rape

The post title gimmick is already wearing thin.

When I was 12 years old, I was... raped?  Molested?  (Spoiler alert: by a boy a couple of years older than I was.)  

Behind the jump for a lot of triggers.




(This post is harder to write than I thought it would be.)

It was a "classic" rape.  Predator locates prey, predator gains prey's trust, predator lures prey to crime scene.

I was in the seventh grade.  It was picture day -- I don't remember whether it was retakes day or the first time around.  It would have been mid or late September of that year, so it was probably first time around.  The weather was warm, sunny, and fairly humid (funny the details we recall and the way we recall them).  I rode my bike to school that day, with the envelope with the check for the photography company in my back pocket.  When I got to school, I realized that the envelope wasn't in there, and so I called my mom at home to bring another check.  Which she did.

The day went by uneventfully, pictures were taken and moneys handed over.  I had soccer practice after school that day.  After practice, I got on my bike and rode home.

I just happened to be glancing down at the ground at that moment, and saw the envelope on the ground that was in my pocket that morning.  It was empty.  (Deep breaths, Anonymous.)

I glanced around a bit, seeing if the check was nearby, when I was startled from behind by a voice saying "Hey!" or something similar.  I turned, and saw him.  He asked me what I was looking for, and... I told him.  In great detail.

He responded by telling me that he'd found it earlier, and taken it home and that it was at his grandmother's house.  It would only be a minute to get there and get it, you see...

He led me down a path, into a wooded area.  He kept reassuring me that we were almost there.  We got to a clearing with no obvious exits, and then he turned, looked at me, and told me to pull down my pants.

"What?"  I responded, not believing.

"Pull down your pants!"  He threatened to hit me if I didn't comply, and I was a chickenshit about pain so I did it.

He forced me to suck him off, then he had me get on my hands and knees and he fucked me from behind.  Then he switched back to my mouth.  He did this a few times, switching from one to the other.  Every so often he'd wipe my butt with the denim jacket I was wearing.  At one point I offered him the comb I had with me (one of those plastic ones you'd carry around in the 80's in your back pocket if you wanted to seem cool, which I was pathetically un- anyway) if he'd let me go, and he said no but he'd take my watch.  I didn't want to give up the watch.

He pretty much had to teach me how to suck cock, because I had no idea.  I think finally I must have gotten the hang of it.  Every so often he would say "Now my eggs," which I understood to mean his balls.  (If it matters, he was Hispanic.  "Eggs" = "huevos" = Mexican slang for balls.)

I hope and prayed and begged that he wouldn't come in my mouth, because there was no way I could handle that.  (Spoiler alert: he didn't.)

Sometime during all of this he told me his name.  I'm going to use it here, because there may be two or three living people in the world who can connect that name to me, and I'll be god-damned if I'll respect that shit-stain's anonymity:  Fernando Juarez.  That might very well not have been his real name, which I realized at the time, but it was all I had.  He told me a couple of other details, like that he was a student at (name of high school that everyone in the area went to, and to which I would go in a couple of years myself).

Eventually, one of the times he was at my butt, he finally came, and was done.  (Spoiler alert: it wasn't until years later that I realized that there was no actual penetration, that he was using my butt cheeks for friction to get himself off.  Didn't make it any easier.)  He asked me if I wanted him to try anything on me, and I weakly wiggled my penis a bit but it wasn't getting hard.  (Not difficult to see why.)  He finally let me go.  I got on my bike and got the hell out of there.  I'm pretty sure I left the jacket, and I can't remember but I may have left my underwear.

On my way home... I hadn't gone a couple of blocks when I saw someone I vaguely recognized from school.  (I'm terrible with faces but never forget a name, but I'm damned if I can remember either with this guy.)  He said hey, how's it going?  I started to make small talk back, then I told him "I think I was raped by some guy, I gotta go."

"Oh, okay."

I'm damned if I can remember if I ever saw that kid again.

As soon as I got home, I headed for the bathroom.  Partly because I had to poop, but partly for the obvious reason.  After I got out, and (unfortunately) wiped away most of the evidence, I told my parents what happened.  I was all for calling the police, which is what we did.  After a while -- I don't know how long, it may have been twenty minutes or an hour -- a county sheriff's deputy rolls up to my house.  I sadly won't identify her, not because she doesn't deserve to be remembered (she does!  as a kind person who helped a scared rape victim), but because putting her name in here would be a bullseye to the city where I grew up, which I'm not yet ready to reveal.  (She was killed in Iraq, as a consultant to law enforcement there, when the vehicle she was riding in triggered an IED.  I was driving to work when I heard, and I almost had to pull over to get my composure back from crying.  I have tears in my eyes, as I write this; I had to look her up to find her obituary.)

(Her brother said of her that she "would not want us to be sad. She would want us to make a difference."  I hope that this blog makes a dfference for one person.)

She advised my parents to put a stop payment order on the check, which they did.  (Later we heard that someone tried to cash the check, but I don't know if that led anywhere.)  At some point, the same day, she drove back to the crime scene with me, where we found the jacket, still there.  She took the jacket, plus the pants and underwear I was wearing, for evidence.

I think that day or a later day, probably within a day or two, she went through multiple six-packs with me (sets of six photos of individuals who fit the general description and profile).  I couldn't tell for sure if any of them were the guy.

I would make a terrible witness.  

Later I thought that maybe the guy may have had a scar on his face.  Maybe I wanted there to be one, because that would help identify him.  I can't remember now.  Memory, with 30ish years of distance, is a funny thing.

The whole experience me was extremely unpleasant, and pretty scary, but I wouldn't say particularly physically painful or overly traumatic.  I've had visits to the dentist's office that were longer, more painful, and more unpleasant.

To be continued...