Personal History / Sex

There were no fireworks

Author’s Note: Most of my stories won’t be this heavy*.
I just had to get this out of my system to move on to the magic.
Trigger Warning: Rape

*Please don’t unfollow.
Bright cheeriness and hilarity is still to come.

I mentioned in Fucking Frenzy that “first there was a rapist.” Did you read right past it? Most people would.

I lost my virginity to a rapist. It’s important you know this. Most of my stories result from this, psychologically speaking (I’ve never spoken to a psychologist about this). It was in no way my fault, but, as society says, I was well on my way to it.

Perhaps if society would stop saying that it would stop happening, excusably so.
(It would still happen, but it would stop being excused.)

I was a piece of shit teenager, more than average. I actively sought trouble. I smoked Marlboro Reds with the leather-jacket-junkies just past the boundaries of school property. I drank through my parent’s liqueur cabinet. I lied as if it were the truth. I stole from Famous Barr, and got caught once. I smoked pot. I skipped school. We real cool.

I graduated high school with a 3.9 and I never had sex. Go fucking figure.

I never wanted children. I said so when I was eleven. I remember the night I declared it to my family. It was a Saturday. Never say never, I was told. There’s such a thing as abortion, I retorted. Eleven is too young to know there is such a thing, but I was raised Catholic so every year since I could stand we stood on Main Street with fake red roses to mourn the murdered unborn babies. I ate soap that night.

I decided I would not have sex until I graduated from high school. What would be more cliche? Losing my virginity under the bleachers in the shadows of Friday Night Lights, or in some stanky dorm room? It seemed a thing to have sex in high school and I thought maybe that shouldn’t be. It was the pregnant cheerleaders. At least college boys were bona fide.

Whatever. I made it through both proms. The first was easy enough. It turned out my date was actually after my friend. The second was easy enough because we were both breaking curfew and figured we were in enough trouble as it was. Not really. He figured breaking curfew was enough trouble. I was stoned.

At 19 and still a virgin, I was fully on my own. I had heard “as long as you’re under our roof, you’re under our rules” for the last time. “Our rules” hadn’t had much influence anyway, so I moved out.

One day, not unlike most every other weekend, I was out with friends. Two of us weren’t coupled. We pretty much stuck together. Mostly. It was summer. There was swimming. Hanging with friends. Drinking—I was not yet 21, get over it.

Eating lunch. Lots of people. Drinking. Playing volleyball. Meeting new people. Drinking. Sticking close to friend. Talking. Laughing. Swimming. Eating dinner with new friends. Drinking. Laughing. Friend finds me to leave to go to work. We hug. He leaves. Cute guy takes his place.

Lots of talking, laughing, arm touching. Blah blah blah, ha ha ha…conversation breaks. I run my hands across my face and streak the day across my cheeks like blush, and I blush.

“I need a shower. Gross.” I wipe my hands on my skirt. “I’m sure I look a wreck!”

“This is my place. You can take a shower inside,” cute guys say.

“Really? Oh yes! Where?”

“I make most people use the one in the pool house,” he says, “but you can use the guest room down the first floor hall.” I hug him and gulp the last of my beer.

I go in. I find the guest room. I find the bathroom. I start the shower and undress, tossing everything in a pile on top of my purse on the floor. I take the towel from the rack and flip it over the shower wall. Steam is rising. I step in and back, close my eyes and let the warm water wash over my hair, straightening the curls down to the middle of my back. I open my eyes as the shower door opens.

“I really actually just wanted a shower,” I say, covering myself.

“You are so beautiful I just had to see the whole thing for myself,” he says. “God you’re sexy.”

He bites his lip, breaths audibly. He grabs my arm. Pulls me close to him, out of the water. I shiver. He grabs my hair. Pulls my head back. He kisses my neck.

“No. I’m sorry.” I grab his hand. I release his grip from my hair and step back. He releases my grip. He grabs my hip. Pulls me close and kisses my lips. I return his kiss. Gentle, deep, passionate, furious, gentle again. I pull back and put my forehead to his.

“I’m going to finish my shower and I’ll see you back at the pool all fresh and clean,” I say.

He reaches down. Spreads my legs. I reach down, take his hand in mine, pull it away. I close my legs. I move my lips to his ear: “Meet me by the pool. Have a cold beer for me?”

He grips my hand, tight. He whispers back, “I want you.” He reaches his other hand between my legs. I’m confused. It hurts. I pull back.

“No,” I say. I smash myself into the shower wall and push him back. He steps forward, my hands slip on his wet chest. He slips his hand under my knee. So quick. I tighten my legs. He lifts my leg. So quick. He presses against me. I’m stuck. I put my hands back on his chest, dig my elbows into his ribs. I turn my head and face the wall. The white tile wall. The same white tile wall in every bathroom ever. White grout. No stains. White squares. Just white.

I stand there. I just stand there. I have no idea.

He hands me a towel. I dress. I leave.

Featured Image: Copyright, Gypsie Georgia; All Rights Reserved


4 thoughts on “There were no fireworks

    • Thank you. It was a long time ago, but this is the first time I’ve told the story. I just wanted to get it out so it stops weighing me down.
      I appreciate you stopping by and commenting.

      Liked by 1 person

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