Chapter 24 - the Endgame II
And just like that? Everyone was all happy for me. Suddenly? I had been fixed. I was all better. I don't hold it against people, its just what most people know. My fiancee, is dead. I'm shattered. End result, to them? Oh. He can't have a relationship anymore. Oh, look. He has a girlfriend. Glad he's doing so much better now.
I now have to endure the parade of well meaning friends and acquaintances. See, you have a girlfriend. Isn't this better? Aren't you glad you listened to my advice. I lie, of course. What my mother called the little white lie. Yes, the pie tastes wonderful. I thank each of them that do this? As sincerely as I can make it sound. Why? Simple. It shuts them up quicker.
Nothing is fixed. Nothing is better. I'm just as fucked up as before I first laid eyes on her. I need forced into physical intimacy with a romantic partner now, it would seem. Oh, I could prevent or avoid her forcing me to have sex, naturally. But why in the hell would I. I was facing a lifetime of never having sex again, and along comes a rape victim and survivor that thinks the only way she could have sex? Is by being OCD in charge of the act itself. By tying me up every time? She gets to micromanage the sex act.
She likes rope. She quickly tried handcuffs and such, but said she missed the rope. She said it was more intimate. She said she was turned on by the extended period of holding myself steady for her to work the rope. The longer and more deliberate period of restraining me. The ritualistic release. After setting me free, she likes to lay and snuggle on me. Teasing me about all the dirty things she just got done doing, and making me talk about them.
I'm sure my friends think she's a saint, for taking me on as a project. The way she explained her own past to me, I suppose her friends back home if they didn't know any better? Would think I was the saint, taking her on for my project girlfriend.
The reality was probably more like we were both adrift in the ocean, and were clinging to each other.
Everything makes me feel guilty, and I know its just my tortured trauma riddled emotional hot mess that I call my life. While the new girlfriend is no runway model by any stretch, she is a notch or two up from my deceased ex. Guilt. I feel like I'm cheating on my dead fiancee. Guilt. Its all irrational guilt, and I'm pumped full of chemically rational. So I ignore it as best I can, and occasionally top up with a fraction of a cc extra.
I asked her in a tender afterglow moment on the couch, watching a movie at her beat up mobile home. She always had me meet her here or bring her here. I knew without it being explained to me already now. I could read her code, her program that made her computer click and whir.
Raped and beat to a pulp in the back end of some dark lonely parking lot? If any sex was ever going to happen, it would have to be on her own turf. Where she was comfortable, where she felt powerful and in charge.
Still unable to enjoy desired physical intimacy, she became drawn to the images of women tying men up for sex. Before the rape, she had no real interest in kinky sex. Now? She admitted she liked or even loved it, but... only because it was forced on her and it allowed her to enjoy sex again.
And really, how familiar is that to me. I indulged her, of course.
While she didn't fix me and there is no real fixing me, I suppose... she did improve me. Getting a regular sex life back, feeling needed and wanted again. Creature comforts I thought I was denied from enjoying. I felt like a diabetic suddenly allowed to have candy again.
Curious about my new candy, I asked. We had a chuckling sort of talk, concerning what constitutes normal and weird. We set loose parameters as best we could. We decided she had in fact been largely normal. That is to say, before the rape. Now, do I really know her in any way from before? Not in the foggiest. She could certainly have built up some mild fantasy memory of how normal she used to be. Then how the rape happened, and now? Her life got strange, if she's to have any kind of one at all.
She's a female version of me, with different trauma.
We traded stories from childhood. About what was normal, and what was strange or weird about our family and home life. We decided that in general, most people feel both normal and weird at the same time. You go to some other house to stay over, and you come back home. To the familiar. To the normal. They had a few things done odd in that house. And we admitted, that when they came over? They encountered our normal, and that was their strange.
I kind of figured she had some manner of interest in her rope, before all this happened to her. She claimed she hadn't. I wondered how a new major interest in that area comes about. She smiled and shrugged, we were cuddled on her big old hand me down couch.
"I had a lot of time to think about this. When you're alone for a while like I was? You search yourself. You ask yourself questions, and you analyze it. Then? You try to answer yourself. Truthfully. Not... kidding yourself, like you've been doing."
I feel like I've been cloned, and they made a mistake in the test tube handling. Someone swapped an X and a Y in the lab, and my clone, my exact duplicate human? Is a female instead of a male. I gently urged her on, afraid if I got all excited it would put her off.
