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Miley Cyrus - Mother's Daughter (Official Video)

As an only child, I spent most of my youth around adults, which made me sound sort of like one. By early adolescence I had become so accustomed to being told I was mature, it seemed obvious to me that this next benchmark had to be hit early in order to maintain my identity.

I was curious about sex. But mostly, I had a reputation to uphold. I was pretty much the only person interested in this reputation.

The first—and only impressive—expression of my precociousness was when I insisted on learning to read in nursery school. I loved talking and words and once I could write them down I was a step closer to becoming myself.

The upside of being a verbal kid is that adults often think you are bright, but children have another name for such a person: nerd.

I realized, as I was going through puberty early , the necessity of shifting my focus from doing things that would impress my parents and teachers to engaging in behavior that would strike my peers as cool.

I smoked pot when I was twelve. I dropped acid when I was thirteen. Losing my virginity was the next logical step.

Well, the pot, actually, was great—unless you are reading this and you are twelve, in which case it was awful. But the acid was a classic bad trip, during which I thought I heard the breathing of dead people.

With sex as with drugs, my interest in the entity itself was far less potent a motivator than my fervent desire to transform myself from tiny dork into Janis Joplin.

It felt like my job. I needed to do things that would make people gasp. Nobody would gasp if they heard a fifteen- or sixteen-year-old had lost her virginity.

I had a beautiful boyfriend when I was fourteen, with whom I was thoroughly infatuated. Josh had dark blue eyes and long, curly brown hair, which was prematurely streaked with silver.

He hung out on the steps in front of our high school with other boys who smoked cigarettes and, occasionally, joints in the bushes. Both of our sets of parents were slowly but surely separating, and both Josh and I were paradoxically desperate to assert our independence from them by mimicking the very expressions of rebellion they had taught us.

We listened to Neil Young and Bob Dylan. We wore tie-dyes. We read On the Road and The Prophet. When Josh and I started going out I felt that I had been delivered from my isolation, my uncoolness, and my family.

It did not occur to me that I got the ideas for my outfits from photographs of my mother taken at a time when she looked happy to be with my father.

On the occasions when we found ourselves alone in bedrooms or on couches, our bravado dissipated and we became children again, unsure of what was expected of us.

We did not have a lot of lust to guide us. We found each other attractive, but we were so young neither of us had ever experienced clear erotic desire.

Josh, I knew, was as confused about what this entailed as I was. Now Playing: Damaging winds rip off metal roof sheet in Louisiana.

Now Playing: Dr. Now Playing: Tracking the storm: Where Delta is headed next. Now Playing: Hurricane Delta aftermath. All rights reserved.

A principal's wife and former mayor was accused of doing the unthinkable. Read Full Story. Related Extras. Related Videos. Video Transcript.

What ever happened in the -- house -- April afternoon last year. Sent lurid rumors ricocheting around Prosser Washington. But says there were some agonizing confessions.

She needed to make her her daughter. This kid but I me I didn't. And have like. Intimate relationship did you get angry and I mean out of anger at -- -- think I was really angry but not necessary with my mom more act.

Mortified at the pain that I -- -- handling. It was unclear how much prison time they would face. Prosecutors said the boy lived in squalor and didn't know how to use eating utensils or tie his shoelaces when removed from his Plymouth, Luzerne County, home in August The boy was temporarily put in foster care and then was transferred to live with an aunt and an uncle.

The Associated Press generally does not identify people who claim they are victims of sexual abuse or their family members. Facebook Twitter Email.

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So, when I was fifteen, I started going to bars with a pack of girls who went to Catholic school in Manhattan and knew how to get fake IDs.

We would go to crummy dives in the East Village to drink beer, listen to awful bands, and flirt with grown men.

I saw him only once. I was impressed by his advanced age and how shocking it would be if I told people he was my boyfriend, but even I knew that this was not enough grist for a relationship.

I met another guy who was funny and went to film school at NYU. He was twenty-two and had a tiny apartment on Great Jones Alley and I thought he might make a suitable boyfriend, or at least a suitable deflowerer.

It was harder than I thought. Or, perhaps his father or mother had warned him that girls get attached to their first lover—you break it you bought it, or some such.

