Before I begin,
this is all fiction.
But someone… somewhere… is living it.
So listen with your heart, not just your ears.
Well…
Let me introduce myself.
No name.
Don’t want you coming after me to shame me, blame me,
laugh at me.
Not that you would,
but I fear…
next time you look at me, your eyes might squint.
Not in judgment, maybe,
but enough for me to notice.
But then again…
That’s just my fear talking.
I’m here.
In front of you.
To tell you my story.
So listen well.
Me and my girlfriends were huddled in a group,
talking about the boys we liked.
Giggling. Whispering.
Then someone said,
“She went first base with him.”
I was lost.
I thought they meant…
like baseball?
Maybe she scored a point?
They saw my confused face.
They laughed.
Called me innocent.
I wanted to scream,
“I’m not a child!
I turned 14 last week!”
Fourteen.
A strange age to feel grown,
but not know what grown means.
Later that night,
I opened my laptop.
And oh my.
Oh Lord.
Oh STOP.
If I could bleach my eyes—I would.
I was traumatised.
Is that… what they meant?
That can’t be what love looks like.
But they said it was normal.
They called it just porn.
“Everyone watches it.”
Do they?
I felt sick.
But I clicked again.
And again.
Curiosity doesn’t kill the cat,
it kills the innocence.
The next day,
I saw him.
The boy I liked.
He walked up to me.
He liked me too!
Of course he did.
I’m fourteen,
and the world revolves around first crushes, right?
He said he wanted to kiss me.
And I—
I was nervous,
excited,
felt like a princess
about to be kissed awake
into a new world.
Well…
I did wake up.
But not in a fairy tale.
In a world
I wish I could crawl back from.
We went to his house.
To study.
I had a boyfriend now.
I felt grown.
I felt special.
Yes, we’re studying.
But then, he put his hand on my thigh.
Whispered, “Wanna try something?”
Then kissed me
without asking.
But I melted in his lips.
He’s my boyfriend.
Isn’t this what it means to be wanted?
Then…
His hand on my neck.
The other down my back.
“How do you feel?”
His breath was in my ear,
his hands were the question.
(as if struggling to speak)
But they weren’t asking.
They were taking.
He said,
“I saw this move in porn.”
“Didn’t you see it too?”
Sadly…
I have.
Even he seemed confident.
He wasn’t being cruel.
Just… copied.
He wasn’t a monster.
He was a student,
of the wrong teacher.
I didn’t say no.
But I didn’t say yes.
I wanted to be wanted,
but not like that.
And now,
every touch feels like a test.
Every kiss
a memory.
And I wonder…
how many girls
sat just like me,
legs crossed on a study floor,
thinking love was a performance
and pain was pleasure?
Well…
I was a victim of this.
But even this
isn’t my story.
Because what came next?
No one’s ever prepared for that territory.
At first, it felt wrong,
like wearing someone else’s skin.
But soon the lines blurred,
and I let the numbness win.
He called it love.
I called it mine.
What else could I do?
when “no” became a sign
not of rejection,
but of temptation?
Like pain was the price
for my own validation.
And slowly…
What once made me flinch
made me curious.
What once made me cry
started feeling… luxurious.
I hated the taste,
but still took a bite.
Watched videos at 3AM
with no one in sight.
Because they said it was normal,
to explore, to feel.
But nothing about it
ever felt real.
Still…
I clicked.
I scrolled.
I searched in shame.
Alone in my room,
whispering my name.
Pleasure became
a punishment in disguise.
A reward with chains
hidden in my thighs.
It didn’t ask for my age.
Didn’t ask how I felt.
It just taught me to fake it,
to perform, to melt.
And the worst part is,
I started to crave
the very thing
that made me a slave.
Addicted.
Not just to screens,
but to feeling wanted,
to being seen.
Even if it meant
I’d break apart,
just to hand over
my sacred heart.
I was fourteen.
But inside, I felt seventy.
Carrying sins
that were never meant for me.
So yes,
I was a victim.
But even that feels too neat.
Because trauma doesn’t just break you.
Sometimes… it learns how to repeat.
So next time
you laugh at the innocent one,
the one who blushes at base talk,
the one who’s never “done it,”
the one you call naïve—
remember:
Some of us carry silence
like a scar we can’t name.
Some of us learned too soon
what no one should learn that way.
Porn taught me nothing about love.
Only how to fake it.
Only how to be silent.
And I’m not silent anymore.
So don’t look at me differently.
Look differently
at the world
that shaped me.
By Anonymous
