Silly Little Magic Wand

I was so earnest and naïve, maybe about thirteen, when I became the champion of my body. Indoctrinated into a cookie cutter world of women’s ideals, my parents remained stubbornly silent in the face of my changing body and sudden need for industrial grade pads. They trusted in the ‘wisdom’ that was Catholic chastity education. 

How did I learn about sex? “Simply don’t do it,” my teachers had said a hundred times over, probably waking each morning well rested, entirely confident in their efforts to quell the horrors of hormones and curiosity. 

Oh, how my classmates spit in the face of those archaic stipulations. 

“Have you ever been to sex dot com? Or Pornhub?” my friend asked one sunny recess after yet another session of chastity education. 

“Of course I have!” I answered with an easy lie. In truth, I had no idea what she was talking about; but I educated myself that evening, calling upon forbidden web addresses with a pounding heart and trembling fingers. The bedroom door was shut and I prayed my parents wouldn’t check on me. I clicked the first video. I witnessed women with mascara tears tracking down their cheeks, shoved by their partners onto flooring that would turn their knees black and blue. I watched ruthless penetration, welted skin and utter disregard. 

It wasn’t the introduction of consent, respect, and love I deserved. It was actually a lot like the book I stole off my grandparent’s shelves last summer, the one I thought had been pure fiction. I recalled with aching clarity the scene of a protagonist my age, summoned to her captain’s galleon grand quarters. How the experienced seafarer showed this innocent young protagonist books with graphic pictures, a foreshadowing of the positions he would later put her in. 

Ah, I realized. So it is going to hurt. And I really will bleed.

I laid in bed that night, twisting my legs between the sheets, trying to picture what my first time would look like. According to my recent discoveries, it was clear I’d been grossly misinformed. All of my teachers spoke of the sacred act of sex with such reverence and authority, as if they knew all the universe’s secrets. They’d told me my virginity was a gift, a piece of flesh that was owed to my husband, and that when he took it, God would look down upon us with such love. They warned that any deviance from this preordained course was to invite the licking flames of damnation. But I saw the truth clearly. I’d seen what sex looked like and nothing about it seemed beautiful, holy, or sacred. 

The church promised me marriage was my inevitability, and I knew I was undoubtedly doomed. Destined to be beholden to a man who could order my submission the same way he could demand a clean home and dinner on the table. They’d scared me; proclaiming only the worst of God’s flock snubbed her gift of soul creation, of sheep production. 

My throat turned scratchy, my chin wobbled, and I wondered how my pastor expected me to get through my wedding night and the claiming of my virginity without breaking into heaving horrible sobs. 

It felt as if I’d seen all the world offered as I lay, hazily pondering the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling through my blurry vision. I could all but hear the creaking as the gates of Heaven closed on me—my next steps suddenly clear. 

If God damns me, then so be it, I thought grimly. I’ll serve my penance. After all, Hell sounded better than the endless abuse promised to me at the hands of my future husband. If that was how I was going to be treated, then there was no one out there more deserving of claiming my virginity than me. 

I took the next day to plan, dreaming of how I’d do it over long division, and hardly spared the next installment of chastity education—“For real this time, definitely don’t do it,”—an ear. 

At last, when the shield of night returned and the silver moon’s zenith tickled through the edges of my curtains, I slipped from my bed. My feet padded over the carpet, over to the shelves I’d helped to stain a rich amber. The world was quiet, as if it was holding its breath in anticipation as I carefully plucked up the plastic magic wand displayed next to my fantasy collection. No thicker than my thumb, its hollowed insides gave way to purple glitter and stars that flowed up and down in a dreamy wave to gravity’s whims. 

It’s perfect, I decided. 

Held by the safe void of solitude and hidden away by my comforter, I took control of the body that had felt cornered by so many conflicting ideals and truths. 

I cried. I bled. 

But then, most importantly, I smiled. 

Now no one, no man or God, could claim me. I belonged to myself. 

It would be another year before I experienced my first romance, before I saw how tender a first time could be. How consent and communication can be sexy and fun. 

It would be five years before I left the church entirely. Its logical fallacies had heaped up into a pile that was too large to let faith explain away. But perhaps it perhaps was the smallest cruelty that drove me away with a fuck you to the pastor who told me I’d never see my cat in Heaven because cats didn’t have souls. 

It would almost be a decade before I discovered the ethical sex work industry. The strides they take to create safe and respectful environments and scenes to explore kinks resonate deeply with me. A constant reminder that my body belongs to me and only I can decide what to do with it. I try to never miss a taboo show. 

Almost twenty years have passed now, and I still have that silly little magic wand. It hangs, displayed on a wand rack in my bedroom, an ode to my autonomy and the reminder of the bravery I’ve always been capable of. 

-Samantha Van Der Brink

Samantha Van Der Brink is an emerging Romance author with a lifelong love of the genre, inspired by Nora Roberts and Julie Gardwood. Her work has been shortlisted in NYC Midnight competitions and she is an active member in her local writing community. She lives in Calgary Alberta with her green flag husband and her two red flag cats who will stop for nothing in their quest to get outside. When she’s not reading or writing she can be found dissecting movies with her husband and making haunted miniatures.