I was six years old the first time I ever removed my clothes at a boy’s request. His name was Michael, and he had a younger sister called Stacy. The three of us played together nearly every day when my family lived on Huggins Road—Michael and Stacy lived with their mother and father directly across the street. It was a hot day. I remember sweating in the dry, prickly grass, staring up at a sky so perfectly blue, I never wanted to look away. Michael lay on top of me in the backyard of his house; I will never forget the sensation of his flaccid penis smooshed against my labia. Pale skinned and white-blonde, Stacy was naked, too, standing in bright sunbeams—she seemed to glow.
My parents had friends who lived on the other side of Flint. I can’t recall their names, but they had a Doberman Pinscher, Angel. The couple had two children, Kenny and Sara, who were both older than me by a good few years. Kenny, who frequently liked to pull down his pants and shake his penis in my face, used to show me Playboy magazines that he’d pilfered from his dad.
We moved to Lapeer when I was seven years old. That summer, my mother told my uncle—her baby brother—that he wasn’t allowed in the pool with me anymore because she’d caught him with his penis exposed through the slit of his trunks while he and I were swimming together. In elementary school—third grade—a boy named Kevin found a discarded condom on the playground, and told his friends he’d used it on me.
In middle school, there was boy who would always sneak up and stand behind me, then he’d grab my hand and press it into his crotch. By the time I was a freshman, most of my friends had already had sex. When I was fifteen, there was one boy in particular who I crushed hard for, and he liked me, too. His name was Jeremy. One time, he and his cousin came over to my best friend’s house, where I was spending the night, and the four of us went for a walk; we ended up in the woods. I was ultimately left alone with Jeremy. Holy hell, he was cute. I let him kiss me, and feel me up under my shirt, but over my bra. My eyes welled up when he unzipped his pants, and pressed his erect penis against my pelvis. It was summer, and I was wearing light cloth shorts that were too fucking short. Jeremy lay on top of me, forced my legs apart, and humped me quite violently—he didn’t penetrate me. I opened his back with my fingernails, but he wouldn’t stop. I went for his neck, but he grabbed my wrists and kept on pumping. The skin of my inner thigh had been rubbed so aggressively, it cracked and bled and bruised.
I was married to my daughter’s father when he sexually assaulted me. We’d been out drinking. I was incoherently drunk when we arrived home in the middle of the night, but I do remember going bed in my clothes. I woke up the next day naked from the waist down, bleeding from my anus, and in pain.
Jesus. I’ve never told Jim any of this. Before now, I’ve never told anyone.
No reblogs, please.