When I was younger, just one largely symbolic training bra into adolescence, I wanted to be a Saint. I wasn’t Catholic and I did acknowledge that as an obstacle but when I read the lives of Saints – Susanna, Theresa, Clara, Lucia – just ordinary girls like me in the first few of centuries of Anno Domini, I wanted to be just like them. I wanted that transcendence, that great passion, ecstasy, union with something greater than myself and also, really pretty great and a man. I wasn’t swayed by the terrible and frankly grisly tales of torture and suffering, I think there was some kind of psycho-sexual draw to it. It sounded bad and painful but also exquisite in the sense that really scratching a mosquito bite or popping a zit, (both of which are forbidden and, face it, gratifying) can be. I have never cut myself on purpose, I’m way too skittish about actual pain, but I do understand it. Like they say in the porns: “Oh, it hurts so good.”
In my own innocence I was drawn to the apparent innocence of these young women. They had something they believed in so purely that they were willing to sacrifice their life for it. They were so brave, so certain.
I wanted that. Like them, I had desire, like them I had lust. I wanted more. I wanted to be more and see more and feel more and also give more and have a much, much better and more interesting time than I was actually having. I deeply wanted a partner who was already better and had seen and felt more, to guide me through it. And I was ready to burn..