modernsex

I don’t like clothes very much.  I’m much more comfortable in the nude, especially in a hot climate such as Orlando.  I do not suffer embarrassment for many things.  This gave me the ability to wear pajamas to school on many occasions when I just couldn’t be bothered to get dressed.  I had a nightdress I particularly loved.  It was old fashioned and covered me from neck to foot, long sleeves and all.  It was made of a heavy green material so I didn’t have to worry about it being see-through or being blown about.  I got away with wearing nothing underneath.  Very Comfortable.  It was on a day wearing this that Kate took me to visit some of her older friends at the school.  My plan was to smile and not say much on this first meeting.  After all, I was only a freshman.

There was a wolf in the pack.  Short.  Stocky.  Native American.  Long black hair.  Piercing eyes.  Wore denim jeans and jacket.  His name was Jay.  He took notice of my strange attire.  “whatcha got on under there?”

“Nothing.”

Silly me.  That was the beginning.  We got closer.  He was exotic.  Mysterious.  Troubled past.  A bad boy with a good heart.  Sweet little twin sisters.  An evil stepfather.  A mother that does her best.  He listened to classic rock and liked to skip class.  I started wearing his ring around my neck.  Everyone at school knew him, or of him.  He was a legend.  I was his girl.  He even gave me a name.  Suneagle.  My hair was the sunlight, he said.  He was Blackhawk.  We were a pair.  He was interested in me.  He took his time with me.  He smoked.  Smelled of tobacco and Aspen.  I tried to get him to quit, but knew it was a lost cause.  He had a guitar that he’d play for me from time to time.  I was enchanted.

Eventually he persuaded me to get to know him better.  I started learning about the male penis in earnest.  I got to examine it, not just a picture.  Feel it.  Eventually taste it.  I learned how to grip, pace, tease, pleasure.  And he worked on getting to know me.  When I would finally let him go down on me I was so embarrassed I would have to cover my face.  It was too awkward and strange to fully enjoy it for a while.  As time went on I became more comfortable with him.  We had been together for months.  He was possessive of me, but not in a scary way.  I loved it.  He helped my confidence in leaps and bounds.  He made me feel pretty.  Made me feel important.  He made me feel I loved him.

One day I went over to babysit his sisters.  He ended up not having to work after all.  We were unsupervised.  He stripped me naked and took a long look at me.  Made me turn around for him.  I was beet red, as I often was.  The flush covers a good deal of my body.  He asked why it bothered me so much.  He thought I was gorgeous.  I heard everything I needed to hear.  Even though I had told him many times I wanted to wait until marriage, I finally consented to be with him.  We went to his bed and he took me slow and gentle.  Afterwards I went to curl up in a ball.  He was worried about me, asked if I was okay.  Took me in his arms and held me.  Said many sweet and kind things that made me feel better about what had happened.  I had made the right choice.  I thought.  I loved him.  It was okay that I hadn’t waited, because he wanted to marry me anyway.  He would tell me about how we would go back to New York upstate and get a cabin in the woods somewhere.  He’d show me how to follow animal tracks.  I’d have our children.  It was a nice dream.

It was a facade.

He was a liar.  He was into drugs.  He wouldn’t stop.  I couldn’t get past that.  Every time we’d argue about it, though, he’d manage to win me over again.  I wish I could remember all the ways he had hold on me.  The elaborate story of his past that he’d woven around my heart so that he could easily make me feel guilty for upsetting him in the slightest.  How any time I’d rock the boat he’d make it seem like I didn’t love him.  He would have crazy mood swings.  Once I found a strange kit in his bag.  He said he was diabetic.  Those were his insulin shots.  This was part of the reason for his craziness.  That made sense to me.  My dad was, too.  But Jay liked to drink.  A lot.   This also bothered me.  But now for a new reason.  How could he handle all that sugar if he’s diabetic?  That should’ve killed him by now.  Turns out it was heroin.  He was always out of money, in debt, and now I knew why.  I couldn’t believe how lied to I’d been.  I couldn’t understand why.  He told me about his pot and acid use.  I guess he knew it was a step too far.

Still, I didn’t leave.  We’d been together almost two years.  A lot had happened between us.  He convinced me he wanted to quit.  Was trying to quit.  He needed me to be strong for him.  That wasn’t the only time I caught him lying.  Once he ‘went to work’ and ended up out with an ex girlfriend all day.  He had a secret tattoo he would never let me see.  Said it was something to do with an incomplete Native induction he didn’t feel worthy of.  It was her name.  Lie after lie.  And through everything, I stayed.  My family didn’t like him.  My father hated him, with good reason.  My friends hated us together.  I cried more than anything.  I was really in love with him.  I believed it.  I wanted him to be the good person he was inside.  I couldn’t just leave.  Something about him made me not want to leave.  Besides, every time I’d tried he had turned it around on me.  Made me feel like I was the bad person.  I was starting all the trouble.  My doubts and nagging drove him to some of those things.  Silly me.

He disappeared for three days after an important parole meeting.  I was worried out of my mind.  When he resurfaced I found out he’d been at a friends lost on drink and drugs the whole time.  The fight was epic.  I was at my wits end.  Somehow the topic of my first time came up.  I mentioned the babysitting night.  He contradicted me.  That wasn’t the first time.  Surely, I would know.  No, he said.  Then he proceeded to remind me about a much earlier night.  We were in his room watching Zorro.   I felt like I had been punched in the gut.  The night came back to me, then.  He didn’t have to fill in any other details.  I did remember.  I remember we started to fool around a bit.  I remember us being in the spooned position and him begging to let him have me.  No.  No.  No.  Just the tip.  He wouldn’t let up.  He was rubbing himself against me.  I was upset that he was pressing my boundaries so hard.  I gave him a bit of the silent treatment.  He took this as permission, and took me.  I was in too much shock to say anything.  I couldn’t feel it.  It was too late.  Remembering it now still makes bile rise in my throat.

It was at that point on the phone that pieces started to fall together.  That hadn’t been the only time that I’d been pressured.  That he interpreted my giving up as a sign of willingness.  But I wasn’t sure what I could do about it.  After all, in all our time together I’d willingly spent the night with him, lying to my parents about where I had been.  I was his girlfriend.  I had bragged to friends about the great sex we had.  About how happy I was with him.  I thought about all the fights we’d had.  How often I’d bring a legitimate complaint up and in the end I’d be begging forgiveness.  He had me on a leash.  I’d been manipulated.  Intimidated.  All sorts of nasty things that all added up to me wanting out.  But with all this came the knowledge that he wasn’t going to let me go.  I was afraid of him.   Hell, I still am.

More tomorrow.

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