Jouissance Précoce

This story requires a warning if the portrayal of adolescent sexuality offends you. There is no intentional adult participation, but hey, some people are hell bent on believing we are suddenly fully realized sexual beings at the age of 18.

needleI sat up amid the swaddles of bedding in the berth and rolled up the sleeve of my white cotton nightdress with the same tangle of fear and anticipation that all children and many adults have about injections. Hating the idea of having a piece of metal stuck in your arm, and yet bearing the pathetic, hopeful illusions that the medicine will make you feel instantly better. I had been violently seasick for days. So desperate to be relieved of the never-ending nausea, the needle looked wholly benevolent. Even when the doctor slid it into the vial and drew out the clear liquid. Even when he squirted a little of it out again to clear the air bubbles. Even when he laid it, with a plink, onto the metal tray and tore open the little foil package and took out the neat square of sterile swab. It smelled of promise.

To my thirteen-year old eyes, the ship’s doctor was a god. He was austere and handsome and uniformed. He’d entered the cabin, requisite stethoscope dangling from his neck, and carried the sort of bag born by doctors in films from the 1950s.

In response to my bared, proffered shoulder, he tilted his head and gave me a consolatory smile. “No, I’m afraid this one goes in the top of your hip. Please lie down on your side and face the wall.”

Perhaps I wouldn’t have been struck dumb in horror had he been an uglier man, or wearing a white coat, or if I had been in a doctor’s office, or if I had had the foresight to wear panties under my nightie but, being young and lacking all sense of proportion, I was.

“Go on, lie down,” he prompted.

Heart racing and my stomach knotting, I slid back down into the berth, rolled on my side, and stared at the mute, semi-gloss bulkhead.

“Good girl.”

He pulled the covers back with what I imagined was utter dispassion, although I couldn’t see him do it. Trapped in a slow, stately ritual of monstrous humiliation, I lay frozen, unbreathing as he drew up the hem of my nightgown with embroidered strawberries on it. I felt his hand on my thigh, warm as took the fabric with it, baring me in a terrible unhurriedness. Up over my hip. The coolness of the air my only measure of exactly how ashamedly naked I was beneath the nightie.

In fairness to the doctor, he was probably doing all of this with as much efficient speed as possible in consideration of the 300 other upchucking passengers he had yet to see, but to me, stars were born exploded and became red dwarfs over the course of my modesty’s total anihilation.

“Now,” he said, swabbing the target area with the chill alcohol swab,  “You’re going to feel a pinch. Just a little one.”

It was the faceless voice, bored and cold and topped with a veneer of superficial optimism, which would, in later years, send my thigh muscles into clenched quivers. It was the admonition to lie completely still please that would bring the blood to my chest and cheeks, and turn my nipples into hard little beads of need.  But, most of all, it was the fraction of a second in which the needle pressed into flesh, but had not yet breached skin, that would forever remain the faithful source of my most productive masturbatory fantasy.

There, in that silent, rolling room, blinded by a vista of plain white wall, still as a corpse, I felt the needle slip into my flesh and, even before I felt the chill liquid seep into my body, I gasped, pressed my balled fists between my legs, and shuddered through the most titanic orgasm of my young life. I twitched, gasped once more, and felt the sting of embedded needle. My body shook and my cunt spasmed with a violence that obliterated the needle’s sting.

The doctor said nothing. I said nothing. He withdrew the needle, drew my nightgown down over my nakedness and pulled the up the bedclothes.

I was still staring at the white wall when I heard the cabin door close gently.

  24 comments for “Jouissance Précoce

  1. March 6, 2013 at 9:40 am

    You know RG. Nabokov was brave enough you see? And so are you. I remember Ann Regentin at the time on the list talking about how there were no books that told truths? I see this as validating the reality of an experience. It disturbs, but also, no — because it takes us right back. Butterfly Beach. A Frenchman my mother’s age and a friend — invited me to his apt across the street for a lemonade. He began to touch my bare foot as we sat in the chairs. I took my leave immediately. Same summer, waiting for my best friend to arrive, alone on the beach towel a twenty year old surfer plops down. I freeze. I say, “I’m waiting for my best friend, in fact I have to go meet her now. I roll up the towel and run. Same summer, in the water, a seventeen year old — we are swimming, treading water, he swims close — too close. Suddenly he wraps his legs around my waist underwater — as if it is a game. But it wasn’t. By the next year, my best friend and I part ways because at fourteen, at a party her mother took her to, there was a thirty year old. After that there were no more sleepovers in pink pjs. She was already lost to me. To our childhoods. You are one of the finest writers I’ve ever known Remittance Girl. I mean that. Huggles.

