*Triggers Possible* Details of my rape.
This is my latest attempt to detail my rape.
My Account of the Sexual Assault – Summer After 6th Grade.
The memories are mostly flashes, intense feelings, and the overwhelming messages that were carved into my mind. The exact words are paraphrased, I don't remember them verbatim, but the meaning and impact are burned in.
I was riding my bike around the area, trying to explore farther from home to escape the constant threat of bullying in my own neighborhood. Getting caught outside by other kids too often ended in harassment or worse. The exact location is fuzzy now; I just know it wasn't close to home. I remember seeing a boy I didn't know playing in a yard. He stood up, waved, and called out "Hey!" in a friendly way. That was new, another kid's voice that wasn't mean or threatening. I don't recall exactly what drew me in: maybe an offer of a snack, water, the bathroom, or just to play. Whatever it was, my usual caution failed me that day. I was desperately lonely and followed him inside the house.
Inside, he wanted to show me some "dirty magazines" he'd said were his brother's or dad's. I'd only seen covers before, hidden in my own brother's room. Curiosity won out. We were in a bedroom. He took his shorts down and started masturbating in front of me. He tried several times to get me to sit closer, asking if I wanted to touch him or let him touch me. I refused that for some reason. I knew playing with myself felt good, but I hadn't gone through puberty yet (or it was just starting). Still, I ended up pulling my shorts down and masturbating too. My penis was still straight then; I remember that clearly. It is one of ways I recall the timeline. That is my only memory of my penis still being straight. We weren't in the room long before a camera flash went off from the doorway. That's when everything changed forever.
An older girl and an older boy (the one with the camera) were standing there, laughing. I immediately started crying and begging to be let go, living up to my "crybaby" label. All it did was make her laugh louder. The other younger boy bolted from the room, and they let him go. I wasn't so lucky. How involved he was, whether he was another victim or helped lure me, I'll never know. She repeatedly called me a "little faggot," laughing at my erection that wouldn't go away no matter how terrified I was. She said things like: "Only gay boys get hard with no girls around," "I could tell you were a fag just by looking at you, and so will every other woman and man you meet," "Women can always spot a fag like you." She threatened to show the pictures to all the kids and adults in the neighborhood unless I did what she said. The older boy blocked the doorway; there was no escape. She made me go down on her for what felt like hours, telling me exactly what she liked and how to do it. While she played with me, stroking my penis, she kept fingering my anus, making me suck her fingers to wet them again before sliding them back in. She introduced me to my prostate that day, saying things like: "See how good it feels? That's proof you like it, because it's your future," "Everyone will see it in you just by looking at you," "Get used to it; you'll be getting a lot of attention there." At one point, she replaced her fingers with a white plastic vibrator (the kind sold as a "personal massager" for women). For years afterward, seeing pictures of those things in catalogs triggered overwhelming memories of the rape. My body betrayed me the whole time, staying erect despite the terror and pain. She pointed it out constantly as more "proof" I was gay. The camera flashed several more times throughout. One of the last things she said before finally letting me go was that she wanted me to come back the next weekend so she could watch the older boy (or another man) fuck me.
I don't even remember riding home, but the bike was there the next day. The house was empty, and I was grateful, no one to see me like that. I was terrified my parents would somehow find out about the pictures and be furious or disgusted. My jaw ached badly, my butt hurt, and the smells and tastes wouldn't go away no matter how many times I brushed my teeth, gargled, or tried to vomit.
I lived in constant terror of those pictures surfacing, proof of all the bullies' taunts that I was secretly gay. I never went back, somehow overcoming the blackmail threat, but I waited every day for it to happen. Nothing ever did. Much later in life, I realized the camera might have been empty, or that the photos would have been criminal evidence against them too. That day was my first sexual experience with anyone else. It introduced me to anal/prostate pleasure in the worst possible way, planting decades of shame, self-doubt, and confusion about my sexuality, despite never feeling attraction to men. The nightmares started incorporating this new material, becoming almost nightly. Puberty amplified everything. School the next year felt like going to my own execution every day. I tried faking illness desperately, even poisoning myself with rubbing alcohol or lighter fluid in milk to vomit, or shoving fingers down my throat. My prayers changed to end with "if I die before I wake, thank you." This event, on top of years of bullying, left me convinced something was fundamentally wrong with me. It fed into self-loathing, fear of men, doubts about ever having normal sex with a woman, and fantasies I am only now learning were never about desire in the first place.