"Its like a car wreck. You don't go out the door that morning, planning on it. Its like someone broke in and stole your stuff out of your apartment. You didn't ask for that. It just... happens. We don't question it, when the strange thing out of nowhere? Is really cool. I mean, your uncle you only see once or twice a year at holidays? Shows up on fourth of July. He was buying a new car, and realized his trade in vehicle, which looks and runs perfect with low miles? Isn't really getting him anything, in the trade in on the new one. Hey, why not give it to my brother's daughter."
"You're comparing... that parking lot, to... getting a used car for a graduation gift."
"Yeah. Other than one was great, and one was horrible? Really both the same. You don't know its coming. You didn't ask for it. It just... happens. You can get creamed by a big old garbage truck crossing the street? Or, win the big lottery. Or anything in between. Yeah. Shit happens."
I sighed. Boy, does it ever.
"Do I sound, what. Okay with it? As okay as I'm going to be."
I mused.
"I'm... amazed you take it all as well as you do."
She gave me a wan little highly laconic grin.
"That's not me talking. I mean, it is me talking, but... you're hearing... therapist talk. Coming out of my mouth."
"That helped?"
"Eh. I had to find the right therapist. We weren't rich. I don't get my own therapist. You get so many hours a week, on some... program to help people. There's actually therapists that specialize in rape survivors."
"Oh. You go through therapists, until you find a rape therapist."
She giggled.
"No. You go through rape therapists, until you find a match. For you. Christ, its like dating. The way they go about things, the way things might go well for you... these things have to mesh. Like, a boy and a girl choosing each other to be boyfriend and girlfriend."
"What happens. When you got the wrong one."
"Just like dating. You can hate the first date, and everything they say and do. Or? Its just okay. You both date for a while, then decide its time to move on and try again. Then? With luck and persistence, of course. You find something that works, more than it doesn't work. That therapist? That's a keeper."
"You found your keeper, I'm guessing."
"I went through a few, yeah. Finally found one, that... worked. Sort of. Took a year, to realize I was needing something else."
"So? That therapist. They helped."
"Yeah. You're hearing mainly her... therapist talk. Coming out of my mouth. Shit happens, basically. All these strategies, all these stories, all that time... a whole library full of psychology textbooks, and... what works? Shit happens, babe. I mean, how silly is that. But? A year getting there, with the first therapist that really connected with me... yeah. Shit happens."
"So. Then, you can go on."
"If you have a broken arm? You go, you get the cast. Six to eight weeks later? No more cast. Go. Fly. Be free. Your broken wing? We fixed it. Go fly again."
"You go fly?"
She laughed. Which I like hearing. She has a musical laugh. Sudden high pitched notes, that ring like bell tones. It contrasts to her normal tone and voice.
"Ever see a baby bird, trying to fly?"
"Hmm. Sure."
"What does the baby bird do."
"Uh. They flap those wings. They go up a few inches, bump down. You feel bad, watching them get exhausted and trying."
"Same here. I spent... I just wish I could get that time and energy back."
"You fly now, though."
"Found my last therapist. And, there's another way baby birds try to fly. Flapping on the ground? Doesn't do much, until they already know how to do it. They get up on things, and flap and step off. They kind of... flutter and sort of fall slow to the ground, trying. Then? More flapping on the ground, until they gas out, exhausted."
"How, do they make it."
Her voice got quiet but serious.
"You have to get higher and higher up, and keep flapping and stepping off. Eventually? It happens. And after a bird does it once, they know how to do it. They can just jump up in the air and flap, and get going."
"Hmm. The last therapist."
"Yeah. Did you know that almost all rape therapists, are women?"
"I, did not know that."
"Yeah. For the most part its usually men, that rape women. Very few men in that field."
She nodded then gave her punch line.
"The few men? Are gay. They, help..."
"Oh. I get it."
She shrugged.
"I went through most of the therapists the county had to offer. I can drive. I got my uncle's used car. There's a program. If you can drive to the next county? You can sort of trade, and try those therapists out. Some therapists move around. You want to mix it up, and have as many good matches as you can find."
"And the next county over? You found a gay therapist."
She laughed again, the musical notes sounded.
