Daddy Dearest (Part 2)

My dad can be generous in many ways, he can also seem like a crazy person, or someone who is trying to live vicariously through his kids.

Since my dad retired when we were young, we would often go run arrends with him after school. The thing was always tricky was, when my dad said he was going out, sometimes he'd say where he was going and other times he wouldn't. When my dad didn't say where he was going, the only thing you knew, is that you wanted to go with him. You might end up going to the hardware store, or you might end up at Six Flags.

My dad collects things, you name something that was around in 1940-1960, my dad probably collects it, at least, if he thought it was cool when he was a kid (yeah, he was born '40). The coolest part about this that I can remember was my basement. My dad has a collection of beer signs, add to that a couple pin ball machines, a pool table, ping pong, a slot machine and a dart board, and you got a pretty good game room. A lot of the stuff was collectable stuff that my dad bought.

The Assault: The Drunken Pass

I have a small and select group of girlfriends. They are all the most amazing people, who I can trust with any information, and to take care of me if I needed it. I very seldom am accepting of new women into my life, I don't trust them. It's an instinctual thing, women are hard to trust because they are more emotional, they are more likely to stab you in the back. Due to this and a thousand other reasons, women are drama queens and to be trusted only at your own risk. I am more likely to befriend a man any day of the week than I am to let myself get to close to a new woman I don't know.

• Women with a childhood history of sexual abuse are 4.7 times more likely to be subsequently raped (Merrill, et al, 1997).
• Of female Americans who are raped, 54% experience their first rape before age 18. (Ibid)
• Of surveyed college women, about 90% of rape and sexual assault victims knew their attacker prior to the assault (Fisher, 2000)
• 69% of teen sexual assaults reported to law enforcement occurred in the residence of the victim, the offender, or another individual (Snyder, 2000).

Changed names...

• My roommates Best friend: Slut
• The guy I'm dating: Joe
• Slut's guy Friend: Creeper

I have always had the feelings that women were drama, and trouble, but while I was at college, I only had so many friends. Sometimes you just need a girlfriend, and while my lovely ladies were at their respective colleges, I had to fill the hole. I let myself get friendly with a rather anti-social girl, because that way, she needed me more than I needed her. After she got crazy and clingy and tried to sleep on the floor of my dorm every night (even though her room was just a few doors down); I had to make a new friend. My roommate was a pretty cool girl, and she was always asking me to come hang out. I eventually became sort of friends with her, and her best friend. I was more friends with her friend because we spent a lot of time hanging out with the same group of guys.

At one point, I was dating this really cute older guy. His eyes were amazing, he was sweet, and I really was attracted to him, in every way. I spent most nights in his dorm, and a lot of time texting him when we weren't together. One particular evening, he was having a guys night with his roommate, they were going to the bar and get wasted. My friends were all either home for the weekend or out at bars, since I was under 21, I had nothing official happening that night.

While I was on my trek from my car to the dorms, Slut pulled up next to me to see what I was up to. She had a case of beer in the car, we parked, and knocked back some beer. After we put a big enough dent in the case, we grabbed the last of them and headed back to the dorms. At the time I was a two beer queer. We weren't supposed to have beer in our dorm, but Slut had a friend who was over 21, so we went to Creeper's room, so if he got caught with the beer, he was old enough to have it.

I was already drunk by the time we got to the room, Slut kept asking me about Joe and how everything was, and what he was doing tonight, I didn't think anything of it, I was drunk. She kept passing me beers, and I didn't know my limit, and because it was happening so fast, probably not everything that I had drank had really gotten to me yet. I kept telling Slut that I wanted a cigarette, I wanted to go outside, and then I wanted her to take me to my room. I was so drunk at this point that I could barely keep my eyes open.

She asked to borrow my phone, gave creeper a hug and a big smile, took my phone, and left. Apparently, Slut had no plans of coming back for me. She was busy calling Joe and trying to get him to hang out with her because she wanted to fuck him, and she didn't care what that cost me. As I began to fade in and out of consciousness, Creeper started try and make moves on me. I pushed him off and told him I wanted to go to my room, he said he would take me soon.

As the time between conscious and unconscious grew, I woke up to Creeper on top of me, he was, rather vigorously, fucking my limp unconscious body. I tried to say something, but as I lifted my head I blacked out again. The next time I woke up, I was laying in his bed, half dressed, feeling very sick, and with a very sore vagina, he wasn't around. I managed to put pants on, and grab the rest of my clothes. I can picture walking up to my room as if I were watching myself, but I don't remember doing it. I just had a bundle of clothing and kept falling into the wall, trying to find stairs, trying to find my room, trying to be anywhere but there. I don't remember getting back to my room, but I remember waking up there, sore, and with the familiar feeling of being dirty all over. I stayed in bed most of the day, my roommate got my phone back from Slut, but I didn't want to do anything anyway.

