Chapter 1
The first time I was almost raped, it was nothing like the secret fantasies I’d been harboring since I was a young girl. Dirty fantasies I knew I could never tell anyone about because they were so wrong and because no one could possibly understand. They painted me as a freak, even in my own sick mind, and I was reluctant to let anyone see into that dark recess. So I let them fester there, hidden away from the world. I let myself feel ashamed to have them, while secretly feeding my sick fascination with books and movies that cultivated that dark aspect of my brain.
I dreamed about the day some sexy and dangerous man would try to coerce and corrupt my inexperienced body by tempting me with his own. Luring me with the thrilling and forbidden enticements of the flesh, seducing my willpower away, until I was mindless with need and ready to do anything he wanted.
I dreamed of being pinned beneath his virile body while he gently forced me to accept the inevitable intrusion of his superior strength and dominant will. In this dream, I would plead with him not to, my hands ineffectually pushing against him in a futile show of resistance, even as my legs spread wider to receive him, and my hips writhed against his hardness in a silent plea for completion.
My body and my mind would be at odds, until my mind was slowly overpowered by the raging passion between my legs and my overwhelming desire to give in to it. I dreamed of being forcefully seduced into letting go of my innocence, after being consumed by the raging inferno of mutual attraction and the wildness of our animal lusts.
That is nothing like what happened to me.
When I was eighteen, and still just a silly little girl, I learned the hard way how truly divergent my little world of rape fantasy was from real life, actual rape.
There is nothing like the awful feeling of being caught completely unaware and unprepared as some disgusting, dirty, ill intentioned, drunk piece of backwoods, redneck filth shoves your face against a brick wall and his slithery body grinds lewdly against yours while he spews vile, hateful, venomous, racist garbage in your ear.
I was so stupid and naive back then. I believed, like most eighteen-year-olds, that I was invincible and invulnerable. I thought there was nothing out there that could hurt me. I was tough and could take care of myself. The carelessness of youth caused in me a lack of concern for my own safety and wellbeing, one that almost cost me very dearly.
* * * Just about 20 years earlier...
“I've got to get going Karl,” I pleaded dramatically, pushing myself up from the couch and away from the hot press of his overly near body.
“Aww, come on Dee, at least finish the movie with me,” he wheedled, catching my hand in his as I rose, and trying to tug me back down onto the couch with him.
“You know I've got to be home before my daddy gets off his shift, or the belt’s coming off and I won’t be able to sit for a week.” I told him in an exasperated tone, while tugging my hand back out of his grasp. He knew I’d get in trouble if I didn’t go now. Things were actually a lot worse at home than that, but I didn’t tell anyone how bad it really was. I kept that to myself.
I hadn’t even wanted to stay this long. The only reason I’d come over in the first place, was that Karl had said there’d be others here. He’d told me Edrice and Cheryl and Ahmad were going to come over too. He said his parents were out of town for the weekend and he had a few VHS tapes and some forties, and we could all hang at his place and kick back.
I was the first one there, so I had a seat on the couch and made awkward small talk with Karl and waited until the others showed up. But they didn’t. Karl grabbed a couple forty ouncers from the kitchen, sat down next to me on the couch and pressed play on the remote. That was when I knew he’d suckered me into coming over to hang out with him alone.
When I confronted him about it he made up some lame excuse about the others cancelling at the last minute, and how it was just the two of us. He whined about being bored and needing some company until, against my better judgment, I agreed to stay for a bit longer.
Over the last few weeks I’d been noticing Karl’s subtle advances and trying to shrug them off. He was good looking enough, with a strong, athletic body, smooth, dark skin and a handsome, dimpled face that had melted at least one or two sets of panties off at Dixon High. I just wasn’t attracted to him though. I found his whiny, wheedling attempts at seduction, his boyish dimples and long lashed glances to be an annoyance, rather than a turn on. I guess I just didn’t see him as manly or mature enough.
