Chapter 1: The Beginning

I have always been the sort of girl who fades into the background of expectations, the one who meets them without fuss. At four feet eleven and a half, nearly five feet, with my straight black hair tied back neatly and my uniform skirt pressed just so, I was the top student in my final year at St. Mary’s High, the teacher’s pet who raised her hand only when she knew the answer beyond doubt. Our town, a cluster of modest houses and white-steepled churches hugging the edges of cornfields, prided itself on its quiet piety. My family, immigrants from a village in Guangdong, embodied that conservatism: prayers before every meal, Sunday services without fail, and a Bible on the nightstand that gathered no dust. Mother would say, ‘Chen Mei Ling, purity is your shield,’ her voice soft but unyielding, as if she could sense the shadows gathering in my mind even then.

It began, I suppose, in the summer I turned eighteen, when the garage air hung thick with the scent of old paint cans and Father’s forgotten tools. I was searching for a box of holiday lights when I uncovered them: Playboy magazines, their covers glossy and forbidden, tucked behind a stack of yellowed newspapers. At first, I thought it a mistake, perhaps left by a previous tenant. But curiosity, that quiet intruder, pulled me in. I slipped one into my backpack, heart thudding like a distant drum, and later, in the dim light of my bedroom, I turned the pages. The women there arched and smiled, their bodies bare and unashamed, and something stirred in me, a warmth that spread unbidden between my legs. I didn’t touch myself that night, not yet. Instead, I hid the magazine under my mattress, telling myself it was just a secret story, like the ones in the novels I loved—Mr. Ishiguro’s careful unravelings of hidden lives, or Mr. Murakami’s dreams that bled into waking hours.

By the next week, high-speed internet had woven its web around me. Father’s new router, meant for his online Bible studies, became my gateway. Late at night, when the house creaked into silence, I’d hunch over the family computer in the living room, the screen’s glow casting blue shadows on the walls lined with crucifixes. Porn, they called it, videos that played out in hushed pixels: men thrusting into women, mouths on skin, fingers delving deep. My hand slipped under my nightgown one evening, almost by accident, brushing my clit—that small, hidden bud. The jolt was electric, a spark that made my thighs clench. I rubbed tentatively, watching a woman on screen gasp as a cock slid into her pussy, and soon I was panting, fingers circling faster until a wave crashed over me, leaving me slick and trembling. Shame flooded in immediately, hot and choking. What was I doing? This was sin, pure and simple, the kind Mother warned would damn my soul. I deleted the history, whispered apologies to the empty room, and vowed to stop. But the next night, the itch returned, insistent as a half-remembered melody.

The shower became my first sanctuary, water masking the soft sounds I made. I’d stand under the spray, steam fogging the tiled walls of our small bathroom, the porcelain cool against my back as I leaned there. My fingers would find my clit again, swollen from the day’s suppressed thoughts, rubbing in slow circles while I imagined those magazine poses coming alive. The orgasm built quietly, a tension uncoiling until I bit my lip to stifle the moan, cum mixing with the water swirling down the drain. Each time, disgust followed, a bitter taste in my mouth. I’d scrub my skin raw afterward, praying for forgiveness, promising God—and myself—that this was the last. For a week, I abstained, filling my days with extra study, memorizing Psalms until my eyes blurred. But the sensitivity grew; even the seam of my cotton panties chafed, sending unwelcome tingles that left me damp by midday. I couldn’t wear underwear without it soaking through, a humiliating secret that made me cross my legs tightly during classes.