This one goes out to my nameless benefactor, may she be now as always a source of inspiration

The cool damp air of that place belied a greater truth, of moisture, of wetness incarnate, of rot. From the rafters and bare boards of the unadorned and uncovered walls hung sheets and strung Christmas lights, tacky decorations and pink flamingos. The centerpiece was the rattiest most used up couch I had ever seen, if a couch could appear to have given up on life this was that piece of depressed furniture. Directly across from the “I want to die” couch was a squat old tube TV sitting atop a wooden crate and wired into a dusty old VCR. Various tapes were strewn about to paint a perfect picture. This was less a fixture of a house and more of a den, a place of respite for one that didn’t quite fit in among societies ilk.

On the far wall were hung a series of crude caricatures and even more base cartoons. All wavy lines and too large faces, one of them, the one appearing most often, was my own image warped in grim parody and bearing a pair of ram like horns, as if the artist meant to demonize me.  But upon further inspection I could see that these rough inked pages were meant to revere my image rather than portray it with loathing. I had the wide eyes of Japanese anime and the random swirls of facial hair coming from my chin bore a whimsical and random nature.

I followed the leader down the stairs, entering this womb of decay and mildly tacky decadence, taking my seat with her on the couch without hesitation, although it looked as though many innumerable couples had sat there before me, and had left their marks there.

My mind swooned with the nature of this visit, I was alone with this girl and certain things were expected that I did not quite understand. She leaned in close to me a moment, then pushed back as if burned by a hot stove.

“Lets watch a movie!” she exclaimed rather than asked. “Do you have anything in mind? All I have are these old x-files episodes on tape…”

I pulled from the pocket of my long and very battle worn trench coat a sleeveless VHS tape, as if on cue, and very much like a cheap magic trick…

“THIS is one of my favorites, Its called Jacob’s Ladder, its about this Vietnam war vet who…”

“…thats fine…” she interrupted my rant curtly and took the cassette, sliding it roughly into the VCR in what to me at least, was a crude metaphor for what was expected of me. In my mind the scene played out in a series of nigh pornographic images, we’d watch the movie of course, but soon… the movie would be watching us.

I wasn’t prepared for the sort of betrayal that came next, not from the slim and beautiful darked haired woman sliding up next to me and drawing me in close, but from myself, my own tortured psyche. This wasn’t the first time I had been in this place, on this couch, with this girl my mind couldn’t identify in any light other than gorgeous, but the second. We had fooled around, kissed, and touched each other in ways I never expected nor experienced, and I thought I’d be okay going further.

This time was different, she was pushing me to go further, her hands roaming about my body like coiled serpents, and taking a moment every so often to tug or titillate certain areas of my anatomy as if they were biting. My body slid slowly horizontal on the couch and soon she was atop me, and I under her. Her eyes were distant and glazed, not the look I expected from an experienced girl such as she, and they were startling in there blank intensity.

I had been able up to that point to hold on to myself, to not drift in the vast and listless seas of dissociation that sometimes came to me with things of a sexual nature, even in the privacy of my own home I sometimes would… drift… when presented with provocative scenarios or material. The results were often the same, total disconnection from reality, a distinct sensation of being apart from the place I was, and often, fleeting mental images of fantastical places, the sort of fairy tale imagery a child would summon to comfort himself at night. But its source dwelled deeper, oh very much deeper indeed.

It was that look in her eyes, that in all honesty must mirror my own in such a state of confused arousal, that sent the first glimmer of dislocation through my yearning but damaged mind. I tried to speak and she silenced me with a finger, somehow aware of my discomfort, possibly from previous and very private conversations between us, or maybe just out of some sublime intuition.

“…close your eyes…” She spoke in a hushed whisper, barely audible, and very to the point. “…if you open them, I’ll stop…”

The thought of shutting out the scene before me at that point was very enticing, the need to somehow break away from this anxiety producing predicament beckoned in a way that was overpowering. But somehow I knew, that what would go on when I closed my eyes wouldn’t be the boys fantastical dreams of eroticisms, but rather a reawakened nightmare, brought on by this girl that I had come to trust with my heart and my body.

The tugging I felt at my pants sent my senses into total disillusion, behind my eyes thoughts drifted, passed, came into sharp and immediate focus only to shatter again. They were memories, familiar smells, sights, sounds… A deep voice speaking my name in total darkness while its owner thought I slept, the wetness of parting lips on intimate places, and through it all my sense of size dwindled… I was no longer a strapping boy of eighteen, but a child, somewhere lost between the epochs of age that sheaths youth and cordons it off from adolescence. I was still old enough to feel however, in memory, and in that shocking moment of the then present. Manipulating hands pulled and plundered me and soon I felt a weight balanced above me like the keystone of an archway, ready to fall. The moment she did, I was plunged upward and into her, and something in me let go… This wasn’t sexy, or erotic in any stretch of the word, the memories flashing in front of my tightly shut eyes were of atrocities committed to my childhood selfs flesh, and this woman knew, for she was the only person who with I had shared my darkest secrets.

It couldn’t have lasted long, and soon we parted, and I sat bolt upright in along the arm of the couch, while slowly coming back into the room that I presently occupied, like a diver becoming once again accustomed to breathing fresh air. I knew then that truly open intimacy and sexuallity would almost certainly be forever out of my reach.  I could play this game, I was sure my partner was unaware of the sick drama that unfolded within me during these private moments, and maybe I could find comfort in the love she offered, love that I had never felt from a woman before.  But how long could I keep it up? Forever I hoped, for even as the horror of that night still hung over me in remnants of memories, I did truly love her, and it only deepened with the closeness we had expressed. My first time may not have been of my own volition, but these acts with this beautiful and kind person were. Maybe one day, I thought, it will be better… Maybe with time I’ll learn to be okay…

Picture 138


3 thoughts on “FIRST TIME, SECOND TIME

  1. I don’t know how much of this is fiction and how much of this comes from a place of truth and I don’t want to make assumptions. So I will simply say I’m sorry that some horrible less than human stole your innocence if indeed that is true. As a “survivor” of some of my own atrocities I do know it take time to start healing and I have always found writing cathartic. You will find many poems of abuse and survival not to mention anger on my page.

    Now onto you writing… I must say you paint quite a vivid picture in your opening. Not only could I see the couch, the room…I could smell it.

    Well written.

    • Thank you very much, for your feedback as well as your kind words on the… ahhh… subject matter… I have to say that it is MOSTLY from life, but then again, memories fade…

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