As we sat there watching the uncomfortably adult movie, complete with graphic sex scenes, he kept shifting in his seat, and getting a little closer to me each time he moved. He fidgeted for a while and eventually threw his arm over the back of the couch, nearly around my shoulders, in that classic teenage seduction move.
By the time we’d watched three quarters of the movie, I’d gotten to the point where I’d become very uncomfortable and could take no more. I stood to leave.
“Delilahhhhhhhhh...” Karl wheedled some more, getting up to crowd my space as I picked my bag up and headed for the door. He got to the door before me and opened it for me, but didn’t release the knob, so I couldn’t walk through the doorway.
“I’ve got to go Karl,” I gritted out, getting more annoyed by the minute.
“Don’t be like that Dee,” he pleaded inching slowly closer. “I know you like me Dee."
You wish, I thought while giving him my best Gary Coleman look, as if to say whatchutalkinbout?
"Just let me give you a kiss then I’ll let you go," he coerced while inching his face slowly closer. "When are you going to let me take you out?” he asked in what he must have thought was his most charming and persuasive tone.
He had never even manned up and asked. He must have sensed my impending rejection, because he lashed out petulantly.
"You some kind of virgin or something?” he scoffed.
Yup. But even if I weren’t, I would never go out with Karl. He acted like a spoiled little mama’s boy.
That was the last straw for me. His charm had no effect on me, other than to raise my ire to a level where I became confrontational.
“Karl,” I began in a voice that I really tried to make soft and soothing, but that I’m certain my irritation rang out through, clear as a bell, despite my best efforts. “I’m sorry. I just don’t see you that way.” I paused then said, “we’re just friends,” twisting the dagger through his soft, frail, teenage heart. “Now would you please move, so I can leave?”
Karl’s face became ugly then. His hurt and anger were clearly displayed, but he dropped his arm and let me pass without incident.
I hurried down the stairs and away from the ugly scene, anxious to get home as quickly as possible, so I wouldn’t be late. It was already well after ten and my dad’s shift would be over at eleven.
Karl belted out behind me as I scuttled away, “you’re a cold bitch Delilah. We ain’t friends no more.” Seconds later I heard the door slam, with loud finality, behind my quickly retreating form.
The anger in his voice and the loud crash of the door rattled my nerves and caused my body to jump as I fled. Throughout the long walk home, I replayed all the things I could have, or should have done. Not just today, but over the last few weeks, to avoid just such an ugly confrontation, but it was hopeless to dwell on it. It was done now.
School was probably going to suck with the drama this was bound to cause in our little group of friends. Luckily it was almost over and we’d all be graduating soon.
I tore the steel band of my headphones angrily out of my bag and set the foam covered ear pieces in place, pressing play on whatever was in my battered Discman, and attempting to drown my thoughts out with music.
Black Sheep's 'Similak Child' came on. Perfect. A song about a girl who thought she was too good for a boy. I already got enough crap at school for being aloof and for taking my class work too seriously and speaking 'proper English'. I had my gramma to thank for the massive stick that some of my less motivated friends thought I had up my ass.
Gramma always drilled into my head how important a good education was and how hard the people who came before me had worked to be able to give me the right to get one. She was always talking about civil rights history and the women's rights movements. She was pretty awesome. Both sweet as pie and tough as nails, with a brain much sharper than a tac.
A whole forty. I’d stupidly let myself drink an entire forty while at Karl's, hoping that the alcohol would help calm my nerves and soothe away the uncomfortable tension of being alone with him. It hadn’t, and now I was buzzed and frazzled and lost in a sea of conflicting thoughts about how poorly the night had gone. I wasn’t paying any attention to my surroundings, just walking the familiar steps home on autopilot.
That’s when it happened.
One second I was walking, taking a shortcut through the alley on Dodge Street, or “Dodgy Street” as we liked to call it, and the next my face was scraping along the brick wall of the back of the The Thirsty Dog.