  2. Aisling Weaver
    March 6, 2013 at 9:54 am

    I have remarked more than once over the course of our friendship how you have the ability to transport me, as a reader, elsewhere.

    When you have spoken or written about using a setting as a character in the past I always thought of it in a larger, or rather heavier sense. But in this piece I feel the setting. It’s more than just the pitch and roll of the ship. I can taste salt and the tang of electric clouds, feel the perpetual winds that are moving the sea and ship alike. When I close my eyes, for some reason I see the flaking paint and the endless depth of paint layers that older ships inevitably develop as they are scraped and painted, scraped and painted, again and again.

    All of this I feel and see and hear and taste, and yet, when I look back through the story, there are just a few brushstrokes there, nothing close to the high-realism in my mind.

    Brava, RG. And welcome back 🙂

    ~ Ais

  3. March 6, 2013 at 11:36 am

    With a few short paragraphs I am transported back to twelve. Wow.

  4. March 6, 2013 at 11:42 am

    That is fantastically realistic and oh-so-wonderfully/painfully believable. Your images and word choices bring that little girl and her youthful discomfort to life. Such a short, yet powerful story.

  5. Catherine Mazur
    March 6, 2013 at 12:08 pm

    I love this. I love this so fucking much, seriously.

  6. March 6, 2013 at 3:20 pm

    Wow… this is truly remarkable. My heart is in my throat. Exquisitely written. I’m not sure what to say…

    • March 6, 2013 at 3:29 pm

      Our discussion of needles yesterday forced me to kick my own ass and finish this. Thanks for being there for me, Harper.

      • March 6, 2013 at 3:35 pm

        What are friends for? It really is my pleasure. You’ve been there for me. Plus we have great conversations. I have pieces buzzing as well.

  7. March 6, 2013 at 6:20 pm

    RG,
    I like this very much, thank you.
    I remember the enormous embarrassment of sexual adolescence.
    Paul.

    • March 6, 2013 at 6:36 pm

      I have a theory that embarrassment might be a fundamental component of the experience of sexual adolescence. It’s so damn common in one form or another.

  8. Absinthene
    March 7, 2013 at 7:47 am

    Reading this brought to mind a memory of when I was 17, and hospitalised for a few days. During my stay I developed a huge lust-crush on the doctor in charge of my case and, fueled by my fevered imagination, wrote a story detailing how I’d hoped his private examination of me would go… Unfortunately, my story is probably lost to the world, but it probably -no, most definitely- lacks the finesse and eloquence of yours. 😉

  9. March 7, 2013 at 6:14 pm

    “…but to me, stars were born exploded and became red dwarfs over the course of my modesty’s total annihilation.”

    Well, damn. That’s just beautiful. I mean, this whole thing is beautiful, but that’s just absolute excellence.

  10. Gavin B
    March 27, 2013 at 9:23 am

    Oh this reminds me of so many things, so many old feelings and that combination of fear and need…

  11. July 28, 2013 at 6:18 pm

    I remember this scene. It was my set. I heard the Director sing a command as I hoisted my fat buttocks amidst the landmine I had stepped on, rolling up the sleeves of her white cotton nightdress while squeezing the same ripcord of fear and anticipation – I did not like this IDEA of silicone – I hated the idea of kissing the firmness of some prosthetic thing under real flesh, as I had been rendered violently carsick by my ride to the studio and needed visual aim. By the time Lolita 65 succumbed to the trauma of my inflictions upon her doe eyed hysteria, her knowingly glazed eyes, her feigned confusion – a red head who wore too much eyeliner with her mouth halfway open, baring white teeth – I dipped my finger at the moisture surrounded by her flesh, as I fucked the truth of the smile she had rehearsed in front of the mirror before. Ten minutes ago a grip put Tabasco sauce on my anus, giving me a perfectly bloody erection. “Works every time,” she beamed as she fondled my erection. Too much make-up, I decided. but I could kiss her under the gaze of her reflection, across my cross-eyed glanced towards the lights behind me. That was where she was. (It was the way that shoots would work: The ones who attempted to ‘act’ only revealed themselves more.)

    The grip held the bottle of Tabasco sauce and he squirted a little of it out again, to clear the air bubbles at the back of the bottle. I kissed her gaze, and when I laid my penis across her belly, the warmth of her stomach lining aroused my glans. “That tickles,” she giggles. To her sweet sixteen alter ego, her imaginary friend in the mirror – she recreated her for me and the recreations felt special. Off set she had said I was austere and handsome. “I like men in uniform.” she tells me. In response to her bared, proffered shoulder, I tilted his head downwards and gave her a cruel smile. “You know that all the other scenes I’ve done prior to then is with MEN, right?”

