The First and Only Time I Played Spin the Bottle (and I didn't even get kissed)

It was cold in the basement. We’d been naked for the photo shoot, but most of us had tossed on coats or boots or even a few clothes as they’d herded us down the stairs. Prospective buyers were touring the studio. It wouldn’t do for them to see thirty rowdy nudes cluttering up the space.

In the basement, our nascent intimacy, born of being posed tangled under lights for hours on end, seemed to fade. We stood or sat in awkward cliques. Some people were old friends and lovers, but many of us had just met. Someone passed around a bottle of wine. “I’m finishing it off,” announced Rachel, throwing back her head and gulping dramatically. Then she waved the empty bottle in the air. “You guys, you guys, we should play spin the bottle!” She was practically dancing with delight at her inspiration. Under her full-length black anorak, her naked breasts nodded in agreement.

There was no hesitation. In moments, we’d gathered in a large circle, the bottle placed in the middle. “Who goes first?” someone asked, and Rachel said she’d spin for it. The bottle spun and pointed at a short young red-head, naked but for her Sorel boots. She spun and won a kiss from a tall blond man she seemed to know. They french-kissed in what seemed a comradely sort of way. We all cheered, and he spun the bottle with a flourish.

This time the bottle pointed to a willowy, dark haired woman, wearing a sarong around her waist and black lace-up boots. “Spank or kiss?” she asked the blond man.

“Oh, spank, of course,” he answered. I was surprised to see him walk to one of the basement columns and brace himself. The dark haired woman pulled down his boxers with a snap, and delivered four sharp, violent smacks. Then she stroked his reddened skin with her slender hand. She had an air of command mixed with a delicate grace. I was smitten. She spun the bottle and I longed for it to land on me.

The bottle rattled on the concrete floor and slid to a stop pointing at a handsome young man I hadn’t notice until now. Unlike most of us, he had on both a shirt and pants, though his white oxford-cloth was buttoned incorrectly. I later found out his name was Emil. “Spank or kiss?” my new ideal asked. Emil opted for a kiss. She draped her arms around his neck and kissed him with movie-star abandon. There were whistles and applause. Emil spun.

This time the bottle landed on Jay, our host, a man famous for his sexual exploits and the subject and center of our naked photo extravaganza. Jay did not wait for permission. He strode across the room and took Emil in his arms. His kiss was, if possible, more dramatic than the one that had gone before. Emil kissed him back gamely, arms outstretched as if to express his surprise. Jay’s hands splayed across Emil’s trousered ass and ground his pelvis against Jay’s naked crotch. While Emil was still reeling from this initial assault, Jay sank to his knees and began unbuttoning Emil’s pants.

I had the perfect angle on the action. I could see Emil’s face in profile, laughing with surprise, and his cock, half-hard, appearing and disappearing as Jay’s head moved back and forth. It was clear Emil was not among those of the party inured to the novelty of public sexual hijinks. Jay sat back on his heels. “Ever had your cock sucked by a man before?” he asked.

“Never,” said Emil, the member in question sinking back into its place.

A voice called from upstairs. We were cleared to return to the photo shoot. Our circle dissolved and we trooped back up the stairs. It was time to resume being naked for the camera instead of each other.

Unrequited

My attraction to him is a one way street. You'd think I'd mind, but I don't. He flirts. He hugs me hello. He even offered to kiss me once, but it was an inconvenient time and it seemed sort of like he was doing me a favor.

When we're out, he's constantly looking for the next pretty girl. He gives our conversation only perfunctory attention. Then his blue eyes crinkle charmingly at the corners as he laughs and I'm wet despite myself.

I find I enjoy this unrequited romance. It feels like seventh grade, when I sent my crush a card signed, Your Secret Admirer but made the mistake of adding a smiley face with hearts for eyes. Dark eyed Rakesh, a confident eighth grader, had seen me make that exact symbol many times during our afternoons as library volunteers. "Thank you for the card," he said, and rolled his eyes at my efforts at denial. I lived out the remainder of that spring in an agony of embarrassment.

I've learned since then: there's nothing wrong with letting people know you like them. It's exceedingly rare that anyone takes offense. In fact, most people will be flattered enough to like you back, at least to some degree.

I don't think Jed dislikes me. Quite the opposite. I imagine he considers me, when he considers me at all, a casual friend. I just don't hold his interest.

Meanwhile, I'm at liberty to enjoy looking at him.

