I
was eight the first time I had sex.
Purple,
green, and yellow draped New Orleans. Tits caught the eyes and beer spoiled the
minds of the entire city on yet another Mardi Gras and I had to stay inside for
the night while my parents collected beads and booze.
“We’re
going to be out all night,” said my neglectful mother, tipsy and adorned in a
shiny, silver “dress,” I think is what she called it. Whatever it was, she
looked cheap in it.
“I
know” was all I said. I wasn’t surprised. I just didn’t look forward to what my
dad had to say.
“Jeff
is coming over to watch you while we’re out.” With that, he and my mom walked
out the door and I waited no more than ten minutes before my chubby, balding
nineteen-year-old cousin came strolling in the house with a six-pack in hand.
He went straight to the den, sunk into the couch and turned on some adult
channel. So I made myself a turkey sandwich, sulked my way up our creaky
stairs, and went to my room where I had to shove a chair against the door in
loo of a lock.
At
around 3AM, heavy, clumsy feet stomped their way up to my room. I thought the
chair would’ve said that I didn’t want to “play.” Almost instantly, though, the
door flew open and threw the chair into my dresser. I wanted to scream but I
found a sweaty palm cupping my open mouth and heard another hand anxiously
pulling at a zipper.
I
was used to Jeff’s hands but he had different plans for that night. My dress
turned to tattered rags around me and within seconds, I had a red face, two
cracked ribs, and a new longing to die. He couldn’t give me that much though.
If he couldn’t party on Mardi Gras, he’d find his own fun.
I
was eight the first time I was raped.
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