I wrecked my car this weekend. Like, obliterated, totaled, I-cried-a-little, gone. My only “injury” was a scrape on the side of my nose where the airbag hit my face and shot my sunglasses off, but the whole thing was pretty scary.

It was the first time in a while that my mind held no thought — not even a tiny spark —about sex. For real? It took a CAR CRASH to make me stop thinking about fucking? Believe me when I say I’m only kind of exaggerating — and as soon as I got out, I made sure I wasn’t hurt anywhere that would hinder humping.

Sex isn’t so much my addiction as it is my obsession. I’m completely capable of not screwing, but why the hell would I ever want that? My identity, from my academic to my physical pursuits, is steeped in sex. I like talking about it, I like hearing about it, I like doing it while talking and hearing about it.

But where did this all start? From whence comes the sexuality that oozes from my pores and causes countless fights between me and my conservative, old-school Latina mother?

Catholic school.

Now, before we get all up in arms: I am all about freedom of worship. I got my gripes with organized religion just as much as the next God-forsaken liberal asshole, but as long as you keep your beliefs out of my vadge, we’re cool. With that said, if you’re easily offended, you should probably stop reading here.

I was 12 years old in the seventh grade at St. Elizabeth’s Catholic School when my motley group of friends absorbed the New Girl: tall, blonde, awkwardly pretty and precocious. Sounds like the beginning of every piece of erotica penned by a horny teenager, no? It gets better.

Stephanie was the first person I ever fell in love with. We became fast friends, even before we started sleeping together. In fact, I think it would be more appropriate to say that having sex just made sense in an innocent way. It wasn’t the serious issue that losing virginity is to some, if not most, people.

We loved each other. And weren’t we always told that love was a prerequisite to sex? Sure, we skipped over the part where our teachers told us love and sex only happened between a “man” and a “woman.” But fuck that.

Eighth grade rolled around, and the boys and girls of St. E’s had to begin their marches toward becoming “Soldiers of the Lord.” So every Sunday, we trooped to school for classes that would prepare us for the sacrament of Confirmation, upon which the bishop would lay his hands on us and anoint our foreheads, bestowing the Gifts of the Holy Spirit.

Our parents used to split the transportation, which meant we got to sleep over at each other’s houses on nights before the early-morning classes. Which meant that the eight unsupervised hours intended for sleeping were spent nervously and excitedly “exploring.”

Which meant that two thirteen-year-old girls strolled in to Sunday Confirmation classes smiling secret smiles and smelling like pussy no matter how much we washed our hands.

From then on, she was all that was ever on my mind. The way she felt, the way she looked — I was completely hooked. It wasn’t just that we were best friends any more. My budding little brain now had a name for lust, and my appetite for her was voracious.

We were eventually Confirmed, pussy-fingered little heathens that we were, graduated from junior high, and sent on our way to high school. Our relationship continued. We were caught by our parents and made to stop seeing each other, although we did in secret anyway. We broke things off when we both got a little too crazy and intense to handle a heavy, closeted relationship.

Stephanie finally did a serious 180: she became politically conservative, extremely Catholic, and spouted anti-gay rhetoric throughout our remaining year of high school. Needless to say, we didn’t talk much.

In my perverted heart, I like to think that Stephanie’s turn-around was an act of self-loathing, a mask to hide her true self from the prying eyes of the world. Or at least she was pushed by her parents to put on a show so no one could deny her heterosexuality. Or something crazy that still means she’s a big old dyke, dammit!

But in reality, I think she just moved on, realized she liked sucking cock more than eating pussy, and found that religion was for her the same way many folks do. She moved far away from her little carpet-munching self, and I … Well, I jumped from the springboard of innocent exploration into the cesspool of sexual deviance.

I came here to Cornell, which fueled my sex crusade in tons of loving, accepting ways. I took classes rich with sex-centric material, joined groups all about my favorite subject, and surrounded myself with open-minded people who both challenged and affirmed my love of doin’ it.

Things like FemSex, a student-run, all-inclusive workshop on female sexuality, completely changed my life. If you’ve been on this campus for more than a week, you know about the amazing “I Heart Female Orgasm” program. Check out the bright and fabulously decorated LGBT Resource Center in Caldwell Hall, and the Human Sexuality Collection in Kroch Library. And there is so much more.

These things, and Cornell as a whole, have all influenced my sexuality and my comfort with who I am. I’ve come a long way from the uncertain pre-teen Catholic schoolgirl to the sex-obsessed agnostic coed I am today; but as I was in my car on the turnpike bouncing from the concrete wall to the side of a hill and back again, the only oath that I could mutter was “Oh my God.” It was a quiet prayer to the Dude (or Lady!) Upstairs who, I know, made me who and what I am — and that’s a divine plan I’m sure as hell not gonna screw with.

Liana Mancini is a senior in the College of Arts and Sciences. She can be reached at opinion@cornellsun.com. The Shocker appears alternate Thursdays this semester.