should have…
I should have told someone.
No one blames the victim more than the victim blames themselves.
This needs to change! Why did I feel the need the justify how old I was or what I was wearing? Would I have been lesser of a victim if I had been eighteen, full-figured and scantily dressed? The answer is NO! The end of victim blaming starts with victims and potential victims. Why didn’t I tell?
A victim is … a victim is… A VICTIM.
Johnny was fourteen when he attacked me. I worry that I may have encouraged his warped approach to women and sex by not telling. I may have been able to stop him. The truth is, I really don’t know. I bolted and did everything in my power to ignore and avoid him. There is no way of knowing how many girls and women he has victimized over the years. This thought haunts me.
Now I have a daughter of my own, and I struggle with how to protect her without having to tell her of the many threats that may surround her. I want her to be aware without being jaded. I want her to be safe without losing her innocence or free spirit. More importantly, I want her to always talk to me.
Victim blaming must end
I resent having to raise my daughter to be cautious of predators. Programming women to scrutinize their own actions as a way of preventing someone from wronging them is fundamentally backward and socially corrupt. The blame falls solely on the offender.
Ladies, your body will deceive you. If pornography happens to offend, or even repulse you, the bitter truth is that your body will react to it involuntarily. This is within moderation, of course. If something is violent or disgusting, your ethical and moral compass will reject it, but if it is just bodies on bodies doing what natural human bodies were meant to do, you will become visually stimulated and physically aroused. Like it or not. We are, after-all, animals, and there is no greater reminder of this than the act of sex. The point is, you may be surprised by your body’s response to specific stimuli, to which you have no control over.
If you happen to be someone who is uncomfortable watching porn but still considers yourself a sexual being who is looking to spice up your intimacy without having to go all ‘Fifty Shades of Grey,’ you have come to the right place. There are ways to use your own senses to tap into your true erotic self. Sight is just one of the five senses. Many of the others are often overlooked, but are just as effective by means of seduction, stimulation, and reaching full sensory ecstasy.
Some senses have a duality. There is the act of giving and receiving. This is an important point to keep in mind. Sound for instance, not only is it erotic to hear the sounds of pleasure coming from your partner but it can be just as arousing making the noises and hearing yourself. Have you ever set out to fake an orgasm because you were too tired or too preoccupied to become too invested and then unexpectedly had one? My guess is that in your efforts to convince your partner of your participation and help them along, you inadvertently turned yourself on. What if you set out to do just that from the beginning?
Moms in particular, regardless if you are working or a domestic GM, tend to suppress their pleasure potential by measuring or silencing the sounds of passion for fear of little ears listening. This I understand and sympathize with. With the kids down the hall or just on the other side of the wall, not only do you try to be quiet, you have your hearing is on high alert for any sound beyond the bedroom door. This intense distraction is the primary obstacle in the way of your much needed, much deserved full body release. I urge you to find a way, place, or time to let yourself explore sound. You may not need to be loud, but you need the freedom to determine what volume is key to awaken your inner sex goddess. And we are talking about a few minutes. Again, you don’t need a partner. Have ‘them’ take the kids to the park or to gramma’s house. It is important that you reserve this time for yourself on a regular basis. And if you still cannot quiet the stream of thoughts when you are alone, this is where I would suggest a vice. I prefer cannabis, for a multitude of reasons and have an entire episode dedicated to this explanation.
On planned moments of romance, we often consider having something playing in the background. We put on our favorite collection of love songs or call upon the sounds of the babbling brook to engage our sense of sound as part of the ritual of seduction.
There is far more to sound than background noise when it comes to sex. Noises that we often try to mute or mask for fear that others will hear. Sex is noisy. It is physically exerting and should have the natural soundtrack to match the level of play and effort. And I am not just referring to heavy breathing.
Sounds of sex are natural. Don’t suppress sighs of pleasure, groans of wanting, or moans of exhilaration. Instead, let go and allow your hot panting to escalate into speaking your secret desires
Sounds Good
Self-seduce with sound
How to sound dirty or talk dirty without feeling dirty.
Talking or sounding dirty does not have to be crude or graphic. It is quite simply the combination of words and their timing. Just saying things that are swirling in your mind could bring your pleasure to a whole new level. Your body will react.
sound dirty
The thrill of saying things never before dared on your tongue, hearing the delicious sounds pass your lips and the response you will surely get from your partner, is too exhilarating not to try.