My headphones were knocked off my ears, falling around neck, when I was shoved roughly from behind. Foul, beer flavored breath panted in my ear and a pudgy male body pressed my petite one into the scratchy, red bricks.
I was in utter shock for a moment, failing to comprehend what was going on. Then I began to tremble in fear and panic, as the grave reality of my situation set in. My arms, which had come up by reflex to protect my body from some of the impact during my fall into the brick, instinctually began to push against the wall, in resistance. I tried to drive my attacker backwards, but at barely more than five feet tall, I was no match for the larger man’s weight or strength.
He chuckled malignantly as he grabbed one of my wrists, prying it off the wall momentarily, only to slam it back into the brick with bruising force, high above my head, making my arm useless. His other hand was fumbling with the waistband of my cutoff jeans shorts, as he kicked my legs apart with his feet.
“I watched that nice booty of yours sashaying past the bar,” the man’s ugly voice slurred in my ear, as he punctuated his words by sliding his hand to my rear and squeezing it so hard I yelped in pain. “That’s right, you little black bitch. I’ll teach you to tease me like that, bouncing your big titties in my face while you walk on by, all uppity, pretending you’re not just another little whore on the prowl for some big, fat dick.”
I could not believe this was happening. I could not believe the amount of anger and rage and filthiness -the pure evil- that was spilling out of this man’s nasty mouth. It was the most foul and repugnant thing I’d ever heard in my life. I began to buck in panic, my free arm flailing and trying to connect and cause harm, trying to free myself.
“Mmmmm, that’s right, you dirty little nigger bitch,” he spat.
His offensive words immediately enraged me. No one had ever dared to call me that to my face before. I wanted to gouge this fucking pig’s eyes out with my fingernails.
I began to scream, "get off me you fucking pig. STOP! NO!"
I bucked and twisted and kicked like a wild animal. But he just licked the side of my face, while pushing his beer gut into my back, forcing the air out of my lungs and grinding his hard erection into me, through the layers of our jeans.
“I’m gonna fuck that sass right out of your pink little pussy, and tear it to shreds. I’m gonna make your cunt bleed, bitch.”
He was pawing at my waistband, fumbling with my button and my zipper, and yanking my shorts and underwear down. I began to scream and howl in wordless fear and frustration, in hopelessness and helplessness. My eyes were wet with tears and there was so much adrenaline and terror coursing through my body that I was practically vibrating with the violence of my trembling.
What had I done to deserve this? Why was this happening to me?
His words made me want to vomit, and his touch even more so. This bore no resemblance, whatsoever, to my silly fantasy notions of gently forced seductions. This was sickening, hideous, disgusting, brutal, hate-filled rape.
“Shut your fucking mouth, you dirty little cunt,” the man ordered as his forehead slammed into the back of my own head. The force of the impact smashed my face into the brick with a jarring thud that left me disoriented and immediately quelled my cries.
His hand found my tight, dry vagina and he shoved two fat, blunt fingers inside, roughly, making me gasp in shock and pain as he tore at my resisting flesh, violating me. This was actually happening. This was so absolutely wrong. I felt so much shame, disgust and rage that I wanted to fucking die. I wanted him to die!
My attacker made an irritated noise and yanked his fingers away. I heard him spit a few times before he thrust them back inside of me, covered in his own filthy mucus. It was beyond repulsive.
I began to sob quietly, nearly letting my body go limp, trying to send my mind away from the hideousness that he was about to perpetrate upon me.
But then he shoved against me, roughly and told me to, “cooperate you dirty, little bitch, or I’ll make it hurt way worse, and I’ll cum so far and so hard, up that tight little pussy, I’ll breed you with fucking triplets.”
Something inside me went berserk at those words. I wanted to castrate him. I wanted to chop his filthy fucking cock off and stand over him, watching him bleed out, while I shoved his lopped off meat down his throat, until he choked on it. I wanted to watch his ugly soul drain from his body and the light go out of his evil eyes.
