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I wonder, if we were to take a survey, how many of my fellow Mistresses share with me the childhood status of tomboy. I was one of those girls who played rough and tumble with the boys in the neighborhood from way back. Most summer days I could be found with dirty, scratched legs from climbing trees and running through fields. I played touch football. I got into fist fights, and often won. If I lost, I rarely cried. I picked myself up, dusted myself off, and thought over why I lost, so I could be prepared, next time, to win.

Oh I still liked the cooking lessons my grandmother gave me (my mother was amazing at a lot of things, but never did much cooking), and I had dolls. As soon as I got old enough, I liked all the things that many young girls enjoy–makeup and nail polish and things that smelled good. I liked pretty shoes and quality clothing and getting my hair done. And I liked boys. *smile* A lot.

Maybe because I wasn’t educated in a traditional classroom, I missed some of the lessons in socialization that mainstream schooling provides, but when I made my inroads into the social scene of my neighborhood and town (the only way I really had besides the various community sports leagues and activities designed to help home school kids get involved), I didn’t really understand the way things were expected to work between boys and girls.

I didn’t understand, or rather, didn’t agree, for example, that I should wait until a boy asked me out. I didn’t understand why, when I enjoyed a boy, and he seemed to enjoy me, the next day he might tell the whole world, and the implications of it were not favorable. For a little while, it hurt my feelings. Then, it made me angry. The same way I picked myself up and dusted myself off after many a neighborhood scrap, I picked myself up from these trying episodes, learned the game . . . and not only learned to play it better, but found I enjoyed it.

I think I decided that before I would ever allow a guy to share the freedom and pleasure of my body with me again, he would have to prove himself worthy. He would have to be more than good looking, and more than fun and intelligent on the surface. It would have to go to the bone. And that would take time. And effort.

Funnily enough, I found that I much more enjoyed the permutations I made him go through to “prove himself” than I ever did allowing him to reach that goal.

Oh, it was years before I really learned what made some men tick, and even more before I truly learned what made me tick. But I have to think that these experiences may have been at the root of who I am today.