Eventually Joe asked me to come see him, it was the only thing that seemed to make me feel better. He mentioned how Slut kept calling him from my phone, but he barely knew her and didn't understand why she wanted to hang out with him. I felt safe because Joe and I weren't having sex, never did, and he was a big guy so I trusted him to protect me. I remember falling asleep in his arms, and then him waking me in the middle of the night. He said he really had to pee and asked if I wanted to go for a walk. Why one of those things led to the other I'm not sure, but that's what happened. We walked around the dorm building, and he finally stopped somewhere to pee. As I was standing there in the middle of the night, in the dark, freezing, wearing nothing put my pajamas, and wrapping my arms around myself for warmth, I felt something come out of my already very sore lady parts.

That feeling is very hard to describe, but it scared this shit out of me. I had no idea what just happened, for all I knew, I just had a miscarriage and there was a very small baby laying in my underwear. I was terrified, but didn't want to tell Joe was had just happened. I started bouncing up in down, and telling Joe to hurry up, I was cold, and needed to go to the bathroom. We made it back to his room, and I ran into the bathroom to see what had happened. That's when I saw it, it was just there, smashed up, almost unrecognizable, a ripped condom. Which Creeper must have lost while he was violently thrusting into me.

That was followed by the standard fears that anyone would have if a condom ripped during consensual sex. What if I get pregnant? What is this fucking ass's sperm actually got to one of my eggs? What am I going to do? How long can you wait until you take the morning after pill? Will is still work? What are my chances? I spent the next day waiting at planned parenthood for the pill, I had seventy two hours, after the incident to get the pill, which would, by the grace of God, kill whatever devil seed that prick may have put inside of me.

I only trust a few girls, because bitches are back-stabbing, and usually just out for themselves. Slut got me drunk, and then passed me off to some creeper, with no regards what he would do to me, but she wanted me good and drunk, so she could take my phone and try and fuck my boyfriend.

The Assault: The Story

Being the victim of a sexual assault hurts in a lot of ways, emotionally, physically, it makes you sick, and it's often embarrassing. For that reason, and for other reasons, even though I knew the person who assaulted me, I'm going to refer to him as "the boy." It's a hard story to tell, and I think that most important part, even more so than the actual events that ensued, my feelings, as it was happening, and after it happened.

I'm about 15 years old, I meet a boy with the prettiest blue eyes I'd ever seen. He was cute, he thought he was a bad ass but really he was very nice. The first few times we hung out, if we would walk somewhere he wanted to be on the street side, that way he protect me if something happened. He said on top of that, in some places, if you are walking with a woman on the street side it meant she was for sale, like a hooker. He seemed like a really nice boy, and I thought he treated me well.

My mom took me to his house one day and dropped me off, she didn't really like the idea, but she knew I was going to want to start hanging out with boys. I told her that I would call her when I needed a ride home. When I got there he was outside playing on his skateboard. His house had a wooded area behind it. We walked through the wide field and he said he wanted to show me something in the woods, he told me I'd like it.

We walked through a small winding trail, it seemed as if were forgotten, barely visible. As we came to an opening there was a little bench, the branches and leaves wrapped around the bench like a halo. They left just the right amount of room for two love birds to sit together. When I saw the bench up close it had a faded poem carved into it. I don't remember it exactly but it said something about the spot to come and sit, and love.

I told the boy that I thought it was really sweet that he brought me there, and the poem on the bench made it even more special. He agreed and said that he liked it because even though you could see people hiking through the wooded area, they couldn't see you. The boy liked the privacy, I didn't really understand why at the time. He started to kiss me, it was nice, almost special. He started to move his hand up to my breast, and I pushed it away. Again he tried but this time, he slipped his hand under my shirt.

Again, I pushed him away. He didn't like the way things were going for him. He tried to be sweet, say nice things, tell me how he liked me. He again tried to make a move on me. I still wasn't interested, he asked me why I didn't want to make him happy. I didn't understand. He gave me a hug and the next thing I know he has my arms forced behind my back. I try to fight him off, but I didn't think that he was going to do anything so I didn't try hard enough.

He pushed me towards the ledge of the space where we were, he pulled my shirt up to my neck. He asked me if I could see the people below, I could. He asked if I wanted him to push me off, I didn't. He pulled my bra down to reveal my breast to the people below. They weren't looking, but if they had looked up, they would have seen a scared barely teenage girl, more exposed than ever before.

Then he let me go, I quickly covered myself back up. He laughed, he thought it was funny, he didn't think that it was a big deal. I didn't understand. Then he started acting really sweet again, he didn't think I would get upset, no one was looking anyway. It was just a joke, he was sorry. He hugged me, told me to come sit with him on the bench. I joined him on the bench, against my better judgement, because I thought maybe he was sorry.

