Saturday, February 26, 2011

A dark and dirty muffin lament

Oh, my poor muffin

It could do with some stuffin'

A creamy fillin'

From some custardy villain

With plenty to spare

It's so unfulfillin'

To be unfilled but willin'

The future holds nuffin'

No hope for my muffin

Just stale despair.

With a nod of thanks to D, for inpiring this poem through muffin discussion. You're a-muse-ing!



Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Messing It Up, a not quite date rape story

I’ve been lucky. I never got attacked by anyone, never found myself scared and picked on by a man, or intimidated, or whatever. Never was in a situation I couldn’t handle, except perhaps when I was still 12 or so, and some scumbag guy who hung round the school bus stop freaked me out by harassing me in a cheerful and complimentary way to the extent that I asked my oblivious mother for a lift home (she totally refused and didn’t pursue why, I’m sorry to say). He drifted away though, thankfully, far less involved in the situation than I was.

There was this one thing, though, that I didn’t quite know how to term at the time. Well, I did, really, but I suppose I wasn’t assertive enough to. Well, I was and I wasn’t, but there was a lot of classic self doubt involved.

My best friend’s brother was in his early twenties, I think, when we were in our teens. He was older, cooler, funny, irreverent. She was just starting to get on with him on a more adult basis, I think. He was full of jokes and stories and attitude, and I liked him. One day I was alone with him in her house and he kissed me, and I was totally buzzed by the attention and the fact that he was attracted to me. I was maybe 15 by then. Maybe a little younger.

I think I probably gave him the odd knowing glance, after that, flirted a little, made him uncomfortable at the non alcoholic church discos we went to by asking him to dance, in public.
I don’t think anything else happened until one morning, when my friend had gone off somewhere, leaving me asleep in her room, and David appeared and got into bed with me. He got on top of me, and kissed me and rubbed himself against me. I protested, cheerfully, said, David, stop, I don’t want to do this, I have a boyfriend!

And he said, so?, and rubbed a little more, but then got up and went away. And then I realised my legs were wet, and could tell by the pungent and alarming smell of spunk that he’d come on me.

That was a little freaky. I told my friend about it at some point, and she was upset, apologetic, angry with him. I don’t know if she ever said anything to him.

Then a year or so later, I was at her house, for her birthday, and didn’t make it to the last bus. He offered to bring me home, and I didn’t want him to, but didn’t have much choice. I can remember asking my friend to come to, and she said no, so what could I do?

He drove up to the top of their lane, pulled the car over and kissed me. And I didn’t say, no, stop, take me home, please. I suppose I was happy enough for the attention, the little bit of affection, hey, even the pleasure of having someone to touch and be touched by for a little while. So I asked him to take me for a drink for a bit of Dutch courage, and he did, in a manky, old man pub in Kilcoole. Then he drove me closer to where I lived, turned down the quiet little dark lane by the church (Church Lane, that is) and we got a bit naked. Which was ok with me. And then he got on top of me, and started trying to penetrate me.

Which wasn’t ok with me. I was still sixteen at this stage, I’m fairly sure, I’d only slept with my one boyfriend, and wasn’t ready to start having casual actual sex just yet. I turned that corner fairly soon after, but hadn’t yet. I told David this, but he kept on trying. ‘I can’t get it in’, he gasped, pushing hard against me.

‘That’s because I’m trying really hard to keep you out,’ I explained, clenching my pc muscles together in a sterling effort to keep myself unpenetrated by his distinctly un-condom covered cock.

At that he relaxed his efforts, and gave up.

And, what did I do? Well, I gave him a blow job. Yeah. I kind of wish I hadn’t now, especially as afterwards, the premature ejaculating bastard rolled over and smeared his come all over my stomach and crotch, so that when I went home, I once again realised my underwear was damp with semen, scrubbed myself clean in fear and spent however many days ‘til my next period terrified I might have experienced an immaculate conception.

Before that realisation, however, he drove me home and as we sat outside the house in the car, my father walked inside after looking piercingly into the car.
‘There’s your dad,’ said David.

‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘and you know what he’d do to you.’ David laughed and nodded ruefully.

‘David,’ I said, ‘what do you call it when you have try to have sex with someone you know doesn’t want to?’

‘I know, I know,’ he interrupted me.

‘No, really, what do you call it?’

‘Rape,’ he offered, with a sigh, and I’m glad I made him say it, proud of myself for getting the point across, even in the confusion and blame of myself for being accessory to it, for not saying no, for getting him to buy me a drink, for wanting a little intimacy, just not the whole thing, not the actual sex-sex, just a little bit of sex and closeness.

And then I went in and found myself doused in his semen, and felt dirtied by the hostile act of his smearing it on me, wiping himself off on me, as what, punishment for not letting him fuck me? I don’t really know, I didn’t understand about that sort of gesture then, but I know it was aggressive, and soiling, and that the fear of an unwanted teenage pregnancy rested solely on my shoulders for a little while.

I made another mistake and told my friend again, and this time she was angry with me, for encouraging him to have a drink while driving, and endangering him. She didn’t say she was angry with me for being a slut, for agreeing to fool around with him, for wanting something but not everything out of the encounter. She wasn’t sorry for not coming too when I’d asked her to, just annoyed with me for putting her brother in this situation and then calling date-rape-attempt I suppose. I think that was pretty much the end of our friendship, which had been so intense, and dwindled away after that. There was other stuff too, other mistakes, but I suspect that was the major one.

As far as bad experiences go, this one was mild, I suppose. I was ... lucky? A little more self esteem and self respect could have prevented it, too. He was really not very attractive. Skinny and spotty and prematurely balding. Just kind of charismatic. I saw on Facebook he got married recently. I wonder if he grew up and got better at it all. I wonder if I did.