sexual assault

The first time someone went down on me, I was about fifteen and we had broken into an abandoned house on the highway walking distance from my house. The summer after grade nine was what I used to refer to as the best summer of my life. To put it mildly, I packed all the hijinks a teenager could get themselves into in two short months. For instance that very night, I had snuck out of my house to hang out with the boy I liked and his friends.

Sneaking out was exhilarating, but rather simple. I’d come home right around my curfew, say goodnight to my mom and go into my room. The moment I would get home she would go to bed. Once, I knew she was asleep, I’d put some pillows under my blanket, tiptoe out of the house and put my shoes on once I was outside. The trick was to come home before she woke up, something I forgot to do that very night.

The guy I liked, his friend and I had broken into an abandoned house. The place was a mess, clearly, we were not the first kids to enter the premises. Broken plates littered the floor, some of them broken by our very hands. Our friend passed out on the living room couch while the boy and I snuck into one of the bedrooms. A dirty mattress laid bare on the floor, but I didn’t mind. Two firsts would happen that night. It was the first time someone would explore my cunt with their hands and with their mouth. It was great. It was exhilarating. He was slightly off the mark, but I didn’t mind.

My Mom used to be a fan of psychics, I remember her dragging me along to a couple of readings where I invariably spend most of my time bored as hell waiting in an adjacent room. Sometimes, she would bring along my white and red Fisher Price tape recorder so she could painstakingly analyze every detail with one of her friends at a later date. She wasn’t what I would call a true believer, but she did enjoy her own little slice of the mystery.

I never partook in the fun, perhaps the uncertainty (of life) I faced as a kid wasn’t as frightening as the uncertainty of adulthood, but when I was sixteen my mother brought me to have my cards read. Now, the strange part was that the psychic in question also happened the be the janitor of the elementary school I went to from grade 5 to 6. He was a tall skinny man with long black hair, come to think of it he kind of looked like Alice Cooper, but the most striking feature of his whole persona was the van he drove to school. It was one of those vans, popular in the eighties, not meant for a family, but for fun times. Pitch black, it had one tear drop shaped window on the side near the rear and it also featured some kind of purple airbrushed design. Now, the reason it was so remarkable was the fact that he washed and buffed that piece of metal every single day during lunch hour. It shone like black ice.

It was a odd feeling to be standing in his house, years later, waiting to have my fortune told. I can’t tell you if any of the things he told me came true, because I can’t recall any of them, but what I do remember, vividly, is that he began his reading by looking into my past and told me I had been raped. You would think that a 16 year old girl would remember such an event and when I told him he was wrong, he plainly assured me that no matter what I had to say on the matter I had indeed been raped.