He pulled his fingers away again and began fumbling with his belt and pants. I heard the thud and rattle as his jeans fell and his belt hit the pavement, sending another rush of adrenaline spiking through my system, as new levels of terror assailed my body.
I heard him moan and felt his hand rhythmically hitting my bare ass cheek as he readied his cock to violently rip apart the last vestiges of my virginity. My left hand was still free. I knew this was the only chance that I would get.
In a lightning fast move, born of desperation and murderous rage, I unerring reached behind my body, with my free hand, to grip his disgusting balls and shaft as hard as I could, twisting them roughly and yanking as forcefully as possible. I dug my nails in, trying to inflict as much pain as I possibly could.
He screamed in agony and reflexively tried to back away, releasing my other hand and doubling over in pain. I shoved back at the drunken rapist with all of my strength, toppling him over to the ground. I pulled my shorts up as I backed away from him and ran as fast as I could.
My bag, which I managed to keep only because of the thick strap that was crossed diagonally over my body, slapped against my ass with each powerful stride.
I did not stop. I did not look back.
By the time I finally got home, my side was filled with the agony of ignored running cramps, my feet were sore and blistered, I was long since out of breath and I needed to throw up urgently. I lifted the lid of the trashcan and spewed all of the excess adrenaline, fear, disgust, shame, overexertion, and other things that were coursing through my system, out over the full, reeking contents. I dropped the lid back down and crumpled into a sobbing puddle, huddled by the trashcan at the side of my house.
I hadn’t even heard the back door open.
“Where the fuck have you been Dee?” My father ask angrily, in a very slurred voice, as he staggered down the back steps, leather belt, with thick, shiny, heavy, brass buckle in hand.
I held my hand out in a plea for him not to come any closer, “daddy...” I sobbed.
It was too much. To come home to this after everything else that had already happened tonight. It was just too much. I had no idea how he could be this drunk already. I couldn’t have been that late getting home.
“Lost my job today Dee. You should have been here,” he accused, advancing towards me menacingly, in just his boxers and a stained and dirty wife beater.
That explained it. He must have been drinking for hours, stewing in his anger and looking for someone he could take it out on. I weakly crawled to my feet and began backing away towards the front of the house.
“Don’t you walk away from me girl.” He demanded of my retreating form. He barely raised his voice, but I had no trouble hearing every, deep, rumbling word and it struck terror in me.
"You'd better get on into that house Dee." He contradicted himself. "Don’t want to do this outside.” Using logic when drunk wasn’t really my father’s strong suit. He often opposed his own statements when he was like this, and it didn’t matter which order I chose to follow. There was never a right choice to be made. There was never any way to win.
I was terrified all over again. This was going to be bad. Very bad. I limped up the front steps, inside the house, and kept right on going, all the way up the stairs. I locked myself into my room and sat with my back propped against the door, hoping it would keep him out. I was hoping he would be too drunk to make it up the stairs, and praying that he would pass out and not remember any of this.
My prayers went unanswered.
My father broke my bedroom door in and beat me until I passed out, never once asking why I was already bleeding and bruised, why he found me puking my guts out and huddled next to the trashcan with swollen, tear stained eyes.
I hated him.
I hated him, and I hated this shitty little backwards ass, redneck fucking town. I hated the south. I hated being poor. I hated being little. I hated being a woman. I hated being black. I hated myself. I hated everything.
When I came to, it was still dark out and my father’s heavy, loud, drunken snores filled our ramshackle, little house. I took a long, hot shower, unheeding of the stinging pain the needle-like droplets of water caused as they bore down into my many cuts, scrapes and bruises.
I soaped my body to within an inch of its life, scrubbing away the whole evening , along with the top layer of my skin. I got out and toweled off, quickly getting dressed. Then I packed my backpack with some spare clothes, whatever money I could find, and a little food and water. I also took the big, nasty, sharp knife my father kept to deter thieves and then I left.
I walked out and I never looked back. Not once.
