Sex and Pussy; A Journey Through the Decades Part 7

Not long after the rape I went to the Canton City prosecutor to discuss bringing charges.  I didn’t have hope for actual charges being levied against Ron since I had waited to report the rape, but I didn't expect the answer I received.  The prosecutor told me he wouldn't pursue charges.  It wasn't that I had waited a couple of weeks or so (that's how traumatized I was, I couldn't begin to discuss it until then) but that we were still legally married.  Even though we were separated, divorce papers had been filed and I maintained a separate residence with Schedule A visitation, he maintained a legal right to my body according to the prosecutor.  That was somehow more shocking than being raped.   Being raped by my husband didn't surprise me, but that answer certainly did.  He wouldn't even look me in the eye when he said it, and promptly dismissed me after.  I tried to get a discussion on the matter out of him, but he wouldn't listen.  He left the office and told his secretary where she could reach him.  I sat there momentarily, stunned.  His secretary asked if I was all right.  I said "no" and told her what had happened.  She just shrugged her shoulders.  I don't think she believed me any more than the prosecutor did.  After all, I was a bitter wife trying to gain an edge in the divorce.   A rape never happened.   

With the unfairness of the world spinning around me, I went on with life.  The anger of the rape itself is long past, but as I write this, the anger from the prosecutor's response remains.  It isn't fresh, it's a long simmering ember.  I wasn't believed, I had no rights and it was vindictiveness which drove the complaint, not the fact I had been raped.  Was there no end to what abuse Ron could legally get away with?  The custody battle for my children was overwhelming and expensive.  I had an accident settlement and every penny of it went toward ensuring the children's safety. I paid the attorney monthly from some cleaning jobs I had.  Every extra penny I had went to the attorney.  I spiraled into a depression which made living very difficult.  Even now, my pussy was not my own.  I considered suicide, but every time I looked at my children I knew I couldn't condemn them to a life living with a rapist.  I had no idea he was molesting them.  Later I would learn the pussy of a child does not belong to them either as I learned what he had been doing to my girls and I remembered what had been done to me.   

Life went on, despite the trauma.  The memory of the rape remains vivid nearly thirty years later.  The pussy never forgets an assault like that, and it has a better memory than I do.  Repeated rapes does something to your sense of self worth.  I had broken up with Gordon, and I meant it yet again so I stopped sitting next to him in class.  Unknown to me, there was someone else who was watching me.  His name was Mike and he was in my abnormal psychology class too.   

Mike waited a little while after I stopped sitting next to Gordon to start talking to me.  He asked me what classes I was signing up for in the coming semester, we sat together in the cafeteria and we developed a little friendship before we started seeing each other.  I seem to be attracted to damaged men.  Mike was living at home and he described a terrible home life.  He also disappeared a great deal of time and wouldn't tell me where he was.  He said he worked for a detective and was doing surveillance.  Sex with Mike wasn't as adventurous as it was with Gordon.  Gordon taught me a lot of new things, "going down" on me being the least of them.  Mike was pretty standard, though his enthusiasm for sex made up for his lack of imagination.  One day, he stopped by my house unexpectedly and without a word grabbed my hand, led me to the bedroom and pushed me up against the wall.  We had sex and it was pretty intense.  It was the first time I had angry sex.  He wasn't mad at me.  He said he had gotten into some pretty deep stuff and he didn't know what to do.  He had just had a fight with some of the people he was involved in.  To this day I don't know what he was doing, but he never brought it to me.  I certainly don't think it was detective work, nor do I think it was legal.  This was to be another on again, off again kind of relationship.  In a way, these relationships suited me since they weren't as emotionally intense but they still caused me a lot of pain and anguish.  I didn't know what to do with them, or how I was supposed to protect my pussy.  I began to wonder if it needed any protection at all.  I seemed to be doing perfectly OK with it, and I hadn't fallen into the hell-fires of damnation.   

Meanwhile, Amber and I continued to have talks about sex and pussy.  She always referred to her vagina as pussy.  I couldn't say the words vagina, pussy or any of the other descriptions.  I simply said down there.  I was coming down off my religious piety one grain of sand at a time, but I would have a very long way to go before I could accept sex was a natural part of adult life which was  nothing to be ashamed of.  I deluded myself into thinking I had real relationships with Gordon and Mike, which is how I justified having sex with them.  I was also ignoring the fact I enjoyed sex immensely, not willing to admit it to anyone but Amber of course.  When Mike disappeared the last time, he stayed gone but Gordon was different.  He continued to float in and out of my life for a while to come.  I let him use me and my pussy as an open door policy. There was one thing abstinence only classes had right; open door policy results in shame.  I began to feel ashamed I let Gordon use me in this way, though I didn't know that was what was happening.  I still equated my golden pussy as an expression of love, and love hurt.  Amber was trying to get through to me love had nothing to do with it, but I couldn't give up the Disney dream.  I still believed Gordon and I loved each other and maybe we did, but being used didn't make me feel good and sex was no longer the same with Gordon as what it had been at the start.  Years later I would come to find out my pussy wasn't the problem.  It was my sense of self worth. 