It could be a blow to my ego. The women he wants are taller than me, more polished, more tattooed, more explicitly, pin-up ready sexy. I could think about all the things I lack that would make him want me. Why don't I use his disregard to run myself down?

Maybe I'm too busy enjoying the tingle of an itch that will never get scratched.

Ramble about Wrongness

The previous post was hard for me. It was hard to formulate what was going on in my mind, and painful to write down.

I really hoped that publishing the story would help me dispel some of the lingering shame I feel. A lot of times, blogging has worked that way for me. I post something, and I feel free. It lightens me just to put it out there, and when people comment saying it resonates I feel almost celebratory with relief.

Instead, I've felt scared, naked, and hideously self conscious. I thought about taking it down. I'm pretty sure that would just make me feel worse. I don't want to hide. I don't want to feel that I have to hide. I believe I have nothing to be ashamed of, and I don't want to coddle my irrational feeling of shame.

I asked a friend to read it. "What did you think?" I asked. He said he couldn't tell if it was consensual. He wasn't sure if it was supposed to be a happy story or not. He was uncomfortable. I concluded the story must need editing. It should be clear--starkly clear--that my stepfather's actions were the cruelest kind of abuse: the kind that presents itself as love.

I sat down to edit the story tonight. I can't see where to add a line, a word, a paragraph that explains. I don't want to make that story an educational piece for those unfamiliar with the various dynamics of sexual abuse. I'm surprised to think I might need to.

I guess that's a good sign for my own healing. To me, at least, there's nothing ambiguous about a grownup man in a position of trust having sex with his teenage stepdaughter. It's destructive. It's wrong. But for those it's not so obvious to, here is a list of a few of the things Howard's charade of love cost me:

Having a father figure I could rely on
The opportunity to develop sexually on my own time line
Trust of, intimacy with, and respect for my mother
A sense of safety in my own home and bed
The ability to be honest with my peers
Access to mental health care (because revealing my situation would mean his arrest)
The ability to connect with others physically
The ability to feel sexual pleasure

I've won a great number of these back, through hard work and with the loving patience of friends. As I said in the original post, I don't generally feel the need to think or talk about this part of my history very often. For the most part, I've moved on.

For the most part. Because I clearly felt the need to write Red Tide. And I needed, just as much, to hear from friends and readers that they understood my story.

As a young girl, I took the shame and horror and fear of that experience and turned it in on myself. I felt shameful, disgusting, and tainted. I was hoping sharing the story would help dispel the last of those feelings.  It hasn't so far, but I'm still hoping.

Red Tide

Red tide is a common name for a phenomenon also known as an algal bloom, an event in which algae accumulate rapidly in the water column resulting in discoloration of the surface water. Toxicity varies.




I should post a warning. The following contains graphic scenes of …

Fuck it. Take your chances. This is non-fiction. The sensitive should abstain.

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Last week, I went to the urologist. That’s too much information already, isn’t it? Bear with me. It gets worse.

I went to the urologist for a vague complaint my doctor felt needed further investigation. I had my period, and cramps, and almost cancelled. The doctor was booked out a month in advance, though, and I thought I’d better just go and get it over with.

After handing in a urine sample, the nurse told me I needed to undress for a pelvic exam. “I have my period,” I told her and she shook her head with a motherly smile.

“The doctor doesn’t mind. He won’t be using a speculum. Just hop up on the table and it will be over in a jiff.”

“I have a tampon in,” I told her. I was embarrassed. Mortified, actually.

“You can just toss that out. I think I have some more here in this drawer.” She pulled out a monster sized Tampax with a triumphant flourish, laid an absorbent white paper cloth over the end of the table, and left me to it.

I pulled out my tampon and wrapped it in paper towels. Blood soaked through them instantly. I shoved the bundle deep into their trash can. There was a drop of blood on the floor. I did my best to wipe it up with a tissue. I got up on the table before pulling off my panties the rest of the way, and wadded them up behind me for security.

The doctor was knocking before I’d finished pulling the sheet over me. The nurse came in with him, standing over me comfortingly as I lay back and put my feet in the stirrups. The doctor’s gloved finger entered me easily and felt around. He pulled out less carefully than he’d entered, and it hurt my sore insides. I caught a glimpse of his bloody glove before he deftly turned it inside out and threw it away. Probably the whole exam took 30 seconds.