For the hesitant, blushing first-timers, I suggest you begin when your lips are close to your partner’s ear. That way, they can be whispered. If this is completely out of character for you, what you say does not have to sound as though you are suffering from Trouette’s sydrome. You could just moan. I kid you not. Making pleasurable sounds, just loud enough for you and your partner to hear, while cuddling and caressing will heighten arousal.
Many women will admit that…
…the act of faking an orgasm has itself triggered climax.
Why do you think that is? Because…
erotic sounds, especially your own erotic sounds, are stimulating.
Your body reacts to your own sounds and your partner’s response, whether audible or physical. When your body responds, it seeks pleasure. You will thrive and rock with a willingness to explore and be explored.
As the passion intensifies, so can your sounds. Describe what you like. Not in novel form, just a statement here and there. If the idea of speaking body parts makes you recoil, then don’t say them. Refer to them by ‘you’re’ and ‘I’m.’ Stick to adjectives. ‘You are so hard and smooth.’ See, you could be describing his back or arms. “Your touch drives me crazy.” Or, “I’m so hot for you.”
Sounds of Sex
These words should not be forced; just close your eyes and breathe them.
It is that simple. Nothing I have suggested is too risky.
It took me a long time to say extremely dirty things. The first time I did, my husband reacted so viscerally that I sent him over the edge before I had even warmed up. This only led to a very welcome ‘twice in one night’.
Good luck. Have fun and happy Valentine’s Day.
If what I have recommended is still outside of your comfort zone, consider reading erotica. To yourself is fine, and it may inspire your imagination to grab hold of things you are comfortable saying. But reading it aloud, to or with your partner, brings seduction to a whole new level.
I have an example of erotica tucked away on my website. Find it print out. It is one of our favorites. The pages are in an envelope marked Taxes in my husband’s night stand. Often, he reads it to me. Rarely do we make it all the way through before, well, you know. Or you will soon enough.
Ok, warning, it is cut to hard core. There is no pre amble it starts immediately. This is what I consider full blown smut. It is an example of how words, especially when said aloud, or heard can be arousing. Please do so in the privacy of your own home, alone or in the company of a willing partner.
Have fun.
That concludes ‘Sounds ,’ from the Sex, Drugs, & Working Moms series. Thanks for listening. I’m MLE. Stay tuned next week as I continue self-seduction using your senses. In the meantime, be sure to get yours.
A soft tongue hides behind luscious lips and slick pearly whites. Our mouths are essential to the art of seduction and lovemaking. Kisses, after-all are at the heart of all human affection.
Beyond the physical.
There are two types of taste.
Self-seduce with taste
The first is the most recognized. It is why cooking can also be an art of seduction. Having exquisite flavours burst in your mouth is one of life’s most enjoyable sensations. Food itself can be an aphrodisiac.
I want to focus on the second type; the subconsciousness of taste. Just as scent has the power to trigger nostalgia,
taste has the little-known power to alter mood.
Tastes fun
I associate peanut butter with my childhood. As an adult, I very rarely eat it. However, when I find myself surly or sullen, I will scoop a spoonful right out of the jar into my mouth. To me, I no longer savour the thick buttery flavour but, within a half-hour, my mood is lighter. I barely notice the transformation; unlike scent, it is not instantaneous. It is more like taking an aspirin for a headache. After a few minutes, I notice that I feel better. It is as if my mind associates the taste of peanut butter with a calmer, less worrisome time and reverts to them.
Taste Nostalgia
This phenomenon can help set the tone for romance, too. Do pina coladas taste like paradise, barbecue taste like summer or hot cider taste like Christmas? It doesn’t have to be your favourite flavour; it just needs to be a taste you associate with a pleasurable mood. Chicken noodle soup may comfort you, and mint chocolate chip ice cream may leave you jubilant.
Not convinced? Consider tequila. If even the thought of this murky liquid causes your stomach to roil, that is because you probably had a drunken tequila night that ended badly. The brain remembers and has since rejected the taste of (and possibly the sound of the word) tequila. On the other hand, if you are grinning with the thought of licking, shooting, and sucking…well, then cheers. But I would bet you know someone who would groan or gag at the same thought.
