the awkward black girl

Warning: mentions of sex and all things that cums with it (bad joke, I’m so sorry you had to endure that)

Okay, TMI Moment (I highly doubt anyone is reading these posts, so I can say what I want): I lost my virginity at 19, and it was….meh. Now, don’t get me wrong. The guy was okay. It was his first time too, but this isn’t about him. For once, this is about me.

Like every girl with access to the internet at a young age, I went searching for everything and found it. I can’t remember my first phone, but I remember vividly the first porn video I seen: on a iPod, in the bathroom of my grandma’s house. I mentioned to push myself in the corner behind the toilet and held the iPod so close up on my face that all I saw was skin and not the actual deed being done. I didn’t know what I was watching at first. I thought it was intense wrestling or something, but whatever it was I wanted to find more.

By middle school, I didn’t care for porn anymore, but I was introduced to Wattpad and Tumblr (and I never them. They are my babies fr). I was reading it, and for some odd reason, the words had more impact on me than the actual videos. I wanted what the characters had - someone who loved them and their body so much. I thought that this was ideal, and I would stare at myself in the mirror, wondering if I would ever be ‘claimed’ the way those girls did in the books (I read a lot of vampire books, so ‘claimed’ was the only word I could think of). I pulled at my skin wanting to match their description, so I could be deemed ‘fuckable’.

I wanted to be wanted at age 16. A crazy age to be thinking about losing my virginity, but for some reason, I felt left out. Like I was missing out on a secret that everyone else around me knew. I wanted that secret to be mine - to have and share it with one person and think nothing of it. Up until a couple of months ago, that’s all I would think about. How I was being left out and left behind. I know now that it wasn’t a race. If anything, I was the only one running.

I lost my V-Card in October, a month after I lied to my best friend, telling her that I lost it. I was so jealous of her because she was sleeping with someone and was ahead of the curve in someone way, so I lied to her. What else was I going to do? Tell the truth like a normal person? No.

So, I lost it, and it was just that. In all honesty, it didn’t feel like I lost anything at all. I didn’t wake up the next morning, looking around the room, asking for it. If anything, I just felt normal (I am sparing you great details because we just met and I don’t think I should tell you everything, everything).

I’ve said all that to say: I think discovering sex at such a young age and continuing to engage in that type of content fucked with my brain a tad bit. I’ve seen what I seen and read what I’ve read, and I thought I would have wanted that for the longest of time. Yet, the truth is, I didn’t. I still don’t, and I’m okay with that, I think. I’m not actively seeking out things that could turn me on, but I’m not ignoring the way my body reacts to certain things either. I’m just going with the flow, and the flow has gotten me this far.

(I’m probably a sex addict in some way, but that’s for Future Sage to deal with. She can handle it just like everything else I mess up.)

I thought this would be a lot longer than this, but I guess I got to my point fairly easy.

Cool. Alright, until next time,

Kisses for my bitches,

I thought about using ChatGPT to generate prompts for my first blog because I don’t know how to form topics that can express my own emotions.

That’s a hell of a first sentence. I’ll start with something easier.

My name is Sage (not really, but it’s easier than being me). At age 19, I’ve done most things - college and my first boyfriend, which is a lot considering who I am.

I had no intention of starting a ‘blog’, but my best friend (let’s call her Amethyst) called me at the ass crack of dawn, asking if I wanted to read her essay about deconstructing her faith. That’s a crazy sentence, I know. Stay with me. When she got off the phone, I glanced up at the Creative Gods and winced. They gave me another idea, and I hate that I enjoyed it. What else am I supposed to do - just let it dwindle in me until I rot completely?

So, here I am with my blog named the awkward black girl.

I think I resonate with this name more than my own (my actual name, not Sage). Before you ask, I’ve never seen Issa Rae’s show. I didn’t even know it existed until I searched it while writing this sentence. (Excuse me while I contemplate whether or not I even like that name).

I'm not expecting anything to happen with this blog at all. I'll be lucky if someone just glances at these words in passing. I just want something or somewhere to put all my thoughts into play and see them as for what they are and not what they will turn into if I let them fester.

(Fester means to rot basically, so it's the word I'm looking for, but in this sense, it doesn't seem right. Maybe, I meant to settle, but that doesn't fit either. I need a dictionary with me at all times.)

I'm hoping that someone discovers this blog and finds their place. I think that's what all little black girls are looking for; a place of their own. They can have this one. I'm willing to share if that means anything to anyone who's reading.

Everyone is welcome, to be honest, but these experiences will not resonate (this is the second time using this word. I need a thesaurus too) with everyone. Like a menu that caters to a rich person's appetite, this blog caters to a black girl, struggling, thriving, and just living.