I’ve got some convoluted views in regards to sexuality. Some of them are healthy. Some are unhealthy. Some push the envelope. Some rather shrivel like raisins and die. The next few blog posts will reflect my views about sex, experiences, and how they coincide and/or collide with my psyche today. I will admit a lot of things that most people don’t know—not even friends and family members. But I have to free myself into these pages. It’s the only way I know how. Many people have a lot of things that they hold dear to them. For me, it’s writing. It’s my sanctuary and sanitarium.
As a child, my parents mother said being sexual was wicked. I discovered my body at any early age and she said that I could pregnant from masturbation. I even punched my stomach or prayed to God not to become pregnant. I never got the birds and the bees talk. There was no “when a man and woman love each other, blah, blah, blah.” It was more like, “Don’t have sex. You’ll get pregnant. You’ll mess up your reputation.”
I was a troubled child. I was frequently withdrawn and depressed but was very book smart and hid my insecurities behind humor. A lot of kids labeled me as weird in school because I was very shy and quiet. I also developed earlier than most girls and the boys quickly noticed. I got the “Can I feel on your titties?” requests more than I could count. I initially didn’t give in because I was ashamed of my body. I eventually gave in a year or so later when I noticed the rave reviews that my breasts received. I wanted to feel pretty and less weird. It made me feel powerful because not many girls were packing C cups by the 6th grade.
I ran away from home on my 13th birthday. I was a good student but I could not bear school. I was constantly bullied or teased. I felt like a loser and an outcast. I didn’t look like other girls nor had the material things that they had. I felt there was no way out so I ran. I stole a few bucks from my mother’s stash and hopped on the Metro bus shortly after I arrived to school. I decided to take shelter at Texas Children’s Hospital because it was the only place that had heat and television. And since it was a children’s hospital, not too many people would get suspicious of a child roaming around.
On the bus, I met a man who couldn’t take his eyes off me. He came to where I sat and we conversed before he departed. I lied about my age and said that I just turned 16. Why? Why not? I definitely looked 16—perhaps even older. He was 26. He wished me a happy birthday and gave me his phone number. It was the first time that a man ever made me felt pretty. I grew up in a household with an overworked alcoholic father (he stopped drinking a few years later), a frigid and strict mother, a special needs brother who required constant attention, and younger sisters who lived in their “we are twins universe”. No one had enough time or patience to make me feel pretty. I somehow understood.
The next night, I ran out of food. I was starving but couldn’t face going home. I knew that I was in deep trouble. I decided to call my newfound friend. He told me which buses to catch in order to get to his sister’s apartment. I begged strangers for bus fare and arrived after 10pm. His sister and husband offered me a meal, a nightgown, and somewhere to lay my head for the night. I finally felt safe at last. They retreated to their bedroom a short while later.
My new friend wanted me to watch a movie with him on the couch. He popped in a VHS tape. It was unlike a movie that I’ve ever seen—the characters consisted of naked people. I was officially introduced to sex through an adult film. The sight of it all was horrific and disgusting. I wanted to heave. Everything that my mother said started to make sense. I could never have sex. Never! I turned away in disgust. He didn’t want me to. He suggested that we should mimic what the couple was doing. I peeked briefly through my fingers. The woman was performing oral sex on the man. I meekly refused and avoided eye contact with him and the television. I was embarrassed, uncomfortable, and confused. I laid down on the couch to fall asleep and avoid his intentions. He continued to watch the movie.
Several minutes later, his attention shifted from the movie unto me. I felt his body turn and his eyes burned a hole through me. He reiterated his suggestion. Now the couple were having sex. I refused again. He quickly climbed on top of me. His slender yet muscular 6 foot frame hovered over me like a giant. He tried to pull down my panties. I tried to pull them back up. It became a tug of war of some sorts and he won. I continuously protested and he warned me not to awaken anyone. I squirmed profusely as he entered me. He pinned me down so I couldn’t move. Every painful thrust felt like an invasion and there was nothing that I could do about it. I wanted to scream but I was too scared of what he may do to me. I fearfully uttered “Stop!” and “No!” in sequences. “Relax. Relax,” was always his tranquil and monotone response. “Relax. Relax.”
I dispossessed all feeling and looked at the ceiling as if it could render me some aid. Perhaps I was looking for God. He ejaculated. (I thought it was urine at the time.) He stumbled to the opposite couch. I put my underwear back on and feigned sleep to keep him at bay. Mere seconds later, I soiled myself uncontrollably. I wanted to bathe but was too afraid to move. I laid in my filth…his filth…our collective filth. I can still remember the nauseating stench of semen, blood, and feces that plagued my nostrils. I couldn’t sleep and dwelled in fear under the dingy quilt. It was so cold. Why was it so cold? My eyes alternated from the ceiling to the window…to the window to the ceiling. Even the stars seem sad to me. Why didn’t God help me? Was it my fault? I’m the one who ran away. I’m the one who should have called my parents but didn’t. I should have screamed but didn’t. It was my fault. I deserved it.
“The One Who Raped Me” went to work the next morning and his sister urged me to call my parents. She wanted me gone before he returned. Sometimes I wonder if his sister knew what he did to me. And if so, why didn’t she help me? My parents picked me up several minutes later. I never told them what happened. At the time, believe it or not, I didn’t even know that it was rape. The woman in the dirty movie screamed as if she was in pain. Maybe this was how sex was supposed to feel like. Maybe sex was humiliation, domination, and pain.