The nurse put out a box of baby wipes as she left the room. There was less mess than I’d feared, though the trash can held gaudy splotches of red. I got dressed. “Come back in two weeks to discuss your test results,” the doctor told me.

These details are not relevant: I drove to work only to find I’d soaked through the giant tampon and pad. I drove home again to change my pants. I spent the rest of the day in bed with cramps.

This one is: I’ve been dreading going back next week. I don’t want to see that man again.

-----------------

It came to me in the shower last night: The memory of my stepfather’s face, painted red with my menses.

I was 15. I can’t recall how it happened that my mother didn’t come along on our weekend trip to Cape Cod. Howard had arranged it somehow, engineered her disappointment and my delight. We'd daydreamed of going away together. I wanted losing my virginity to be special, not furtive. When we arrived at the converted mansion that was to be our hotel, we checked in as honeymooners.

We stashed our luggage in the antiques-filled room and headed out for an early dinner. When we got back to the room, with plans for massages and a movie and... that act...  my period started, days early. It was even heavier then than it is now, and the cramps were unbearable. Advil didn’t touch it. Howard went to down to the bar and then out to a liquor store to find me Kaluha and a box of milk. He put his warm hands on my stomach and hummed songs for me until I was able to relax again. Was I happy to be there with him, I wonder? I can’t remember any feeling beyond the physical.

He'd been waiting for this night. For my finally being willing to let him inside me. I wanted him to do it, because he’d done it before. He talked about being gentle. He had theories about technique. And I wanted it done, so I wouldn’t have worry anymore about his satisfaction with our sexual encounters. In my mind, having sex meant I'd be freed from obligations. I wouldn’t have to handle that throbbing, purple-tipped protuberance that seemed to always need satisfaction. I wouldn’t have to look at it, or to feel its too-thin-skinned smoothness against my tongue. With intercourse he could hide it inside me, and take his pleasure while I closed my eyes and tried to smile.

Both of us thus eager, we waited for the Advil and Tylenol and alcohol to do their work. When I began to relax, Howard brought towels from the bathroom to put underneath me, and smoothly pulled down my underwear and red-sodden pad. I was propped on down pillows against a carved, Art Deco headboard. The musky smell of my blood was thick in my nose. Howard licked me. Looking up, lips grotesquely red, he told me he liked the way I tasted. “The towels,” I said. “The hotel-”.

“They’re used to it,” he told me, and went back to lapping against my clit. He pressed his little finger into me slowly. “Now I know why they call it a flow,” he said. "It looks like a river." He was smiling delightedly, face covered in gore.

He finally wiped his face and arranged his body over me. His first thrust slipped up against my belly. His second felt like he’d hit a wall inside me. The third, knife-like, penetrated. He held me tightly as he thrust. Our stomachs slid wetly, sticky with blood and his sweat.

Afterwards, wiped clean again, my wounded body bundled back into layers of padded underwear, Howard pulled my head onto his shoulder. “How do you feel?” he asked.

“Fine,” I told him. I didn’t want to talk. I didn’t want him touching me. I thought of the mound of bloody towels and washcloths on the bathroom floor.

“It’s normal, you know,” he told me, “For a girl to feel upset after her first time. Angry, even.” I felt disgust, for our bodies, for the act, and most of all for myself. I wanted to sleep in the other bed, despite the soiled sheets. I didn’t want to be weak. I didn’t want to cry and let him think this moment meant something.

“I’m not mad,” I said, and kissed his cheek.

---------------

The next day over breakfast the hotel gave us sad news. A red tide had come in, and it was not safe to swim. There were dead fish along the shore, and it smelled of rot. We walked through the village, every quaint New England building filled with tasteless tee shirts and sea shell art for sale. Howard bought me a pair of cheap sunglasses and we ate dinner at one of those old-fashioned seafood and steak places where there are never any surprises.

-----------------

All this came back to me in the shower, a composite flash of memory and the clear congruence of images: his red lips, the doctor’s bloodied glove. I hadn't told anyone about that trip. I hadn't thought of the disgust I felt, and how I sometimes feel it still.

I don’t live in the past. I’m not a victim or a cripple. I’ve paid my dues in therapy and bad relationships and tears. I’ve found my way to celebrate sexuality in myself and others. It’s just--every now and then--some moments creeps out of the past and demands to be seen again.

The doctor, though.... I don't think I'll be seeing him again. He can give me my diagnosis over the phone.