"I did. I already had, shit happens down pat. Nightmares, flashbacks. Medications. All that in the bag. I mean, by this point? The baby bird will live. But... its not flying. Step one? Stay alive. Step two, survive. Step three though... go fly again. I stayed alive, and... crawled out of the wreckage of the car wreck, and... crawled home. That, first good therapist? I learned I'd survive, and put it behind me. But, flying again? That therapist couldn't help me fly."
"Hmm. You dropped your therapist you were dating."
"Its mutual when it happens. So, I'm next county over. A blind date, I guess. With each therapist there. I was hearing all the same stuff. I was getting to think there was nothing new under the sun. Hey. Shit happens. I got over it, as best I could. Just... no more flying."
"Then you..."
My musical laugh I liked again.
"Yeah. Went on a date with a gay guy. So to speak."
"But, it worked."
"It... do you really want to hear this? I've learned. Don't force it on people. Strangers? Freak out when someone gets all hurt and emotional they just met. Even family and close friends? You, kind of wear them out. Its not their fault, when they snap on you and yell."
I urged her on. Here's me, the female clone of me. She, made it. I've got to hear how.
"I'm sitting in the waiting room. You sit there, and either everyone pretends to read the magazines, or they gab. I'd been through this routine for long enough. I'm used to the waiting room etiquette. This guy, too. I honestly thought he was another client coming in. Well? My therapist canceled. Some family emergency came up. I'm walking out to leave, and... I walk past one of these little cement block broom closets they call private offices for the therapists, and... there he is."
"He became your new therapist."
"Not at first. We'd been gabbing. He had an hour and a half to kill. We just... drank coffee, and talked."
"I can see it in my head. I mean, girl... talking to some gay guy, they hit it off. Not really that strange."
"Do you know why some women have gay friends?"
"How would I."
She laughed.
"Good answer. Right off the bat? No pressure. See, a girl has to wonder. Is this guy just talking to me? Or, is he hoping to get in, and get more. Its social pressure. A gay guy? No pressure."
"One of the girls, at that point."
"Hmm. A flamer gay guy? Sure. This guy wasn't on fire."
"Closet gay."
"Not really. They hide. They lie. They make up stories... they get married and have kids, just to keep the lie going. He wasn't like that. He was, one of the ones? You'd never believe it. Like, totally normal guy? Every other way."
"He told you."
"Hmm. He didn't have to."
"You just said... no one could tell. He had to have told you."
That damn laugh again. God, that thing gets to me. I want to capture her musical note laugh on a recording, and use it for a ringtone on my phone.
"My grandfather? Family joke. He had this... god awful solid brass table lamp. Boobies. A brass boobies lamp. Grandma was embarrassed, grandpa and everyone else laughed about it."
"Okay..."
She grinned.
"You look around his little office? He had a... brass penis. For a small table lamp. He liked to shut the main overhead light off? And he had littler lights around the office."
"I guess you don't have to say a word, when you have a giant brass penis on the desk."
She nodded.
"All the therapists have those... motivational posters? You can do it, keep running that race. Like that."
"What was his cool poster you liked."
"He didn't. He had, how to say it. Posters, of men up. I mean, without the brass penis lamp, you might think he was just... he liked sports. But, the theme was off. Every poster? Different male athlete. Different sport. I mean, if I was over some straight guy's office, and I saw all these pretty female athletes on the walls... I'd get the idea he liked looking at really fit girls."
"But, he had that brass penis lamp, so."
"Yeah. It didn't need brought up. Really obvious."
"And, you guys hit it off, he became your therapist."
"Not really. The therapist field? About all women. Men find it easier to open up to a female. Women though, open up to another female better. And, the rape therapist game? We're talking all women, from top to bottom. And yeah, a couple gay guys."
"Well, if he wasn't your therapist..."
"We tried. I tried, then I got him to try, but... nothing doing. So? He asked me to meet him for lunch."
"A date?"
"Lunch date. He... said he doesn't do this for a living, just to have a job. He's in the business of helping people. And when someone is asking for his help, he'll try to give it to them. Want to guess where this story goes?"
"Uh. Therapy. Out of the office, off the books. Am I in a lot of trouble, if I ask if this story ends with you kissing a girl?"
She laughed again. And it really is magical.
"Unfortunately for you? No, this bedtime story does not end with... that. Sorry for your luck."
"But he did help you."