Self worth has a lot to do with sex and pussy.  Those women who have very little self worth tend to view pussy as a way of affirming they are worth something, because we are taught the value of and wicked allure of pussy.  Women who have been sexually abused as a child by someone who is supposed to love them do equate sex with love.  It is how we are taught what love is.  If you are a good person and love someone, you have sex with them.  A child always sees a parent as a good person, no matter what the truth may be.  It takes a long time to shatter that image of the parent.  After the rape, the counselor was getting a little closer to pulling out the information from me. More and more pieces were coming together and I started to remember a little bit.  The fog was lifting, and the result would send me into a tailspin and it would take some time to recover.   

The day I remembered a tiny bit of what my father had done was enough to send me underneath the counselor's desk and it took her a long time to coax me back out.  She had comfy chairs and sofas in her office, and she rarely sat at her desk.  She sat with me, as if we were friends chatting about our lives instead of a professional digging into my mind.  She never "planted" any ideas in me, as was popular in the time, but let them come out in fragments. She never told me where the fragments were leading and it left me confused as to what they meant.  All she would say was the memories would come in their own time.  She was working with me on my self esteem, and letting men use me. My entire self esteem was built upon how sexually desirable I was to men.  I had nothing outside of it.  I would learn this is common in women who had been sexually assaulted throughout childhood, and sometimes in women who had been repeatedly raped.  In childhood, sex is equated with love.  In repeated rapes, you learn you aren't worth anything outside of your pussy.  Fortunately, I was her last appointment of the day.   

I can talk about the first part of the abuse.  I have lived with the memory much longer, since my twenties.  I have come to an understanding of it, an acceptance of where it was in my life and what it meant.  I did not remember the rest of it until I was in my late thirties and early forties.  The final part of the memory was so traumatizing, I have only told two people the extent of it.  One of them was a counselor.   

One week we were discussing the picture I drew of the hallway in the farmhouse. The fog had been lifting.  I remembered an old refrigerator in the hall where my dad kept some of his tools, and where he kept his pornography.  I remember sneaking a look at them once, although getting into this refrigerator was strictly forbidden.  I added a picture of my dad and me, my curly little head was all I saw in it.  The addition was as if I was seeing the image from above, not at eye level, like the spider was.   The week after I drew my dad and I into the picture was when the memory came back.   

One day I bounced into the farmhouse living room, a happy little girl coming in from playing outside.  I don't remember what I was doing, only what happened next.  My father was in the hallway with a certain look in his eyes.  I froze, knowing what that look meant, and what was going to happen next.  He crooked his finger at me, motioning me to come to him.  He didn't say anything to me; I knew what he wanted and I was afraid.  I remained frozen, although my feet started moving toward him.  I didn't want them to do it, they did it all on their own.  Everything seemed to be happening to someone else, it held a dreamlike quality, even in the memory.  As I got closer to my dad, he unzipped his pants. I took his penis into my mouth and started doing what he wanted.  The memory was clear; this wasn't the first time.  I was six years old, I wasn't turning seven until December of '69.   

From there I separated from my body and floated away.  This is called dissociation, which was why I drew my father and me from an aerial view.  It was how I saw what was going on.  My spirit was flying up above me, waiting for it to be over.  As I recounted the memory to my counselor, I referred to myself as "the girl" the entire time I was disassociated.  While the girl was forced to perform oral sex on my father, I watching how brilliantly the sky shone in crystal blue hues, and how the fluffy white clouds decorated it with the glorious yellow glow of the sun.  It was a beautiful day out.  The was a light cool breeze which whispered against my skin when I was playing.  My spirit saw my mother coming in the front porch, off the kitchen.  She was humming.  My spirit was panicking, screaming at the girl that my mother was coming!  Mother would find out and she wouldn't love us anymore! I screamed and screamed but the girl couldn't hear me.  My mother walked in and caught the girl and my dad.  There was a scream, and my mother ran into the bedroom, crying.  My dad zipped up his pants and in an instant I was back in my body again.  My dad didn't say a word as he glared at me, as if I had done something wrong and I had.  He warned me never to let mom find out or there would be trouble and she wouldn't love me anymore.  I tried to warn them, I screamed but they didn't listen and now I was in trouble.  He went out through the kitchen and I looked at the calendar.  I stared at the picture, and July 1969 for a long time.  It was a pretty picture, a landscape with flowers.  I walked over to the sink and stared at the spider.  Though it scared me a little when I drew it, I had no fear in the actual memory.  I turned on the cold water (we didn't have a water heater in the farmhouse) and it pattered away, up the wall and out of sight.  I looked in the mirror at the bad, bad girl.  I lathered up from a bar of Ivory soap and washed my father's cum off my face.