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He put his hands around my neck, gently pressing his thumbs into a notch of my throat. Demonstrating how someone feels when being choked. He asked me if I felt it. I tried to nod. I froze. He was supposed to be an ally. I came to him for help.
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He put his hands around my neck, gently pressing his thumbs into a notch of my throat. Demonstrating how someone feels when being choked. He asked me if I felt it. I tried to nod. I froze. He was supposed to be an ally. I came to him for help.
I couldn’t breathe. It didn’t make any sense until my therapist asked me a simple question that made me realize that finding my voice meant losing my breath.
We would lie in his bed, watching TV and he’d fondle me. I don’t know if he penetrated me. I just don’t know. But I do know there were times that he’d insist that I return the favor. I remember what I think was the first time he unbuttoned his jeans and took my hand in his, pushing it under the waistband of his underwear, until it reached his coarse pubic hair. My tiny fingers reached his penis. It was warm down there. I pulled my hand back. He pushed it back down. That’s the last thing I remember.
I woke up in my hotel room, nude, sore, bruised. Thick, crusty, sticky goop – semen, on my legs, in my pubic hair, on my thighs, on the sheets. I sat on my bed in shock. I knew what happened, yet I didn’t know. I couldn’t know. Not to me. I had no memory. Who? How? My head was pounding and swirling. I could barely keep it upright. My tongue was sticking to the roof of my mouth. I needed water. I looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes were swollen and bloodshot. I clearly cannot hold my liquor.
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