"Yeah. You see, I should explain. The, traditional therapist-client relationship. They're friendly? But, not your friend. They have to gently be in charge of the relationship. And if you push it, or ignore that? It will come out. Blunt, if they have to. When you strip everything else away, about this relationship? Here's where you end up. This therapist? Is in charge. You, the client? You are there to listen, and follow their lead. They're the adult in this, and you're the child again. And a good mom? Is nice and gentle. But a great mom? Knows when to raise her voice, or insist. Or, if it comes down to it? Be a little or even a lot... rude about it."
"I guess that makes sense."
"So, here's this guy. If you wonder? Rape therapy. There's a one, a three, and a five. A one? Say, some girl had a couple drinks, and her boyfriend was drunk too, and... they call it date rape, but... I think we all know, that's not rape. And there ain't nothing a real rape survivor can't stand, like listening to some pain in the ass girl, whining about the one time she went all the way with her boyfriend. I mean, she fucked him for months before. She kept fucking him for months afterwards. That's not rape. That's... whiny shit. That? Is one day a week. Of therapy. That's, a one."
"Oh. A three, is..."
"Three days a week. Maybe, a mild but real rape happened. Or, a date rape with a little more force to it. Or, the girl had some issues on top of it, before it happened."
"Then the five..."
She grinned and spoke softly.
"Five days a week."
"Which one were you. Do I have a one, a three, or a five."
"I? Was a three. I went to a five. I got back down to a three. I worked my way down, to a one. And if I could learn to fly again, even a little? I wanted to be a zero."
"And, mister brass penis lamp, gave it to you."
Her musical laugh, simply exploded.
"I didn't think how that would sound. Sorry."
"No, no. It was funny. Thanks. I need that, now and then. You done hearing my boring story, about my last gay therapist?"
"Aw. Might as well finish it, now."
"Okay. Just checking. That I don't... you know... wear you out."
I had her go on.
"He opened up his schedule to me. He was between romantic friends, that way. See, normally? You get a one hour session. Hour and a half, there's a 15 minute spot up front going over things, and a wrap up about 10 to 20 minutes at the end. The therapist takes a little coffee break, and... next!"
"He didn't... next you."
"The complete opposite. After a few times meeting, he slowly opened the schedule up. He gently laid out days off, that I could see him on. Blocks of time, on other days, too. He kept certain days and periods of time for himself, but... the rest? Was... just for me."
"Wow."
"Yeah. Remember, I said it. If your family is rich, you get your own private therapist. Otherwise? One, three, or five. Next!"
"I guess you guys worked out, some kind of... you cut his grass or something?"
Another little musical tinkle of her laugh.
"He wouldn't take a dime. And see, the other therapists? This is a job. This, is work. You're not their friend. You refer to them as your friend? They'll correct you. Gently. But... if you want to join them for lunch? Even promising not to talk about anything, just... eat. Its a big no. You're not getting into their private life."
I grimaced.
"That's harsh."
She nodded.
"It is. I guess it has to be, though. He explained. About every therapist, early on? Has a client that becomes their friend, and... eventually one worms their way into your daily life, and... it can get... clingy, needy, you have a hard time saying no to meeting them next time. They learn they have to do that. And, if you're too much of a friend, you become less of a therapist. These people, already have friends and family. They don't need another one. So, harsh? Yes. But, its the reality of the whole situation."
"He broke rank. To help you."
"He did. Since we never met technically at work? Screw those rules. When we talked, we were talking like friends. We did hit it off. So, he said we were friends first... and this was going to be like I had a friend, who just happened to be a rape therapist. And that's how it went. I just... spent time with him. When we talked about it, we talked about it. When we were just hanging out? We were just hanging out."
"How did he help you? Or, is that too personal."
She sighed.
"With all the.. normal strategies tried? He said, you just... go with it. Sometimes, the client talking, just realizes something. But you have to remember. Instead of one three five hours a week? I got hours at a time, days every week. Weekend times. We hung out at his apartment, we went places. Like normal people. Shop for something little. He'd call me up. Hey, I'm going to the mall Saturday. Gotta get this or that. Want me to pick you up? I'd always go."
"My crystal ball says, you went..."
"A gay bar, a gay club? Sure. Sometimes? Yeah. He told me, after a few times? He wanted me to just... notice people around me. Talking. Meeting. How they acted. Just watch."
