Flashback

I can’t seem to talk about it, so I’ll just write it out. It happened last week, after a sexual experience that lacked a true emotional connection. Looking back, washing each other in the shower seemed to be the best part. I couldn’t keep away from sinking into guilt, shame, sadness, a slimy wiggle up my spine.

Walking my puppy that evening, I witnessed an argument between a young couple. The man had thrown a cup to the ground and started yelling in the woman’s face. He saw me at that moment, stopped immediately, and asked if I wanted him to pick up the cup. I told him that I just wanted them to be nice to each other. While they turned to walk away, I tripped the fuck out.

I was sleeping on the ground, with other children, in a strange room with a nightlight. I felt myself being picked up by a man with no shirt on. Immediately frozen, all I could do was stand in place as my dog sniffed the hedges in front of the post office.

I knew that if I cried out for help, the man would use violence to make sure I had a good reason for it. He walked me through a dark hallway. When the glow from the bedroom nightlight faded to darkness, I closed my eyes… both as a 3-year-old, and as a 36-year-old man on one of the busiest corners in Portland. I couldn’t stop the tears from flowing, but I knew to keep them quiet.

He transfers me from his sweaty chest and arms, to a face down position on a bed or a couch. My left ear is pinned to a cushion with his elbow and forearm putting way too much pressure on the right side of my face. My shoulder is in pain. So is the middle of my back, maybe that’s his elbow?

As his arm shifts, he covers my mouth, and most of my face with his hand. The pain immediately shifts to my rectum. The head of his penis is too big to fit. He angrily tries to force it as I wiggle and try to hold back tears… both as a 3-year-old, and as a 36-year-old man on the street corner.

It seems sick and twisted to put it into words like these, but when he finally decides to give up on my rectum, settling for sliding up and down between my butt cheeks… I stop fighting so much. His semen splashing in my hair, down my back, and on my butt let me know that it is almost over. He doesn’t use soap, but rinses me in the kitchen sink next to dirty beige plates with dark brown trim.

As a 3-year-old, he puts me back in the bedroom with a nightlight, and the other children. I silently cry myself back to sleep.

As a 36-year-old on one of the busiest street corners in Portland, my dog pawed at my leg, whined, and then tugged on her leash. I cried as she led me toward the park.

— leest1 —

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About Lee Stone -leest1-

The world is changing: Stand for Something. Soporte Para Algo. Independent Poet/Artist. Portland, OR · http://facebook.com/sonstone
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