Still not convinced? One word.
Chocolate.
Self-Seduce with taste
This heavenly creamy flavour has so many benefits and, for the purpose of this article, it is commonly associated with childhood, holidays and love. No wonder women (and men) crave it and indulge in it because it holds the power to alter your mood. Better than any drug.
Please practice moderation in the consumption of any mood-altering substance.
Tastes like childhood
Before a night of romance, especially if the weather has taken its toll, put your subconscious taste buds to the test. Even if your plans include an evening of strawberries, wine, lobster and stuffed chicken; consider sneaking in an abstract appetizer or cocktail. It could boost your mood and widen the gates to the path of romance, seduction, and passion.
This is an example of simple mind over matter. Allow your sense of taste to alter your mood to one of arousal.
I stash a tub of gummy bears in the car and a six-pack of Corona in the fridge just in case we happen upon a night with the unexpected promise of romance. I trust in the flavours to nudge my mood to ensure my ultimate pleasure.
I would like to shatter the manufactured shame associated with women’s natural curiosity to visually explore sex. If we were not socially conditioned to oppress our desires, then pornography and exotic dance clubs would not be so terribly unbalanced. Clearly, we are starved for it, hence the outrageous popularity of ‘Fifty Shades of Grey‘. Even then, we were resorted to reading; limiting our visual stimulation to the confines of our mind and imagination.
Why should we be embarrassed to look?
Men, do it all the time? Yes, it is juvenile and primal, but if anything should allow us to tap into our youthful, savage selves it should be sex. The innocence to parade naked and experiment with our bodies is not only natural it is a tonne of fun when done freely and safely. These dated starchy attitudes and social dichotomies regarding sex are not likely to fall away anytime soon. I will tell you, that even if you dare to deny it, women are visual beings. We have just conditioned ourselves not to be, however.
Peeking behind the curtain is forbidden.
Seeing what you normally cannot is insanely erotic, sensual and delicious.
The easy answer is to watch pornography. Not degrading, violent, ‘put it in my face’ porn, but soft porn that focuses on the beauty of joining bodies. Because this form or art is not easily found and time is of the essence, I would like to suggest a mirror. Not the plastered to the ceiling reflective glass, put in cheap hotels with mostly the male perspective in mind, but your ‘somewhere in your home’ mirror.
Sight mirror
It needs to be at least picture size if not, of full length. Place the mirror near the bed or prop it against the couch if you intend to be on the floor. Open the drawers of your dresser to create a ledge at the perfect height. If you have two mirrors, even better.
Light candles. You will need some illumination to see and…
everything looks better by candle light.
Make certain that from your vantage point, you will get a clear view.
sight blindfold
Are your cheeks red with the mere thought of this? Is that because the idea of your partner bearing witness to you watching makes you uncomfortable and insecure? Then blindfold them. They won’t mind. In fact, you may just be fulfilling one of their secret fantasies. This will also give them the opportunity to really focus on their other senses. Encourage them to fully appreciate sound, touch, and scent.
sight ; hide your eye
Then, allow yourself to watch and really see. You just might capture mental snapshots that you can rely on in the future to heighten arousal, seduction, and release.
Need some inspiration or courage? Find it in the second part of The Round on my website. A steamy bit of erotica where Scarlet and Joel pick up right where they left off: standing in front of a mirrored pillar in the empty nightclub after hours. Part one was an exercise for sounding good while being bad. The second part focuses on the visuals and helps guide you to what you may not dare to see. The key is ‘sight’.
Watching is not limited to needing a partner. I encourage women to seduce themselves in front of a mirror. Find a comfortable private place, use candle light, maybe even scented candles, play music, and put volume to your natural sounds of pleasure. Your mission is to engage all of your senses as you watch yourself touch, be touched, and explore. Don’t hold back. Breath, moan, include your mouth by biting your lips working your tongue. Fall in love with your body and the simple pleasure it provides for you by you. Celebrate your singular seduction and ecstasy.
Sometimes keeping up with the neuroses of being a woman is just too much. I have enough on my plate without feeling the familiar rise of anxiety and insecurity when using the ladies’ room. As a mother of a little girl, I am doing my best to curb these shared experiences of irrational modesty and needless embarrassment. The problem is not only that we put these pressures upon ourselves. It is that we also refuse to sympathize with those suffering. It could be argued that this internal commotion is socially constructed or deeply rooted in old fashion upbringings. Regardless, it is well known, inherently shared, and silently understood, yet we do nothing to change it.