"You, got better. Learned to fly. Just... watching gay people talk and meet."
"I'm at some gay club. Sure. And? I get to see them... what. Breaking up, too. Or, snipping at each other from a year old break up. Two gay guys that are in the same circle? Don't get along perfect, and... taking shots at each other. Some lady, complaining that her girlfriend is... whatever."
"How's this any different, than just going out and watching straight people... hook up and break up and talk and argue."
She sighed.
"He put it like this. Imagine. Famous actors, in big movies? You get to know nothing about their private lives. Even when you think you're getting that heartwarming, really opening up interview? Professional actor. A good one? You can't tell if you're getting the real deal, or... just a really good acting scene. Famous musicians? Same deal there. Hell, even the relationships? Some of them are just year long games for the interviews and media coverage. It helps both their careers out, and they're in the news a lot, even when they're between movies. They... schedule the big breakup? To me more news, it gets timed to the next big movie one of them is in."
I urged her on. I wasn't getting it.
"Point? Is this. If me and you could hang out where the actors, the musicians hang out? We'd suddenly see the real people. And we'd watch, intently. Wow, something new. You know you're seeing something no one else gets to see. You're an insider now. So yeah, I notice all the little things, I would never notice with two straight people."
"This... helped, I guess. Somehow."
"On accident. But yeah."
"What was... his cool story, or what did it."
She smiled.
"Nothing. It just... happened."
I mused.
"Shit? Does just happen."
"Uh huh. It does. Sometimes? Run over by a garbage truck. Sometimes, you get used car keys tossed to you. Usually though, its somewhere in between the extremes. Its only the extremes in life, that we really remember, you know."
"I don't need to know."
"Need? No. But, I'll tell you anyways. Only if you want. I can't afford to... wear you out. You're all I got, Sike."
"Go on then."
"Some lady. Tall, worked out. You could tell, she played sports. When she had a girlfriend? It was always some... shorter skinnier girl. She was jeans and T shirts, the girlfriends? Dressed extra cute and sexy. Lots of hair and makeup, jewelry, the works."
"She was... the guy."
"More or less. She always would refer to her, one of her cute little girlfriends? As sis. My little sister. She brings her a drink to our table? Kiss on her cheek. Thanks, sis. Like that."
"Okay. Seems... you leave the gay bar out of the equation, really kind of..."
"I know, right? Very, very normal shit. Shit I'd never notice, if I wasn't... studying gay people, and their lives."
"And, you saw or heard something. Probably through this tall sports girl, and her little sisters that came around her."
"Yeah. He explained to me. When there's no society pressure, one way or the other? Gay people do fine. Ancient Greece, ancient Rome. No one gave a shit. We have trouble in history class, sometimes. Figuring out which famous ancient person was gay or not. If it was common in the culture, sometimes no one thought enough to write anything down that survives."
"Sounds obvious. If society comes out against it... pressure builds up."
"It does. But, when there's positive pressure? Like you see around you these days. You get pressure the other way. Which, while its technically better than the negative pressure, that open positive pressure is less of an issue, but it still isn't perfect. Remember. They do best, left completely alone. No one raises an eyebrow. Either way."
I urged her to continue.
"He explained it. We still have the negative pressure. Now? We're adding the positive pressure to that. Its too much. And I suddenly realized? I'm in the same boat. Rape victims? Real rape victims, like me. We're ashamed. We're in the closet. When you were dating, young. Would you have homed in on the girl in your school, everyone knew got raped bad? Probably not. And if you did? Might be some kind of agenda there. Hey. She's pretty. But, she has issues. I could get a prettier girl than I could normally get. And that? Is almost just as bad."
"Its all about... pressure. Stress."
"Sure. Twice the pressure."
"And, that was your moment."
She sighed.
"No. But, it set the moment up. That lady. The tall one. He took me to... a dress up Halloween party. At the club. She was there. She was dressed as a lady cop. A real one, not that stupid sexy cheap stripper costume, all the girls get. She rented a... real one. And her new little sister date, with her? Was her... you know, her criminal she just nabbed. Cute little girl, dressed sexy as all get out. Like a hot little hooker. Got her hands handcuffed in front of her. I mean, that was her outfit. The lady cop? Arrested a cute hooker, and her her in cuffs. Whole party, all night. She dragged her around by her handcuffs. Teased her a lot."
"Okay."
