Sexual orientation : N/D
Rape of a little girl!
The diary of a bitter woman pt.1
My meeting with Juan was really just a typical 'boy-meets-girl beginning. I was an seventeen year old Virgin. Initially, there was no attraction for him, but I developed one. He was good looking and very funny. He moved in with me.
I didn't know what early warning signs were at the time, but boy, if I had known then what I know now! He was overweening at first, courted me with roses, charm and passion. But he was terribly posessive, and didn't like me talking to other men, and had a sort of strutting, stereotypical masculinity. He could be very crude about women at times, and I found myself constantly justifying him to family and friends.
The violence started, as I now know it does, with namecalling, which graduated to pushing and hairpulling. It eventually became violent battery. I was ashamed, and covered the bruises. I feared him, but I also pitied him. I didn't know that he used his story of a terrible childhood to manipulate me. All I saw was an abandoned child.
Many friends left me because I would not leave him. Desperate to hang on to the few I had left, I started to lie and say he was not hurting me, that he'd changed. In six months, I was not the young woman he'd met. Life depended on keeping him happy so he wouldn't hurt me.
At first, I believed him when he said he was sorry, and that he would change. I started to not believe it after a while. But by that time, I was terrified. I fully believed he was capable of killing me (he did go on to murder a male).
The story of how the sexual violence began is more fully told here. But it was just something that I thought was not real rape because he was my partner, even though it hurt. Also, I believed I deserved it.
The sexual violence seemed to utterly despoil all my fantasies of loving and being loved. He would sometimes tell me I was a stupid, prudish bitch who needed a good fuck; he seemed to enjoy desecrating my highest ideals. I wondered if they were worth hanging on to.
I didn't know what to be to stop it; it didn't occur to me to think it was strange that sometimes he said he was doing it because I was a whore, and at other times, because I was a prude. I now know that it was not about anything that I was or was not. It was about him. At any time, I was never permitted to say no. Strenuous refusal met with beatings.
In hindsight, I am able to see that he used rape as punishment whenever he felt I'd bested him in some way. Certainly, it was an act of having power over me. One particular experience I remember was a time when I went away from my hometown with Juan to meet some friends of his.
I was aware that he had run with a pretty wild crowd in which there existed a strong ethos of real manhood as proven by fighting, drinking and keeping girlfriends under control. It is probably fair to say that the ideal of machismo was fairly extreme in this group.
At this stage I was still determined to stand up for myself sometimes. Juan came on the receiving end of some derision about woman having a bit of a mouth. It embarrassed him no end. He beat me twice on this visit and refused to give me my train-ticket home.
The final punishment for being a little too big for my boots came when he arrived home one night with a friend. I pretended to be asleep as he and the friend talked for a while.
Afterwards, the friend lay down on a couch in the room, and Juan got into bed with me. He immediately rolled me onto my back and attempted to mount me. I was incredibly humiliated at having another person in the room, and I struggled with him. The struggle was brief; I lost - my arms were peremptorily pinned and he raped me. I knew the friend was awake and aware; aware that Juan could and would prove he could control me like a man worthy of membership in his friend's group.
After, I lay on my side crying with humiliation.
I will never forget the friend's knowing, sly looks for the duration of our visit, or how I dropped my eyes, vanquished and ashamed. It did not occur to me to wonder why he had, in his silence, championed my violation; I already understood why.Juan had shown who wore the trousers; my degradation was his redemption from wimphood and restoration to real manhood. <font color="blue"> </font>
It would be a long time until I knew it wasn't because I was 'bad'; healing (and anger!) started to come when I recognized the cultural sanction of rape as an act of manhood, and that it was an expression of power over me