Stupid hang-ups shape generations and perpetuate dark-aged thinking that should have died out long ago.
When I look back to my adolescence, at a time when I was innocent and as flawless as I was ever going to be, I am infuriated with locker room behavior and decisions. None of us girls sneered or snickered at one another. We were all too busy covering up and facing the wall when changing our clothes. Making eye contact, let alone speaking to one another, was out of the question. It is only decades later that I realize that
… this was a collective panic and fear of criticism and judgement.
I hope my daughter’s generation is stronger, smarter, and able to reject such stupid hang-ups that denied my generation the courage to shower after grade nine gym. Think about it. All 25 of us refused basic hygiene as a way to avoid full nudity in a locker room full of other girls with the exact same anxieties. How bloody ridiculous is our gender?
Meanwhile, the boys are floundering around buck naked, engaging in horseplay and literal sword fights on the other side of the cinder block wall. Can I get a what the hell? Unfortunately, this asinine dichotomy follows us out of high school and right into adulthood.
Where I work, there are three stalls in the women’s washroom. If one uses the ‘guy code’ of urinal selection, no one should ever use the facilities in the middle. Who wants neighbors? Given that theory, the stall in the center should always have bathroom tissue and be the cleanest. I can only assume this folklore to be true, for I never use door number two. Considering how neurotic women are about their nudity, than their natural bodily functions must catapults them into a realm of incomparable insanity.
It irritates me to no end when I slip into the soundless restroom only to find a closed stall door whose occupant is obviously trying to go unnoticed. Seriously, I mean, they don’t move. Except for their feet, the wad of clothing bunched up on their shoes and (occasionally) the not so pleasant odor that one would (sorry, should) expect in a bathroom, the person in the stall is nearly invisible.
Only a woman could stop in mid-movement to prevent being embarrassed…
by her own bodily sounds, smells…function. Like I don’t know what she is doing in there. What’s more, I don’t care. Why do we do this? Unfortunately, I am no better. The food court, ten flights down, has a full public washroom; one with two long aisles of stalls. It is almost as if the first bank is designated ‘express’ and the second for, let’s say, high maintenance. It is like a dream that’s only 10 stories, 2 escalators, and half an underground block away.
On those days that I happen to pop into the ladies room on my floor and there is a poor soul wishing away their existence, mercifully .
Okay, that is not exactly true. In fact, I usually respect her efforts to go unnoticed and do what I can to avert stage fright, up my PSI, wash my hands as quickly as possible and leave. I do not do my hair, file my nails or apply lipstick. What I don’t understand is why some women feel the need to chat or lounge around. It is one thing to do that when you are in the washroom alone, I mean really alone. It is another thing to stand around when you know there is someone sitting behind a closed stall. She is probably holding her breath waiting for you to get the hell out so that she can unburden herself. Why do women torture one another like this? I am not saying that it is rational for someone to be embarrassed while in a washroom, but we all know where that comes from. Hell, who hasn’t heard that you should always wear clean underwear in case you get hit by a bus?
… Is your underwear clean in case you get hit by a bus?
This was something a grandmother would say. Imagine how horrible it would be for the doctor or nurse to cut your blood-soaked clothes from your mangled body to find dirty bloomers? It did not matter that if you were actually hit by a bus that you would surely poop yourself, anyway. What matters is that you are always proper, even at a time when being proper should be your last priority.
…comes down to building confidence, silencing judgement and prioritising our values.
The point being, these warped insecurities, regardless of where they stem from, will hopefully phase out eventually. Until then, be kind; don’t linger. Why would you want to be putting on makeup or brushing your teeth when someone only five feet away is doing what we all would like — a little privacy doing? Even my dog gives me that pleading ‘don’t look at me’ glance when I happen to catch his eye when he’s crouching.
Let us poop in peace, please. We will address the irrational modesty and needless embarrassment by teaching our girls to be stronger and smarter. It all comes down to building confidence, silencing judgment and prioritizing our values.
Change is slow. In the meantime, be kind.
Insights on life's little screts according to MLE Wright