"So. I asked him, the next time we met. Seemed obvious to me, it was Halloween fun, sure. But... seemed like a bit more to it. He laughed. Yeah. That, was her thing."
"Oh. She's... actually a lady cop?"
Another burst of musical laughter. God, I love that more than being able to finally enjoy the sex, I think.
"No, silly. I said, it was an expensive costume rental. I mean, it was a real cop uniform, to look at it, but... the only thing gave it away? Her badge, and her patches. Instead of... Pittsburgh Police? It was... Love Police. You know. Pretend there was a town named Love, Pennsylvania? She was a cop there. That, was what her real badge and patches looked like. I mean, say Pittsburgh Police, three times. Then? Say... Love Police, three times."
Now it was my turn to chuckle.
"I get it. She, was the... Love Police."
"Yeah."
"And... this was your moment."
She shook her head. I think she looks extra cute, smiling and shaking her head no.
"He asked me if I wanted to do, a little tiny group therapy. As in, just me and him, and one other person. I said okay."
"I could picture that."
"Its me, him obviously... and the Love Police lady. Us three. At his apartment, for a Saturday get together. He... started. Dirty little secret of the rape therapy career, is... a good percentage of them, had something happen in their lives. If they weren't raped? They were molested. Or, whatever. But, they understand. And you can kind of tell, after a while. Which ones seem like they're just repeating phrases out of a textbook? And which ones seem to have a handle on what's going on with you."
"He led, with his story."
"Yeah. Then? Her. I won't tell you, his story? Because I still visit him. He still comes in. He's a dear friend for life. And, I want you to be able to meet my friend one day, if it happens. But, her story."
I smelled that the plane circling the tarmac? Was coming for a landing. Tower just cleared them to land.
"She, was young. Middle teens. Out running around, like any young kid would. Her and her little friends? Little kids, shoplifting little stuff. Not trying to make money, not trying to get things for themselves. Just... like stealing a candy bar. Exciting and kind of safe. I mean, you know you're not going to spend ten years in jail, if a 14 year old girl puts a candy bar in her pocket. Its just exciting enough, its a huge thrill. Its just enough of no big deal, you don't risk much."
"Okay."
"They were leaving the store. They took turns being the one with, the candy bar on them. It was her turn. I guess you have to wait for the person to leave the store without paying. You saw them take it, you see them hide it. You see they don't remember and pay for it. You can only get them, when they go to leave."
"She got nabbed."
"She did. Lady... security guard, basically. Called herself a... store detective. Ran her little friends off, the police were coming? She, took her into a back room. And, way she explained it? Basically went on and on, scaring the shit out of a young girl. She crying, lady's working her over the coals. She's young. Lady's talking about jail time, and cops, and all that. Talking about her and her parents. She's... scared of the cops and her parents. This goes on? A long time. She said she was just... crying her eyes out. Lady keeps it up, until... bet you can guess how this story ends now."
"Store detective lady. I mean, she..."
"Uh huh. Say it, though. She what."
"Well, she..."
"I can say it. So you? Can definitely say it. Go on."
"She... raped her."
"She sure did. Now. You want details? You'll never meet her. You wouldn't know, if you ever did meet her."
"You don't have to tell me. I got the picture. I'm not sure how this helped you? But, I don't think the details of what got done to her, are germane to the main issue."
"Really. A totally straight guy. Doesn't want to hear details. Of, some lady store detective. Got that tall for her age, cute teenage girl. All alone, in that back room. And what she did to her. See, after whatever time? This lady is working alone. She's got privacy, locked in her office. I really find it impossible to believe, that it would kill you to hear what went on. In fact? I think, you're just being polite. I think? It would be fun, for you to hear it."
"It might? Or, it would. I guess I should say... it would if it wasn't... real. I mean, I can enjoy that part of the story. Sure. But... you were raped. She was raped. I can't..."
She laughed in my ear.
"Really? You can. And that's part of my point."
"If you say so."
"You can probably guess the basic outline. She spends an hour or two, scaring her and making her cry and beg. Then? She provides a way out. Want to guess what the way out is?"
"She rapes her."