As it happened, we split the difference. He agreed to have sex with me and, to the best of my knowledge at the time, he made good on our deal.

But I was thrilled to be done with it. Or so I thought. It was clear to all of us that this was special, that we would remember it, and that the night could end only one way.

For the following year I told anyone who asked that I was not a virgin. Then, the summer before I turned seventeen, I went to work on the kitchen staff at a hippie sleep-away camp.

Every morning I got up early to set up the hot cocoa station; every night I put the chairs on top of the tables and mopped the dining hall floor.

In August, I had three days off, and one of the counselors and I got in her battered car and drove through the thick summer air from New Hampshire to Cape Cod.

Her boyfriend was in Provincetown, living out of his van, which he parked in the woods outside of town. We sat with him on Commercial Street while he played music for money, and scorched ourselves brown on the beach in the afternoon sun.

When night fell, we went with him to a store called Firehouse Leather to meet some of his friends who sold belts and moccasins to tourists.

One of them was a tall guy named Austin with a sand-colored ponytail. When my friends and I walked away, I turned back and caught him still staring at me, which made us both laugh.

We had a bonfire on the beach late that night. I sat in the dunes with my friend and her boyfriend and the staff of Firehouse Leather, drinking beer and watching a meteor shower flickering in the dark above us.

It was clear to all of us that this was special, that we would remember it, and that the night could end only one way: my friend would go back to the woods and I would walk down Commercial Street in the dawn with Austin and get into his bed.

When we had sex, it became clear to me that in fact, I had never had sex before. What had happened on that futon on Great Jones had been a failed attempt; the young man from NYU had not completed my mission.

This, now, was something else. It was uncomfortable, then pleasurable, but most of all it was different.

It was different from the plodding loneliness of high school, and from the harrowing, cyclical fights with my parents that had become our routine.

It was something that was better to do than to talk about doing. It would take me many, many years to understand what I wanted from it, but I was so glad to know it was there.

Austin wrote me long letters that I read by the brown lake back at camp—I think I still have one in a hatbox somewhere.

I saw him from time to time over the years, when I went up to look at the college he attended in Massachusetts, and when I went back to Provincetown for summer weekends in my twenties.

But he could have been anyone. I was looking for myself. But I knew that sex was a way to discover and communicate who you are.

Her work has also appeared in The Best American Essays Ariel — you write brilliantly. I liked it a lot — much more than the graffiti murals I had been attempting to research.

This is well-written, highly engaging, top-class prose. I even had to reread some sentence twice because they appeared at first glance subtle, yet were imbued with deep and far reaching meaning.

I may be crying a little bit too. This coming of age journey which not all of us sojourn or have the bravery to attempt comes out so effortlessly here.

The layered themes explored in the text: self development, learn by doing, self exploration, trying, failing, self expression through means other than our spoken language, summer freedom, sex, and then becoming older and reflecting on these experiences.

They are unrivaled in their value because they are the raw stuff that life is made out of. I enjoyed your writing style. Stacy Schuler given four years for sleeping with her year-old students.

Now Playing: Hurricane Delta takes tree down onto power lines. Now Playing: Damaging winds rip off metal roof sheet in Louisiana.

Now Playing: Dr. Now Playing: Tracking the storm: Where Delta is headed next. Now Playing: Hurricane Delta aftermath. All rights reserved.

A principal's wife and former mayor was accused of doing the unthinkable. Read Full Story. Related Extras. Related Videos. Video Transcript.

What ever happened in the -- house -- April afternoon last year. Sent lurid rumors ricocheting around Prosser Washington. But says there were some agonizing confessions.

She needed to make her her daughter. This kid but I me I didn't. And have like. Intimate relationship did you get angry and I mean out of anger at -- -- think I was really angry but not necessary with my mom more act.

Mortified at the pain that I -- -- handling. How did you learn about this -- Late night conversation. She's -- need to talk -- him who has.

Incredible unbelievable how did you get -- shelters. I don't know that I did I was pretty upset to say the least you -- -- kids. Zillions questions -- what the hell are you thinking.

That it all stems from personal tragedy and a boy and -- -- the boy was Linda's son Taylor. She is every thing -- care and mean she.

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