My Account of the Sexual Assault – Summer After 6th Grade.
The memories are mostly flashes, intense feelings, and the overwhelming messages that were carved into my mind. The exact words are paraphrased, I don't remember them verbatim, but the meaning and impact are burned in.
I was riding my bike around the area, trying to explore farther from home to escape the constant threat of bullying in my own neighborhood. Getting caught outside by other kids too often ended in harassment or worse. The exact location is fuzzy now; I just know it wasn't close to home. I remember seeing a boy I didn't know playing in a yard. He stood up, waved, and called out "Hey!" in a friendly way. That was new, another kid's voice that wasn't mean or threatening. I don't recall exactly what drew me in: maybe an offer of a snack, water, the bathroom, or just to play. Whatever it was, my usual caution failed me that day. I was desperately lonely and followed him inside the house.
Inside, he wanted to show me some "dirty magazines" he'd said were his brother's or dad's. I'd only seen covers before, hidden in my own brother's room. Curiosity won out. We were in a bedroom. He took his shorts down and started masturbating in front of me. He tried several times to get me to sit closer, asking if I wanted to touch him or let him touch me. I refused that for some reason. I knew playing with myself felt good, but I hadn't gone through puberty yet (or it was just starting). Still, I ended up pulling my shorts down and masturbating too. My penis was still straight then; I remember that clearly. It is one of ways I recall the timeline. That is my only memory of my penis still being straight. We weren't in the room long before a camera flash went off from the doorway. That's when everything changed forever.
An older girl and an older boy (the one with the camera) were standing there, laughing. I immediately started crying and begging to be let go, living up to my "crybaby" label. All it did was make her laugh louder. The other younger boy bolted from the room, and they let him go. I wasn't so lucky. How involved he was, whether he was another victim or helped lure me, I'll never know. She repeatedly called me a "little faggot," laughing at my erection that wouldn't go away no matter how terrified I was. She said things like: "Only gay boys get hard with no girls around," "I could tell you were a fag just by looking at you, and so will every other woman and man you meet," "Women can always spot a fag like you." She threatened to show the pictures to all the kids and adults in the neighborhood unless I did what she said. The older boy blocked the doorway; there was no escape. She made me go down on her for what felt like hours, telling me exactly what she liked and how to do it. While she played with me, stroking my penis, she kept fingering my anus, making me suck her fingers to wet them again before sliding them back in. She introduced me to my prostate that day, saying things like: "See how good it feels? That's proof you like it, because it's your future," "Everyone will see it in you just by looking at you," "Get used to it; you'll be getting a lot of attention there." At one point, she replaced her fingers with a white plastic vibrator (the kind sold as a "personal massager" for women). For years afterward, seeing pictures of those things in catalogs triggered overwhelming memories of the rape. My body betrayed me the whole time, staying erect despite the terror and pain. She pointed it out constantly as more "proof" I was gay. The camera flashed several more times throughout. One of the last things she said before finally letting me go was that she wanted me to come back the next weekend so she could watch the older boy (or another man) fuck me.
I don't even remember riding home, but the bike was there the next day. The house was empty, and I was grateful, no one to see me like that. I was terrified my parents would somehow find out about the pictures and be furious or disgusted. My jaw ached badly, my butt hurt, and the smells and tastes wouldn't go away no matter how many times I brushed my teeth, gargled, or tried to vomit.
I lived in constant terror of those pictures surfacing, proof of all the bullies' taunts that I was secretly gay. I never went back, somehow overcoming the blackmail threat, but I waited every day for it to happen. Nothing ever did. Much later in life, I realized the camera might have been empty, or that the photos would have been criminal evidence against them too. That day was my first sexual experience with anyone else. It introduced me to anal/prostate pleasure in the worst possible way, planting decades of shame, self-doubt, and confusion about my sexuality, despite never feeling attraction to men. The nightmares started incorporating this new material, becoming almost nightly. Puberty amplified everything. School the next year felt like going to my own execution every day. I tried faking illness desperately, even poisoning myself with rubbing alcohol or lighter fluid in milk to vomit, or shoving fingers down my throat. My prayers changed to end with "if I die before I wake, thank you." This event, on top of years of bullying, left me convinced something was fundamentally wrong with me. It fed into self-loathing, fear of men, doubts about ever having normal sex with a woman, and fantasies I am only now learning were never about desire in the first place.
I feel you
