My Meeting with Harlequin

I write this, one full glass of red wine under my belt, ensuring me both a headache in the morning and nonsense here on the page.  When I was a wee young lass of a mere 9 or 10, I remember stumbling upon my Grandma Hawley's collection of books.  At the time, having no frame of reference for this sort of thing, I didn't know to classify what my sweet, pure grandmother had on her shelves, into trash for the soul, literary porn for women.  I only knew I was unsure of what hair products the wild-haired Fabio look alike used to get that feathered look on the cover, and why the girl seemed to always have her shirt barely covering her nipples, when my mom had always told me strangers were not allowed to see my swimsuit parts.  I however, was a precocious tyke and read anything and everything I could get my little grade school paws on, including grandma's Harlequin romance novels.  This was my first introduction to sex.

I remember reading those novels, not fully grasping everything that was going on, but knowing enough to hide it from my grandma that I was reading them.  I would lock myself in her bedroom where we usually watched cartoons on her t.v, and sneak reading one after the other, always putting them back faster than you could say jumpin' johnny jack rabbit,(WHATTTTT?!) whenever I was done or when she approached the bedroom.  It's interesting that even when you don't fully understand what's going on, something in you usually senses what is right or wrong.  I couldn't have verbalized it at that point, but despite the way the words stirred me, or maybe because of, I felt like it needed to be kept hidden.  I remember those words in those books painting pictures for me, growing my imagination.  It aroused something in me reading about things I didn't yet know, but somehow knew I longed for, even at a very young age.  Those were the first sexual seeds planted, and so began the war in my young mind with which every person struggles. 

It was as though I had been given admittance into a club I wasn't old enough to enter, but the bouncer had looked the other way because I was cute, only to realize when I entered I could watch everyone order drinks, and yet couldn't order anything myself without a proper ID.  I shouldn't have been there.  I shouldn't have been allowed in that club, the club where I could look, watch others get drinks, and still be part of an environment I could never fully be a part of because I just wasn't old enough.  (poor analogy, but what can I say, it's late and again, I'm running on a little sleep and a little wine)  I think back to those times in my grandma's room and usually laugh about it when I tell the husband, about how I smuggled Harlequin reading regularly.  It all seems so absurd and smutty and like nothing I would ever read in present day, merely a funny story to never tell my children :) haha, it is actually opposite day, I will definitely tell them something like that someday......And yet, I can't help but feel like that was the first time sex was twisted and tainted for me from the way it was intended.  If I were to really dig deep and attempt to catalogue every minute event or word said by some smart bleeeep kid at recess, I'm sure I could come up with much earlier seeds sown.  We all could.  Our world revolves around sex--it's just so perverted and distorted from the original design.