I was wet, but did I consent?

I started having sex at the beginning of my matric year in High school. I was deliberate about it. I planned it since I was sixteen years old in grade 10. My boyfriend of the time, who never (in the two years we dated) bothered me about sex, stretched his eyes wide when I opened my mouth and the words “I wanna have sex” rolled off my tongue. He didn’t know what to do with himself, save to ask, “are you sure?”

One Friday night later, he came to fetch me around 20:00 as was his routine at an age without a cellphone. He would walk by my house just as Mfundi Mvundla’s Generations played its opening soundtrack, and I knew that it was time to fabricate a story to my parents. I would then run out of the house to catch up with him. That night instead of walking to the park like we always did, we took an unusual turn down Weston street and made our way to the house of a friend of his. I knew that that was the night it was all going to happen. And so that was the night that I departed with my virginity — under a corrugated roof, on an old mattress with sprouting springs that pinched my ass. (LOL don’t play, It was magical).

There was no turning back. From that point on, every Friday night when my parents were enchanted by Mfundi Mvundla’s wailing soundtrack, I made my way to my make my own kind of magic.

One Friday night he led me to the house of another friend of his. I was not sure why, because he always made me feel secure, but I suddenly felt uncomfortable. He led me around the back way of a big brick built house to a small zinc room. We entered and it was so dark inside I couldn’t tell his beginning from my end. He touched me and I jerked. He asked me what was wrong, but I said nothing and stayed quiet. He pulled me towards the bed and I went to him without protest. He kissed me, I kissed him back. He then moved his hand down from fondling my left breast, unzipped my trousers and slipped his hand into my underwear. I allowed him, without protest. He kissed me again and I kissed him too, but there was something in me that didn’t want to go where the kissing was going. I didn’t want to have sex that night. But his hand kept rubbing me, his fingers went up and down and in and out of my cake. I made the right sounds and before I knew it, my vagina let out the right fluids too. It was as if I was not fully in control of my body. My body was performing the sex that my heart and mind did not want to have.

I opened my legs. I allowed him into me. My protest was internal. but externally my body was doing all that it needed to do for the sex to happen. I was moaning and groaning and clutching and clenching. I was wet, so wet, but did I consent?

Some women say their bodies betray them sometimes. I always wondered; when it happens and we are already butt naked and our partners are on top of us possessed by the full pleasure of what they thought we have given them consent for, do we just go with it? Do we just give in and let it be part of the sex? Is it sex when we are not mentally and emotionally into it? if its not sex, then what is it? what do we call that kind of disassociation of body and mind?

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