"She handcuffed her. Gets her pants down, her shirt up. She touched her. She made her come. And remember, this store detective lady? She's alone, the whole night. She kept her there. She locked her clothes up, they had several... like high school lockers, in that office. She locked up all her clothes in one. Then had more fun with her. When she had to make rounds, or go do anything? She shoved her into the next locker over, and put a lock on it. She's handcuffed. Naked. In some strange lady's work locker. Her clothes all locked up. Plus? She locked the door behind her, if she left or someone came and knocked. She's afraid to say anything, because she thinks she might get into trouble, but she'll still go to jail. I got you on video, little girl. Its not even a case."
"All night?"
"All night. She said there was a tiny bathroom in the little office. She had to go in front of this lady. And she did stuff to her, constantly. She said one thing she hated, but it didn't hurt. Was, when she had to pee? The lady laughed and sat on her lap, facing her. While she was peeing. And... she peed. On her, in her lap. She said that was one of the more humiliating things the lady did to her."
"I really don't need to---"
"Uh huh. What's the matter. I see your dick's getting hard. Why would you want the sexy story, to end, huh? So just enjoy it. The lady got off on making her come. Touching her? Licking her. She made her do it back. She told her what to say to her. She made her ask, and beg for things. Dirty things, she didn't want done, but... she has to beg for it. Then? She does it to her. And she did weird shit to her. Sitting on her lap, and peeing that way, on her to drop down her lap into the water? She did worse. When the lady peed? She had to clean her. With her tongue. She had to ask to clean her, and beg to get to do it. She was terrified, because the lady kept threatening her with it. If she had to take a shit? She was going to lick that clean, too. She said she was so scared, she tried to do what she wanted, so that didn't happen to her."
"Christ."
"The lady eventually got... she said, kind of bored after a while, but wouldn't quit. She said the lady took tons of pictures of her, with her phone. Little movies. She said the lady got the phone up on the desk or whatever, and has one movie of her over her lap. Handcuffed, clothes all locked up. Not happy with just fingering her, making her come on the movie? She said the lady made her beg on the little movie, to have fingers up her ass, too. Then, she had to lick them clean. She's telling her, that if she tells and tried to get her in trouble? First off, she has no proof and she's the one on camera stealing and got caught. And all these movies and pictures will come out. On the internet, emailed to people around her. She said she was more terrified of that? Than all the disgusting stuff the lady made her do and say. I mean, she just knows there's this phone out there? With all these photos and movies on it. A stapler, off her desk? Up her ass. Pictures exist of this. Little movies, of her begging to have the stapler up her ass, and she's been taught to beg and pretend she loves it."
She had me hard now, and showed me and teased me about it. What a pervert I was, getting off and getting my jollies. Hearing how some poor cute little girl, got raped and all the dirty things that got done to her.
"The story doesn't end there. After hours, she finally lets her go. When she gets home? She gets in huge trouble. With her parents. For staying out all night. Her friends? The parents called them, and they said she left them and they didn't know where she was. She got grounded, she lost her cellphone and internet privileges for a couple months. She tried telling her parents, after a while? They don't believe her. She's naturally fighting and arguing with them about it. Her mom lost her patience with her. Slapped her around, yelling at her. Sneaking out all night, now she waits a month and tried to make this stupid story up. She's grounded more now. She thinks her parents are stupid enough, to buy this ridiculous story, and let her out again? So she can stay out all night again? No way. She's breaking dishes and shit, arguing? She ends up her mom makes her dad give her the belt."
"Christ!"
"Yeah. Not only is it a classic case, of no one believes the victim? Her parents, the authority figures. Just like this lady, was an authority figure. With power over her, because she's a girl and she's young. Her parents are punishing her, for months on end? Basically for getting raped. The more she fights and argues and breaks things? The more belt she gets. So now? Her parents, the main authority figures in her life. Are now physically and emotionally... straight out torturing her, because she got raped. She's grounded for life already, and getting the belt more and more at a time now, every time she acts up. The belt doesn't quit? Until she... hey, learned her lesson."
I stated the obvious, stuck for dead air time.
"Instead of helping, her parents made it ten times worse."
"Yep."
"You know? You always hear these... stories like this, just so out there. And..."
She prodded me. Smiling.
"No. Nothing."
She made me say it, so I did. I sighed first, then came clean with what I tried to squelch.
"Okay. Can I play, devil's advocate?"
She shrugged and smiled.
"Sure."
"I just. Okay, pretend this girl comes into the police station. I'm the detective or whatever, catches this case. Yeah, I write it all down, I video tape this. I take it serious. But? I am required, to investigate. How... as a cop, haven't I heard bullshit sob stories before. I know that sounds cruel, but..."