After sitting there for a minute I stood up, I told him we should go. He held my hands and started sweet talking me again. I told him to get his skateboard, I told him we should go, to pick it up, we'd leave. I'm not really even sure how it happened but he did something with his legs, and knocked me to my knees. He kept pushing my head into his crotch. I'd push my head back. He put his skateboard in front of me and told me to kneel on that so I didn't get dirty. He didn't let me go, but he was trying to make it seem like he was being nice.

There was a back and forth battle of him trying to get me to blow him by pushing my head, and me pushing back. When I'd get my head up, I couldn't get my arms free, so I couldn't get away. He told me that he could push me right off the ledge on that skateboard. I didn't seem to have many options. Eventually he pulled his boy penis out and forced me to put it in my mouth. The pushing situation seemed to work to his advantage. Any time I would start to pull my head up farther than he wanted, he would push it down as far as he could. His penis would push against my throat and I would gag.

As tears streamed down my face onto his lap, he ejaculated in my mouth. He finally let my head up. I spit out the salty, warm, slimy mess. I wiped my mouth, wiped my tears, and he tried to console me. I pushed him away. We walked back to his house so I could call my mom. I would let him touch me again.

My mom took me home, asked if everything was okay, I told her I was fine. My neck was killing, my pants were dirty, and I felt dirty all over. I pretended nothing happened. I hate myself for that. I thought of, and can still think of all the things that I could have done differently. Things that I could have done to get him off of me. I can go on for days about what I could have, or should have done.

Now I can only wait for time to heal my wounds, as I write this, I'm working through it. It has effected me for a long time. It has had a control over me. I hope that one day, the idea of it won't make me feel dirty, embarrassed, disgusted... One thing that I can be sure of, without a doubt in my mind; I'm a much stronger person now than I was then. For that reason, if the boy ever crossed my path, I couldn't be held accountable for my actions, I might even kill if I had the chance. I think about it often, what I would do, but I know in my heart, no matter how much the idea of confronting him scares me; I'd make him feel my pain.

Daddy Dearest (Part 1)

Growing up in my house could only be described as a living hell. Well, most of the time. I can’t claim my life was always miserable, because that would be a lie. My dad had an interesting view on parenting, because his parents did such a great job with him.

My dad’s dad, who I guess I could consider my grandfather, but I never knew him to call him anything, was an alcoholic. He would beat my dad relentlessly when he was a kid. My dad hated his mother for never sticking up for him, but she didn’t really know what else to do. My dad had a brother, who I also never knew, he was in the military and after coming home and having a couple of kids, he killed himself. He was an alcoholic, and I’m ashamed to admit that I don’t know the names of either my uncle or my grandfather. I have a rough idea of what they could be because we’re big in naming our kids after other members of our families.

As I was saying, my dad got his butt kicked as a kid; his mom ignored it, and then sent him away to private school. I can only assume that for these reasons, my dad has no idea how to be a parent, nonetheless a good parent. On nights that my mom would work late were probably the worst. My dad would yell at us a lot, send us to our rooms for no reason, and then right before my mom came home make us come downstairs and clean up his mess. If there was any argument with any of his unreasonable commands, he’d hit us. I’m not just saying, oh, parents spank their kids when their bad, I mean, he HIT us.

My brother took the brunt of the abuse because he was the oldest, so I would protect and/or hide my little brother. There were a few times when after a beating we were sent to our rooms, and we would all huddle together in my room waiting for my mom to come home to save us. She never saved us. The second we would see her car pull into the driveway we would sit at the top of the steps and wait for her to come in the door, because we wouldn’t dare go back downstairs without her in the house. When she would enter we would surround her, crying of all the things that dad made us do, and how he hit us, and how a wall got a hole in it, or a door broke during the battle. She would just emotionlessly say that whatever happened, we probably deserved it.

I remember two events that may have led to the end of the abuse. For me, one day I was standing against my dad, and he was threatening me, and I said, “Bring it on, it doesn’t even hurt anymore when you hit me, I’m used to it.” He ended up just looking at me, and then walking away, the fight was over where we stood. My brother on the other hand, had a more interesting turn of events with my dad. After a battle between them, my brother sat, beat and broken, and through the tears said “Go ahead Dad, walk away in your father’s shadow.” My dad went to his room after that and cried. We were never hit again, though there were a few occasions where it was threatened.

Ironically, like my father, I blame my mom for the abuse. I somehow hold her responsible, and for what I’m not completely sure. I have an amazing relationship with my dad now, and can barely get along with my mom. I know that she didn’t know what to do in the situation so she would ignore it, or hide from it. I understand that, I just can’t seem to forgive it.