I really hate to be like this but I gotta let you know

I'm not a hoe
And I'm like if you say so

Disclaimer: Leave now if you are easily offended, or asexual.

Nineteen years (more or less) have expired since a scrawny, dirty-faced, and stringy-haired girl discerned the thermal heat emanating from immature folds of flesh within doublet dark freckle pilots from her own body temperature. A perpetually absent mother, chained to a bi-monthly paycheck, had left the first-born with the mature and overzealous babysitter from 306.

One motorized hand reached for its youthful counterpart, engaged in an age-appropriate exploration; the other, fitted with a jeweled family heirloom and a rectangle of beige age spots, came down firmly against the child's determined cherry pout, a drop of watery blood and a look of shame dripped from the foul face.

"That is a nasty habit." The voice croaked its bathtub sermon. God was present even in the toilet.

The barren grandmother scrubbed the child's mouth with affection. The robust scent of hypoallergenic honey-oat soap inflamed the quivering lip and infantile ego.

That pre-masturbation stage child was me. The authority present was Ms. Jones*from two doors down, an expert on religion, a tenured professor on all lady-like matters. Touching oneself is not becoming of a young lady she told me. Ms. Jones combed my hair, cropped short by an impatient and ex-tomboy mother, while educating my un-baptized, limbo doomed, rear-end on the omnipotent presence of Lord All Mighty. Scared to look down below, apart from the unfortunate times when extenuating circumstances dictated, she remained elusive.

When my age doubled, I argued with my Sunday school teacher on the logistics of self-masturbation (as she so poignantly called it).

"But I don't have sperm. I'm not wasting my seed on the gooseflesh of a girl's chest." My hands balled into fists, my face brought to a boil. She pointed to the mandatory 24k gold cross hanging from my giraffe neck – a reminder that He was listening to my rebuttal bordering on the atheistic.

I am 23 years old, and I habitually sin. Ms. Jones would undoubtedly disapprove of my versed 112 album on play. I now wear a sterling silver heart-shaped locket from my age adjusted neck, a bribe from a past consort in carnal sins. The gold cross sits on a shelf above my bed, next to rosary beads – a reminder that the time for atonement will soon arrive. I have not locked myself in the infamously called "box" to confess in years. The last was when I lost my virginity to an incidence of pre-marital sex. My knees no longer know the ache of penance. The time fast approaching, I wrote this letter, sealed, decided to send it.

To whom it may concern:

I have not wasted my seed, aside from the time I attempted to sell my eggs for $5000, rejected due to my "family's mental health history". Pshhh. They do not make eggs like these anymore. If it were possible I would strongly recommend that my partners retain their "seed", albeit I am not sure of the harmful consequences of doing so.

I do engage in self-masturbation. However, only when I am certain He is not looking. The bathroom is kept private. The business conducted within is of no concern to the Creator of all things living….and non-living.

Please don't send me to hell.

Sincerely,
Kitty

P.S. Is this blog considered blasphemous? If so, at least I will be hanging with the homosexuals. I have been called a fag hag before.

* No, not her name.