    Perhaps I would have appealed to her vanity were I more good looking a person, but I wasn’t here to confess anything about my desires… Just business as usual. You lead the way and I’ll follow, with some Tabasco sauce. She was a shy girl and tilted her head when she spoke – she was in the debate team in high school – She couldn’t look at herself in the mirror when she practiced because she didn’t like the way her teeth looked. She tilted her head as I held her, unshaven, a ‘real slob’ (as specified by the script). The girl gave me butterflies in my stomach the way she tilted her head down, throwing herself at me, wriggling – this couldn’t have looked good on camera but there was something awkward about the gesture.

    I slid my tongue across her forehead and worried that she looked too young.

    “Scoot, girl.” I said, sliding my hand between hips and she jumps a little, electricity from the touch of this aging, bald man who had just joined the dark side! The camera catches her cute little butt, getting the establishing shot for the money. I pulled her over me while licking her nipples – she had neglected to shave there, but she had my type of body – slender. My anus feels really spicy now, and I whisper the most ludicrous things in her ear: Let me break you. I break horses. I said.

    “Ride me daddy,” she says, shrill; having lost the awkwardness and having embraced the heaviness of her vulgarity, she sounds totally contrived, and I smack her tits and whisper: “I am going to hate fuck the shit out of you” – loud, but not loud enough for the boom mic (?) I was counting that she heard this ‘not loud enough’ – perhaps she did. Did I shock her? Was that ugly enough? She paused to collect her thoughts and I tore her open. I heard her voice, in tongues – obscenities, gibberish. Pure. Nonsensical. I fucked the come out of me and slid my dick out at the same time, ejaculating on her lips.

    “You’re my… swampy… warm… princess,” I say. post-coital depression hits my dopamine receptors and she kissed my teeth and closed her eyes, her mouth making her way to my liver-spotted neck.

    – 2008

  12. March 9, 2014 at 12:32 am

    It’s the hermetic, secret, one-sided sexual experience. The perfect prick. The swollen balloon of sexual anticipation. The secret orgasm. The explosion with no space to expand into. The injected fluid, the gift.

    How does the scene change if the doctor knows the truth of the exchange? Schrödinger’s cat. (Or pussy.) To know the truth changes it.

    • March 9, 2014 at 1:23 am

      Ah, but if the doctor knew, it would be a different story. So, I challenge you to write it.

  13. Anastaria
    July 3, 2014 at 5:45 pm

    It was most definitely insightful, I can picture it fine, relating is too hard for me to do though. That is of course my own misgivings and is of no fault of your own.

  14. September 12, 2015 at 8:47 pm

    I think this is a very common experience in childhood. Our bodies our primed for sexuality — and it may not always be pleasure that produces pleasure. Something to think about, isn’t it. Happened to me but at a much, much younger age and informed my own erotic imagination.

    There are many readers who would recoil in horror given the age of the protagonist. An article was written three or four months ago — might have been Slate Magazine? The author, a woman, was describing her first orgasm with a another childhood friend, a girl. Describing the experience wasn’t altogether the point of the article but she was nevertheless accused of pedophilia (though she herself was under-aged at the time), while other writers (notably women it seems) bemoaned the ruination of the author’s (and her friend’s) childhood — as if childhood and sexual experimentation can’t co-exist.

    It’s a pity authors can’t explore childhood sexual experiences without having to defend the reality of our lives from — what? What drives some to so utterly twist sexuality? The older I get, the more i think it’s those who suppress sexuality who are sick. Exploring our erotic lives from childhood on does not equal pedophilia.

  15. suzi holland
    September 14, 2015 at 9:24 am

    Thank you for opening such a jewel of an issue with young women and adolescence. I too felt your orgasm, your instincts were so right on. I wonder if he was titillated by your naked ass? And I wonder if he felt your response?

    I think much of my instinct for lust comes from this type of encounter as a very young girl. Men were constantly persuing me. When I was thirteen I was working part time at the five and dime store. One day I went in the dressing room to try on a bra because my father kept telling me I was “too sexy” and why didn’t I wear a bra? I thought there was something wrong with me. It was difficult for me to even look at the bras since I didn’t have any idea what size I needed, and so terribly embarrassed to touch them.

