A Drawer I Wasn't Supposed to Open
It was called The Joy of Sex.
And it changed everything.
I wasn't snooping.
Not really.
I was looking for something practical--a pack of playing cards, or maybe Scotch tape. I opened the wrong drawer in a side table no one ever used, and that's where I saw it.
There was lint. A cracked cassette tape. A photo album with corners chewed soft. And resting beneath it, a soft-covered book with no dust jacket and a title that didn't try to be clever.
The Joy of Sex.
No hearts.
No lipstick font.
No pink.
Just a bearded man in an illustration that wasn't pornographic--but wasn't innocent either. And a woman beside him, half-turned, her eyes closed, lips parted, head tilted--not afraid. Not modest. Not giggling.
Just... there.
The book didn't hide what it was.
And neither did I.
I didn't gasp.
I didn't hesitate.
I picked it up like it was a textbook and sat cross-legged on the floor, like I was preparing for an exam I intended to ace.
Not a Joke, Not a Warning
The cover was cool under my fingers. Thicker than a paperback. Worn soft at the edges from use. Someone--one of my parents, presumably--had held this book many times. And that should have made me freeze.
But it didn't.
By then, I'd already read more than most girls my age. I'd studied longing in fiction, memorized tension in dialogue, highlighted confessions in the margins of books never meant for children. I'd read with reverence, with curiosity, with desire so quiet it barely breathed.
But this?
This was something else.
This wasn't hint.
This wasn't symbol.
This wasn't poetry.
This was instruction.
And from the first page, it was clear: I was being taken seriously.
The text didn't talk down.
It didn't warn me about danger.
It didn't try to scare me into chastity or dress arousal in metaphor.
It didn't even assume I was male.
It assumed I was human.
Sex as Design, Not Drama
Every page was an education.
Anal sex--really?
Bondage.
Blindfolds.
Mutual masturbation.
Slow masturbation.
Foreplay not as prelude--but as practice.
There were drawings, yes. But they weren't lewd. They were almost tender. Skin shaded like watercolor. Hands in motion. Bodies in positions that looked intimate, not acrobatic.
And I didn't blush.
I read.
And kept reading.
And did not stop.
Because this wasn't about titillation.
It was about truth.
This book wasn't just about sex--it was about being. It spoke in calm, confident sentences. It never once apologized. It simply offered:
Here.
Here's what pleasure looks like.
Here's what your body can do.
Here's what two people might choose together.
And I remember exactly how still I became.
Not frozen--absorbing.
Like my entire body was trying to download everything it could before someone came looking.
I hadn't even kissed anyone. I was maybe twelve. But that day, sitting on the carpet with the door cracked and the hallway silent, I read that book like I'd been waiting my whole life for someone to finally just tell me the truth.
What No One Else Had Given Me
I didn't know it then, but this was the first time I was being offered information without agenda.
No warnings.
No punishments.
No jokes.
Just... knowledge.
It didn't tell me what not to do.
It told me what was possible.
It didn't assume I was stupid.
Or scared.
Or in need of protection.
It assumed I was already someone who had a right to know what her body was capable of.
There was no talk of virginity as a prize.
No lines about saving myself.
No fear-based lists of what could go wrong.
Instead, it told me how to enjoy sex.
How to approach it with respect.
How to engage it with intent.
It broke everything down: techniques, positions, preferences, variations. Some parts were surprisingly clinical--terms I'd never heard aloud, let alone in polite company. Other parts read like poetry.
A paragraph on the curve of a neck.
An ode to slowness.
A diagram labeled the erotic zones of the inner thigh--not as anatomy, but as invitation.
And I didn't feel embarrassed.
I felt capable.
I was too young to understand most of it.
But I understood enough.
Enough to feel that this wasn't a joke.
This was a language.
And I was already fluent in the alphabet.
The Stillness That Spoke to Me
It made me feel known.
Not watched. Not evaluated.
Seen.
The book didn't ask me to be sexy.
It asked me to be present.
It didn't assume I'd one day be passive.
It suggested I could be creative. Curious. Honest. Bold.
It was the first text I ever read that made sex sound like art--not performance.
There were pages I returned to more than others. Not the most graphic ones, but the ones that gave shape to things I had already begun to feel. The ones about teasing. Restraint. Rhythm.
The ones that hinted--without fanfare--that withholding could be a kind of gift.
I didn't yet know the words dominance or control. But the sensation?
That I already recognized.
Equal, Intentional, Erotic
The passage on mutual masturbation stopped me.
Not because it was shocking.
But because it was equal.
There was no hierarchy.
No choreography designed to please one person while the other played assistant.
It was shared.
Active.
Intentional.
And then the section on bondage.
It wasn't long. Just a few pages. A drawing of a woman with her wrists tied. Another with a partner blindfolded. But it wasn't presented as novelty or taboo.
It was presented as practice.
Not what people do when they're perverted.
What people do when they trust each other.
When they want more than just friction.
When they want experience.
That stunned me.
Not because it was risqué.
But because it was respectful.
It didn't say, "Some people are into this."
It said, "This is one of the ways people love."
And that stayed with me.
Because even then, before I'd been kissed, before anyone had looked at me in that way, I already knew:
When it was my turn, I didn't want to be small.
I didn't want to be the girl who asked for permission.
I wanted to be the one who understood what was happening--before it began.
And this book?
This book made me feel like that was possible.
A Page That Took My Breath
