In the quiet solitude of my room, I picked up the leather-bound journal that had been gathering dust in box packed away on the top shelf. The scent of the pages reminded me of the countless nights I'd spent scribbling my thoughts into its embrace, my secrets inked in the dead of night. With a sigh, I unclipped the book and hovered my finger over the first page, feeling the weight of my decision to finally share my most intimate experiences. Some thoughts linger and swirl in my mind but never made it to pen and paper, others are written in bullet form as a reminder to self. Time waited for no one, not even the whispers of the heart. I need to get these experiences written down in full before I forget the details. For the first time I desire for others to read them and immerse into glimpses of my life growing up into womanhood.
As I page through the journal, my eyes dance over the headings scribbled in my inexperienced hand. Each one a gateway to a memory frozen in time. "My first time seeing him naked," it read, and a smile tugged at the corner of my lips, remembering the awkwardness of that stolen glance. Then there was "Thoughts during art class" a poignant reminder of the tumultuous journey of self-discovery and acceptance. "Girls are bitches" was a stark contrast, a testament to the harsh lessons of mean-girls, the claws that left their marks on my soul. But the one that caught my breath was "Julie's party." It was there that I'd felt the electric touch of a another's lips on mine, and I don't mean my mouth, the sweetness of forbidden fruit that had forever altered the landscape of my desires.
Turning the page, I find myself at "A real orgasm," and the room seems to warm around me. The memory of that earth-shattering moment was as potent as it had been all those years ago. The sensation of my body arching, my breath hitching, and the sudden, intense wave of pleasure, leaving me trembling and forever changed. The words on the page were sparse, almost as if the experience was too sacred to be fully captured by mere letters. Yet, the vividness of the recollection washed over me like a second skin.
My thoughts then drift to stories later on in my journal "Koshuisstories - Ontgroening" and the smell of wooden res hall floors fills my nostrils. The sweat, the heat, the team spirit and the gross things they expected us to do while the men's res onlooked with disgust and amazement in equal proportion. And him, the guy whose gaze had made my stomach flip with every Jool, or sokkie or vastrap event during first year at university.
"Proff Coetzee" - I will just leave this one here without saying much more.
"Seeing him again," I murmur, my heart skipping a beat as the memory of that chance encounter in Hellshoogte mountains unfolds. We both became exhibitionists after that.
Some other entry titled "Friendzone Blues" brought a bittersweet smile to my face. Ah, the pangs of unrequited love, the silent dance of yearning that played out over the years up to my wedding day.
Further down, my eyes landed on "Bertus's Party back in Pretoria" and Brooklyn mall shenanigans after dark, the anticipation grew within me as I recalled the naughtiness of that night, the taste of cheap wine, sneaking into the Brooklyn art film theatre and the security guard's disapproval of our recklessness that had ensued.
All these event somehow shaped my brain for good and bad.
I haven't even touched the surface. I start to write about the thrill of nature exploration, the taste of nakedness and freedom, and the endless hours at the library behind book (and other things), each one a secret shared only with the pages of my diary.
The thoughts flows as I delve into the whirlwind romance that had swept me off my feet, the man who would later become my husband. We'd met in the most mundane way, but the chemistry had been explosive. Our love story is made from from threads of laughter, naughtiness, and his unwavering respect had allowed me to blossom into the sexual being I had always yearned to be.
Some of these stories I can write about and hopefully recall enough details to turn this into a series. Other stories can't be shared. Over time I will write these stories in full and share them with you here. Be kind to me, my style my not be for everyone's liking, but this is partly why I am here on SH.
If you are looking for jerk-off material - this will not be it.
