Owning Regina: Diary of my unxpected passion for another woman Read Free Page A

sex was not real. My mom and dad would only peck kiss. They would give a formal hug upon greeting after work. That was the extent of human contact, just like with Jenna and Mark. But my parents sure had smiles all the time. So I guess if I was abused, it was abuse by happy facades. 
     
    When I was ten years old, I persuaded Jenna to pool her allowance with mine to buy my mom a 1 hour massage for Mother’s day. When she opened the card and saw the gift certificate, she seemed so happy. She served up several comments about how great that would be and how nice we were to think of her.
     
    But with each passing weekend, I would say “Mom, maybe you could get your massage this Saturday?”  But invariably, she was always “too busy” and would have to try another time. It wasn’t until I was about 16 that I overheard her boasting to a friend: “I would never have a massage. The idea of a stranger touching me is really creepy. Besides, I would worry about which gender was touching me. If it were a man, it would feel completely inappropriate because that kind of touching is reserved for marriage. If it were a woman touching me, that would present its own problems.”  The Mother’s day massage coupon expired forever with her.
     
    Here’s one for you, my entire childhood, I was never allowed in my parents’ bedroom. Never!  It wasn’t until I grew up and found out that other kids would jump on their parents’ beds, open the Easter basket in there, get sick and go to the parents’ bed for love and comfort, sleep or watch TV in the parent’s bed when the other spouse was away on a trip. I know people now who tell me they would sit on their parents’ beds for any old reason, just like it was a sofa. But for me, it was this sterile place that was off limits. We could play hide and seek in the house, but the bedroom was way out of bounds. 
     
    It’s easy to see my parents’ bedroom as a perfect metaphor for the idea of sex. It doesn’t exist. Out of sight, out of mind.  I had no role model for sex.  At the Mastrogiavanni’s, I saw people hugging and kissing all the time. Sometimes a young couple would be there kissing and playing at the table and everyone would riff on it with jokes or push them to snuggle closer. Teenagers would smooch on the couch or “disappear” for a while and return later with that telltale satisfied look and a smirk to boot. The dad would playfully spank the mom on the butt with a wooden spoon while everyone laughed. I wanted to be a Mastrogiavanni.
     
    But unlike my family, I have always found big pleasure in physical contact and my sexuality. I’ve always liked extreme sex. The funny thing is, most of it has always been in my own mind… with myself. For as kinky as I am, I need a solid relationship in order to share that side of me.  So without any one-night-stands or quickie relationships, I’ve always had the most pleasure with myself.
     
    Even my boot fetish is big part of my sexuality. They are always there for me like a teddy bear. Maybe they are my security blanket. It may sound crazy, but ever since I was little, I was drawn to boots.  I always had boots. Every kind. To me, boots, especially high ones, are as sexy as lingerie. To feel super sexy and sexual, I would rather go boot shopping than lingerie shopping.  I love the contrast of soft skin against coarse leather. Light skin against dark leather.
     
    But BX didn’t get it, far from it.  He always made me feel shame about wanting to wear boots: “A woman’s leg’s are her best feature and it makes no sense to cover them up”. What the hell? That’s like saying a French, lacey bra isn’t sexy because it covers up part of the boobs. And trust me, self, you will not find a single pair of boots in Jenna’s closet. I don’t even need to check.  She would never own a pair because they can carry such a sexual charge. Why do you think hookers always wear boots?  But saying tall boots are only for hookers is