The Privilege To Humiliation

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She was my best childhood friend.
Our mothers were both immigrants in the city where we grew up.
My mum read in her mother’s story a generational myth of revolution and exile.
Her mum found in mine a true interest in who she was rather than what she looked like.
1968 was a milestone in their shared memories.
She was blonde, round and cute.
I was dark, sneaky and curvy.
Her mother was a fashion expert and a ruler.
My mother was a comfort expert and a joker.
She used to wear her mother’s high heels and glossy sunglasses to perform on the stage of our fantasies.
I used to feel more comfortable and balanced on my skateboard, with my face hidden under my cap.
If it were not for her mother, I would not know much about rules, femininity, self confidence or defensive irony.
If it were not for my mother, she would not know much about trust, tenderness, pure joy or unconditional love.
I do not remember having had any orgasm before rubbing with her.
Most of the time we spent playing together she would be the leader, while when it came to sex it was the other way around.
We would close the door of the room, agree on a plot leading to heterosexual coupling, and take the roles of the lovers ourselves.
Most times I would succeed to gain what we then considered the privileged role: the object of desire, the woman.
Once, when we were both around eight years old, we went with our mothers to the home of my male classmate, and spent the afternoon there: me, her and him playing in the corridor, while our mothers were sitting in the kitchen.
He had previously tried several times to enact such intimate plots with me, but I had always managed to evade them by going for alternative games, until she supported his will and took revenge on my unwillingness to take over the male role with her by turning what would have been my privilege into humiliation and disgust.
The scene was a hospital: I was the patient, she was the doctor, and he was the nurse.
The doctor would tell the nurse what he should undress, and where and how he should touch the patient’s body.
I felt abused.
I could not accept to take part in such a plot for long, and I ran out of that bedroom to hide in the kitchen between my mother’s legs.
We never rubbed each other again.

- Contributed by N.

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