Chapter Eight #2
He took a breath, but only one, before he plunged on.
“I knew about sex. I’d even looked up a couple of videos, but it all seemed so violent.
Not like love at all. So I was sure that wasn’t what Mr. Edwards wanted to do to me, but even if he did, I would be okay because I loved him, and I wanted him to love me.
That’s what I kept telling myself when he took me to his bed, but I was scared, even though he didn’t enter me that day.
But it was still weird, because when he took off his clothes, he was hard, and he wanted me to touch him, and I did, and it wasn’t so bad, and I even thought I was happy that I could make him come, like a real man could, but when I got home I went into the shower and I couldn’t turn off the water.
I kept washing myself, and I cried because I felt like a baby for not liking it.
For not wanting to do it again. But I did do it again.
Because I loved him. I really thought I loved him.
And I went back to his house every day of spring break because he asked me to and because I didn’t want to tell him no.
I worried that if I refused, he’d remember I was just some dumb kid and find someone else.
And I didn’t want that, even though it felt weird when he touched me, and I couldn’t get hard, I didn’t want that.
He thought I was soft because I was too young to get erections, but that wasn’t why.
It’s weird, when I was alone, I could think about it and like him.
On the last day of vacation, he asked me to use my mouth on him, and I did, and that was scary because he was big and he wasn’t gentle and I couldn’t breathe, not just from panic.
I choked, and I really couldn’t breathe.
I had nightmares after that, of not being able to breathe.
And I got so scared I didn’t go to school the next day, and when he called, I told him I was sick.
To be fair, I was sick. I was feverish and my throat hurt, and my scalp also, from him pulling on my hair.
I thought maybe I would never go to school again.
But then he told me he loved me, right there on the phone, he said, “Get better soon, I can’t bear not to see the boy that I love.
” He’d never said it before. It was only ever me telling him.
And hearing it made me so happy I almost forgot I was afraid.
” Except he hadn’t really forgotten. He had been afraid; he just hadn’t wanted to be.
Because it was ruining things, and he didn’t want that.
“I went to school the next day, and he invited me home. He was being sweet at school, like things used to be. Gentle. So I thought it would be okay. He gave me more tea when we got to his place, and asked how I was feeling. I said I was feeling better because I didn’t want to sound like a baby.
So he asked if he could hold me—just to hold me.
He wouldn’t do anything else. And I said yes, because that sounded okay.
But then he wanted me to take off all my clothes, and he took off all his clothes and when he put his arms around me, he was hard again and it was pressing against me, and I was so scared I was nauseous.
My throat started hurting really bad, and I told him it hurt, and that I didn’t think I could use it for a while.
And he said that was okay. That there was something he wanted more.
Something that would bind us together forever.
Would I give it to him?” It was strange how much of the retelling was embarrassment.
More than fear or hurt he just wanted to crawl up into a ball and never show his face again.
The memory was so old, but he still felt just as stupid.
“I didn’t even ask what, I just said yes.
And he started to touch me to—to open me.
It felt really weird. Not good at all. And I panicked and asked what he was doing, and he said he was marrying me.
That this was something all married people did.
And I knew he was right. That married people had sex.
And I was almost happy about it. I wanted to marry him.
I’d fantasized about it in my head so many times.
But it hurt. It hurt a lot. And I was so nauseous and scared and I kept waiting for it to be over, and then it was, and he told me he loved me, and I said nothing.
I just waited for him to fall asleep and then I ran out of there, or rather, I walked out of there.
It hurt too much to run, and I got home, and Jenny asked me what was wrong, and I told her nothing.
To just leave me alone, and went to clean the gunk out of myself.
It hurt, but I kept doing it, cleaning myself, because I still felt dirty, but touching it, even to clean myself, only made me feel dirtier.
” He’d felt so guilty about it all, knowing it was wrong and trying not to know it, because if it was wrong that would mean Mr. Edward’s love was wrong, and he didn’t want to believe that even if it was a lie.
“I spent the night writing him a letter, trying over and over to tell him what I couldn’t make myself say.
That I hated when he touched me, hated his dick, hated the way he would forget everything but his own pleasure as soon as he started touching me.
In the end I just wrote that I didn’t think we should continue doing “those” kinds of things.
That it was too dangerous, and that other people wouldn’t understand.
I said we could have sex when we were older, thinking that if I pushed it off for a few years I might come to like it.
But I never gave him the letter. The next day when I told him good morning, he ignored me, and he ignored me at lunch.
All day he ignored me. And I was so afraid that he knew the truth, that I hated when he touched me.
“I waited for him after school, hoping to ask him what I’d done to upset him.
And when I saw him come out, I jumped up and asked if I could come home with him.
But he didn’t answer me, he just grabbed my wrist and dragged me to a motel.
As soon as he’d paid for a room, he pushed me inside, and I started to cry.
That’s the part I hate most. That I cried.
And not even because I thought he would hurt me again, but because he was angry at me, and I thought he hated me.
I tried to kiss him, but he wouldn’t let me.
He just shoved me into the wall and yanked down my pants and tried to fuck me, but I struggled, and I broke away, but he only shoved my face into the wall again.
He told me this was how I wanted it. That I was a whore who just wanted his cock, because I’d run off after we’d had sex like it was a one-night stand. ”
He couldn’t think about this. Didn’t know why he was thinking about it now when he always put so much effort into not thinking about it.
“The second time was much worse. He didn’t prepare me.
Just some spit, I think, and I was already raw from the night before.
I might have blacked out for a few seconds.
I’m not sure. My face also hurt and my scalp, but I didn’t notice those at the time.
It felt like he was shoving broken glass into me, but the worst part was him calling me a whore, over and over he called me a whore, and I remember thinking it wasn’t fair because when you called someone a whore they were supposed to like sex, but I hated it.
I never wanted to have sex again. I was only doing it for him, and he hated me.
He told me so. Also that I was ruining his life, and that he just wanted to be normal.
That he hated me. That he could never love a whore.
That he wished I would die. And then he came, and I remember how much that stung, like pouring salt into an open cut. But then he released me, and I fell.
“The first thing I did was pull up my pants. I remember that distinctly, the wanting to cover myself. I was something disgusting. A whore. And it wasn’t even over, because then he started to cry, and that was worse than the rest, because I still loved him, and I’d made him cry.
He picked me up and hugged me and told me he didn’t mean it.
That he really was going to marry me. That he would be gentle.
That he loved me. But I didn’t believe him.
Because I’d already heard the truth. He really did hate me.
I knew it then and I know it now. He hated me because he needed me, and he wanted to punish me for making him want me.
” And he had made him. With that kiss. And with trying to be grown up.
For coming to his house and staring at his bare feet.
“He took me home, or mostly home. I had to walk a block. He never wanted anyone to see us together, though I only realized that later. That block was hard. Every step felt like a knife in my ass, but I made it home. I went around to the back and made it up to my room without anyone noticing, or so I thought, but when I turned around Jenny was there. ‘You’re bleeding,’ she told me.
I told her to go away. I even threw something at her.
But she didn’t leave. ‘Someone hurt you,’ she said.
But I pushed past her and locked myself in the bathroom.