Little Red Journal 5: My Type

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I know when I had my first wet dream. That was when my journal transformed from occasional scribbles to compact cursive handwriting. The spine of the simple book broke from overuse. It is hard looking through the contents to find contents that are not erotic after that point. It began with the dreams. Strange dreams.11/14/—aI had a dream about sex this morning. A prisoner, I was supposed to be afraid of the “general” who would kill me if I didn’t do something. Instead I found myself enjoying it even though it was short. I wasn’t given a closed room it was in a small shadow of a cloth wall şişli escort on the outside.At the time, I had been reading the Diary of Anne Frank for school. Between that and watching reruns of Hogan’s Heroes, somehow my brain set me as a prisoner in a Nazi camp. I returned to these pages so many times that my simple red journal falls open to the page when I open it. I continued the dream with the guard in the fantasy falling in love with me, sneaking me out, and raising a family with me. Then abruptly my journal entry switches to addressing God. I beg his forgiveness for my sinful thoughts.Lord, mecidiyeköy escort why do you torture me—I ask in the lord’s prayer ‘and deliver us not into temptation, deliver us from evil’ it says plainly. Why do I enjoy these dreams?In my little red journal I wrote a lot about sex, a lot about God, and very little about my real life. Real relationships seemed impossible.Everyone knew me as the prim and proper girl who liked learning. Even among the nerd boys, I seemed an off limits alien. At one point, I shared chemistry class with five of them from my core friends group. They made naughty jokes and seemed genuinely surprised that I wanted to be included. They lightly flirted with me; mostly finding excuses to touch me during labs. Even so, none of them thought to make an actual move. They preferred, from my perspective, to ogle at a pretty, popular girl on the other side of the classroom, whom they had no shot with. I was fun to hang with and make fun of, but not worth pursuing. My lab partner, nicknamed Big Bear, was the closest to consider pursuing me.  He moved away before any relationship could develop. He happened to fit my “type” as an adult. A few years later, Big Bear recounted a conversation that occured during a scheduled absence from that chemistry class, which I diligently copied into my journal.

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