Things here are different for a girl. Most likely you have no idea.
One of the first \”adult\” books I read was Silence of the Lambs. In the prison ward in Baltimore was a prisoner named Meeks. As Clarice was walking down the hall towards Lecter, Meeks hisses \”I can smell your cunt,\” at her as he orgasmed and flicked his sperm onto her. It landed on her face. This made a lasting impression on me.
I was molested on May 28, 1993. I was 11 years, 11 months, and one day old. Before that, things were different. For a while I didn\’t believe it myself, but they were. I was already losing my self confidence, my self esteem. I already had anxiety disorder, and an eating disorder, and was depressed. But it was not so bad that I did not wear shorts when the weather was warm, it was not so bad that I would not wear a bathing suit and swim in the pool when our class had our trip to the water park. But it changed.
That afternoon I was wearing soft cutoff black jean shorts, black Adidas running shoes, black socks, and a baggy black Naughty By Nature t-shirt. Of any other day in my life, I will never be able to forget what I was wearing, though I am not a fashion whore. I remember because you would not think that would be the kind of outfit to inspire a twelve year old acquaintance to sexually assault a B cup eleven year old who still spiked her bangs up with hairspray and parted the rest at a dangerous angle on the side of her head. No make up. We were playing basketball, and then suddenly, we weren\’t. My friends were there, one girl, one boy, our ages. They did nothing.
After that I went back to my girl friend\’s house and got into her mom\’s make up, crimped my hair and tied my shirt up at the side. I had never done those things before, but suddenly they seemed necessary. I was a sexual creature now, and apparantly, sexually desirable. I didn\’t understand yet that I had been victimized, traumatized, and scared. Within two weeks I had as consciously blocked out the whole thing as I possibly could, the memory only a vague, insignificant detail that provoked no feeling in me. But I stopped wearing shorts and stopped wearing a bathing suit, and I grew even more scared.
Things changed. Maybe if it\’s happened to you, you understand.
Even in the summer you wear long sleeves, baggy sweatshirts, baggy trousers, running shoes. You sweat like a pug and try to not notice, convincing yourself and others that you do not feel the heat, and that you are, in fact, cold. Yuo hand your hands up your sleeves and attempt to keep as much skin covered as possible. Your hair is cut, not long, not short, but shoulder length — the least fetishized haircut possible. You wear no jewelry, no make-up. You are not androgynous, but instead, completely asexual. You try to hide everything that might mark you as a woman — soft hips, round breasts, curved neck and shoulders — with as many layers as possible. You hide inside, where no one can see.
You have perfected the art of walking down the street. You walk in the middle of the sidewalk and do not move aside for anyone; a step towards the street could mean being pulled inside a car, and a step towards a building could mean being pulled inside a building. As you walk, you keep your pace even and quick, though not hurried. You look you have somewhere to go, like someone is expecting you and will worry if you are not on time, even if you know no one. You look like you know exactly where you are going, even if you are entirely lost. You only stop to ask for directions in a brightly lit establishment, and only within earshot of women. You never speak to men. The art of perfunctorily glancing at every face within ten feet of you has become second nature, though you never linger on a face, never make eye contact. You quickly learn to scan your eyes with the smallest of movements possible, never focusing on any one thing or one, but always looking straight ahead. You keep your chin level, but your shoulders slightly hunched over to hide your breasts. You make a concentrated effort to alter your walking from the swaying glide of the feminine to the swinging gait of the masculine.
No one is safe. Not the man with the white cane, waiting to hear the sound of traffic — he could be faking. Not the man with the obviously crippled legs in the manual wheelchair — he could have cronies just around the corner, waiting for a signal. Not the screaming homosexual male — it could be a cover. Not the 89 year old man who is feebly begging for change — he could have a needle to stick you as you walk past him. Not the on-duty, in-uniform cop — he could abuse his power. Even other women are not safe, because they sometimes are in league with men to lure you into set up, catch you off your guard. You especially learn that men of your race, particularly groups of men of your race, are completely unsafe. You are utterly alone. You learn to watch the shadows on the ground and buildings all around you, keeping on eye out for fast movements or ones that move to close to you. You are suspcious of everyone, even those who love you and want to offer you nothing but friendship or gentle caresses. You are especially suspicious of that latter.
Touch becomes an impossibility. Sexual touch turns you into a blubbering idiot on the inside. You melt and freeze at the same time, become completely submissive as the person touching you proceeds. After a while, you become so adept at hiding it that they do not even notice. The thought of another person naked leaves you feeling queasy. The thought of yourself naked leaves you filled with full on anxiety, self loathing; churning stomach, cold sweat, hyperventilation. The thought of another naked body, touching your naked body, is reason to shut down completely and take yourself to another place where you do not exist, at least as an embodied being.
You think it is your fault. Then you blame others. You hate everyone but him. If you ever manage to tell anyone — particularly men that love you, such as your father, or your lovers — they become enraged, violent. How could this happen to so many women that they love? Why weren\’t they there to prevent it? Where can they find this fucker, so they can kill him? They must protect their women; if they don\’t, who will? They must keep the womb pure. They must punish those who violate it. It is their responsibility. Their honor is effected by the tainting of their womens\’ bodies.
I say, get over your damn self. We women, we will fight our own battles. Learn forgiveness, forget revenge. Hate and anger only inspire more violence.
\”I love my daughter\’s rapist\” — Peter Gabriel; \”The Barry Williams Show\” from the album \’Up\’
I don\’t think my dad or my lovers have ever been able to forgive. They have never let go, and insist on carrying the guilt and burden — ones that I have generally long since shed. I love the men who have assaulted me. That\’s right, love. I feel for them a certain passion and thankfulness these days. Without them, I would not be where I am now. I would not be so strong. I would not have met the people I have, and had the love that I have had. We experience, we learn, we grow. I am still growing. Without violence I would have likely continued to live a sheltered, terrified, mouse existence. I much prefer being a minx.
But sometimes, like tonight, when something triggers me horribly and I am unable to fight it, I go back to being the mouse. I go back to fear, which feeds the violence and makes me a target. I go back to feeling naked despite my added layers, and I go back to feeling like my breasts and ass are jutting a food away from my naked body, jiggling as I move, demanding to be touched against my will. I take off my make up, put on my boyfriend\’s clothes, bind my breasts, cover all my skin, binge on chocolate, but still… I am a mouse. Vulnerable. Scared. Helpless. But no one is going to help me. I have long since learned that I cannot expect other people — especially men — to fight my battles for me — particularly my mental battles. There is no comfort anywhere except the comfort I can provide for myself in my mind, by relaxing, at letting go. It is not happening right now. It is not happening again. He is not here, and no one will hurt me.
But still, I keep my guard up, because things are different here, for a girl.
After this spur of the moment, unedited release, which I finished about twenty minutes ago, I felt wonderful enuogh to go and give what was perhaps the best blowjob of my life. I couldn\’t help it, I was inspired. He walked out of the shower, sat on the bed, still dripping wet, and something in me went BOOM and I had to have at that. He tasted of wasabi from dinner a few hours ago. I still don\’t like sushi. And my right hand JUST dropped out, and like the old days, I am one handed again. Gimpy. I don\’t mind so much this time.