    I must have passed by 15 times waiting, to be sure nobody noticed. Finally, I made it to the small dark dressing room…there I was pulling my sweater over my head, and as I turned I noticed a person looking through the curtain at me…it was the manager of the store, watching me. I became frightened, and ran out without buying the thing.

    On my walk home I had to cross a street. A small sports car pulled up in front of me in the middle of the street,, stopping me in my tracks. The handsome man looked at me and said with a growly voice, “I want to eat you”… I had no idea what he meant. He smiled and sped off. I knew it had something to do with the way I looked.
    It was something about the way I was built. I never understood why Father singled me out. Now I realize I was the “pretty” sister. I wasn’t ready to know that about myself. I just wanted to ride my bike and sit with my best friend, Tommy, under a blanket listening to my Sandy Nelson album, Let There Be Drums. I wanted to BE him, the drummer! People talked about me and Tommy. We were in Jr. High school. It never occured to us to be more than friends…but people assume such bullshit!

    The same year my older sister and I were invited to a swim party at Malibu beach. I had this raggedy swimsuit, so asked my best friend Barbara if I could borrow her bikini. I knew there were older boys from our church going to be at the party, and I wanted be included, not thought of as a child. We drove all the way to Malibu with several of her girlfriends. I was the youngest. Some of them were from our church, and Christian guys who were in college, who perhaps saw this as an opportunity to play a little bit on the edge, trying to be cool. A couple of them had rented a motel room at the beach.

    That blue denim bikini is still vivid in my memory.

    It was my first time to sport a two piece suit, so I felt a little self-conscious when the guys were ogling me. I didn’t move around too much because I was embarrassed. So Just lay there on a towel soaking up the sun.

    The guys with the motel room said we could use their restroom instead of the nasty public one, so when I needed to go up there, I ran across the hot sand to keep from burning my feet. The room was the typical two double beds and a dresser with a large mirror over it. The bathroom was on the right.

    While I was peeing I thought I heard someone come into the room…one of the men had followed me, but I didn’t realize it until it was too late. When I came out of the bathroom he grabbed me and forced me down on the bed hard. He was very strong using his body weight and held my wrists down above my head with his arms. It happened very fast, he slid himself inside me without pulling my bikini bottom down. I could smell beer on his breath.

    When he finished he stood up and walked back down to the beach party. My toes were touching the floor. All I had to do was stand up and straighten my bikini bottom. When I saw my image staring back at me in the mirror I realized I had a decision to make, because I knew this man from church and I was in shock since he was a friend of the family. Finally I pulled myself together and strode back to the beach as though nothing had happened.
    I made a point not to make eye contact with my attacker. I pretended it didn’t happen, just so I wouldn’t have to deal with it. I would never tell anyone because I would be accused based on the bikini issue. I blocked it out of my conscious mind. Decades later I saw a photo of him online and it hit me again. I don’t know why it was such a trauma remembering that particular day, but I suppose it is because of who it was rather than the fact that it happened to me. I suppose if I felt my life had been in danger it would have been a different story. But I believed it was simply an irresistible impulse of sexuality and lust.

    I learned very early what men like. Another encounter in a camp ground the following year…and that’s another story.
    My life was beginning to take shape in a disturbing play of sexual tensions and I was only 15 years old!

  16. September 15, 2015 at 7:00 am

    Hi RG, I found the story. It’s here. Don’t know if you will find it as interesting.

  17. Smith
    February 15, 2016 at 4:18 am

    Next to last last paragraph, “the” and “up” reversed. Otherwise, interesting…

  18. DV
    May 6, 2016 at 11:19 am

    You write so vividly and beautifully. This story really helps us explore repressed memories, and reflect on our personal sexual awakenings.

  19. JayKayRisque
    November 7, 2016 at 12:24 am

    This is a lovely little piece, and I really admire it! The scenario is perfectly conceived. The way the young narrator is helplessly taken over by the turmoil of her emotions is shown beautifully. Her horrified shame resonates (they’re so prudish at that age!), and you make convincing her mortifying and irrepressible arousal at the doctor’s impressive masculine prescence. That he’s properly dispassionate is very necessary – it’s her own equilibrium which is so disturbed! It’s clever to eroticise the process of hypodermic injection. Many readers would be squirming at the description, and an excited reaction to the whole situation is very believable! The whole is deftly constructed and expressed.

    I don’t think there’s anything explotative about this. Recollected adolescent sexual feelings are a stirring erotic cue. I think they’re usually secretive and self-centred, just as depicted here. Picking up on that can surely do no harm!

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