Harrison, late 40s
My day is filled with pitfalls. They are honestly everywhere I look—tits, asses, bare midriffs, and short skirts worn by women barely old enough to drink, or sometimes women old enough to be my mother. Or sometimes men young enough to be my sons. I don’t discriminate. I don’t even see people anymore; I just see body parts. For me, it’s all the same. And I know that maybe for you, that’s hard to believe. You probably think that this is just an excuse to cheat on my wife.
My first sexual “encounter”—let’s call it that, because I’m not sure it was abuse or any of those other labels that people throw around—was with a seventeen year old neighbor. I was ten. I used to play tennis, and he asked me if I wanted to play a few matches. Afterwards, he bought me a Slurpee and invited me over to his house. He had a basement bedroom, and he showed me these 8mm porn tapes. They were very graphic, and he had a closet full of them. We watched two or three; I remember feeling turned on, but also really conflicted. He said, “Do you mind if I touch myself?” And I just kind of shrugged. I had never masturbated before, so I just watched him and he watched porn. He told me I could touch myself, too, if I wanted. But I didn’t. I went home and I rubbed myself awkwardly—I didn’t finish. The next time I saw him, he pointed a BB gun at me and ordered me to take my pants off and play with myself. I refused and I started crying, but that didn’t scare him off, so I did it. He then put butter on my genitals and had his dog lick it off. I felt so humiliated and scared, but I kept going back to his house after that and I didn’t tell anyone.
I wonder why. I wonder if everything would be different now if I had just told someone. Or had I just stayed away from him.
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