Feeling — and Desiring — Like a Woman
I never questioned being a girl. But I didn’t like what others thought came with being one: getting treated as an object, and being told over and over again that my destiny involved a husband and children. I enjoyed feeling like a girl, or at least what I understood that word to mean back then. I used to undress before taking a shower and look at my collarbone, my long hair, my lips…I would touch my vulva very lightly and smile because I believed it was beautiful.
Then, puberty came. It was a shock for my family and my teachers at school, since I was 9-years-old when it began. I felt my breasts swelling daily, my hips getting rounder, and my ass seeming more tender. I was delighted; I truly believed this would make me closer to becoming an adult. And it did, but in a dangerous manner. It did not take much time to realize how mean men would act towards me now. My previous invisibility to adult machos had been traded for hyper-visibility and overt abuse. Despite this, my face still beamed while grasping my womanhood. Now, I could stroke my whole body and find myself attractive and full of life. My body was expanding and changing, and my energy level hit a high I never felt before. I was convinced I could do it all.
Those around me weren’t so convinced. My mother was ashamed of me being so “desirable.” Other female schoolgirls would tell me I was ugly — of course, then an older male student would always pop up and ask me out. A teacher I once respected suggested I did not look very elegant, meaning I looked vulgar, because of my big tits and the way I swung my hips. The guy that during those times would buy me cheap jewelry in exchange for kisses said, “oh she must be very jealous.” I laughed at her every class afterwards.
Very early on, I started experimenting with men. After the first years of the arrival of my menstruation, I began to pick up smells more than I used to. It was as if my hormones had adjusted my nose. This lead to me feeling very sick around certain foods and perfumes, and to start enjoying the smell of men. Not everyone. Just some men. A thick odor very similar to vanilla extract emanated from their necks. A couple of them, when they lifted their arms, had a deep scent of mahogany. One smelled like those plastic films used to cover books. It was all fascinating to me. I wanted to know more. I wanted to taste them.
Because of the catcalling and sexual harassment the adults in my life called “jokes,” I became very shy during my teen years. Shy, but eager to meet one of those men that smelled so good. And then, one came to me. And another one. And another one. I couldn’t stop touching them, rubbing their skin against mine. I felt so alive, caressing them and sensing their fingers running over my skin. Afraid of being punished at home, I developed a double life. My awakening had to be a secret. A “respectable woman” did not open her body to complete strangers.
I left home as soon as I could, and moved as far as possible. Living by myself, I thought I was free to do what I wanted. So I kept exploring. I slept with someone in a tent, which kept moving and moving following our rhythm. I went to a stranger’s house and we almost woke his mom. One man showed me my body could stretch much more than I believed. I had fun. I believed this is what being a woman is about, enjoying my body. Eventually, I met a wonderful man that taught me about making love. I fell head over heels for him. But something was missing.
Some years ago, a recurring fantasy came back with vehemence. It was a mix of all those missed opportunities, all the times I pretended to not understand when a female was approaching me — a fragment of that night when my friend showed me her bedroom. I’m not quite sure why I did not act on those offerings before. But now I really, really wanted to do it.
After thinking about it for months, I decided to just go for it. We met at her friend’s home. She tried to kiss me, and then we argued because she told her friend we were a couple. We got over it after drinking wine and making out on the sofa. After spending hours by her side, laughing, licking, sweating, I went home. We lost touch, but I am thankful for that night. It helped me accept that I am a woman that loves women.
During my upbringing, the idea of a woman desiring another woman was frowned upon. I was taught that someone like that was called a lesbian. My teachers told us lesbians wanted to be men, and it was not OK to be close to them. Supposedly, true womanhood expressed itself through craving biological men. Then why, I asked myself, did I want so much to caress a girl? Eventually, I met a woman who became my romantic partner. With her, my barriers came down. The fulfillment I experience when she is by my side is incomparable.
Throughout my life, sex became a very important part of my identity. Being a woman meant recognizing my sexual orientation and being aware of my own eroticism. It involved fully inhabiting that carnal side that was disapproved by many around me. My reflection still smiles at me, and my body shivers with joy when I fondle it. I’ve never felt more like a woman than I do now.