"No. Not cruel at all. Brass penis lamp told me? Another dirty, little, secret of this gritty world. You have to, as a professional? Do your best due diligence, to learn to sort through the attention seekers? From the real ones. He said, I know, I know. On TV? You always believe the victim, and then they give the examples. Pretty much? Like her story. I mean, if everyone had believed the victim, which is the rule you hear? Her parents would have looked into it. Automatically. I mean, here's this mid teens girl, going to her mom and dad. Mom, dad. I was raped. Lesbian rape, too. And what happens? She gets grounded, then spanked. Until she pretends it never happened."
"If this one was real."
She kissed my shoulder.
"I asked him. How do you separate. Real ones, from sob stories. Made up for attention. He said? You basically don't. His end, as a therapist? Was pretty straightforward. Step one. Always believe the victim. And its easier for a therapist to do that. If it is one of the made up stories? A real life authority figure will not go to jail, because a little girl has learned a fun game she can play. Its therapy. Even if she is lying? Her need to be in therapy claiming this, is some kind of problem then, all in itself. But he admitted. The police, other authority figures. They need to sort though, and make decisions. Mistakes will get made. Here? Otherwise normal loving parents... made a huge mistake."
"Wow. Like you taught me. Shit happens."
She smiled.
"It does. Now then. Remember where we started out. The Halloween cop lady? This, was her rape story. The way she delivers it? Hey. I've been around the block in hours of therapy sessions. I'm sort of off the books qualified, to see if I think... that she's sounding like I expect to hear. Some, therapy talk in there, if you know what I mean. And yeah. To me? Armchair expert though I may be. Seems real to me, she sounds and acts out, and even says things... I recognize as from a therapy hour or a group therapy session."
"Am I stupid, that I'm going to ask what important thing you got out of her, and her story?"
I got my shoulder gently kissed some.
"Not at all. Compare her story? Do devil's advocate the other way. Pretend you completely buy her story. Now. Compare. The rape story? To her adult sexual life. She claims she was completely straight, by the way, until this happened. She was raped by an older lesbian. At length, over hours. That older lesbian handcuffed her and forced her? Now, its her sex life with her little girlfriends she picks up. She's the handcuffs lady, and everyone knows it. Its all but her sexual identity. Lesbian, in charge in bed, uses handcuffs and gets rough and her little girlfriend enjoys it. I mean, I'm no therapist. I admit it, but... that just can't be a coincidence."
"Did you ask?"
"I was scared to ask. So, I whispered my question in his ear. He said it was fine. We talked about it. All three of us? We all agreed, even her. Couldn't be a coincidence."
We were laying face to face on the couch. I had my back to the cushions on the inside, she was up against me. Laying down the outside edge of the old overstuffed ragged couch. As per usual when we had most of our clothes off? My hands were tied behind my back with her favorite piece of rope.
"Now. What have you learned about rape, hmm? Let's see. How big a surprise now, after all that... for me to admit that the guy that raped me? Tied my hands behind my back. Then the first thing he did? He played with me. Made me come. Said if I didn't come? He'd let me go. But then, I came. Do you think that's a coincidence."
"No."
She agreed with me, by kissing around my face gently.
"We have to guess? But yeah. Probably not a coincidence. And you want to know another dirty little secret of the rape industry? Your body machinery, works just fine. It doesn't matter at all, who tugs on your dick..."
Like she had my hands tied and was pulling my dick at that very moment, teasing me.
"You'll come. Whether you like them, or not. It adds to the embarrassment around the whole thing. In fact, when you finally get to a courtroom, assuming everyone even believes you at all? You get questioned. On the stand. Frank, explicit, open discussion. And if you break down? The jury doesn't believe you. You're hysterical. It was dark. It was late. You could be mistaken. And you have to admit, whether or not you had an orgasm. In public."
She continued the long teasing, stopping and starting.
"So. Now you know. How this all came to be. And why. Any questions?"
"Hmm. How many..."
"Oh. Handcuffs lady? She always called her little friends... her little sister. I don't know. I guess that makes you my... what. Little brother. And you're curious, how many little brothers, came before you. Came? Pun intended."
"I guess."
"Hmm. Over half? Its a no. And there's a lot of no, until I learned how to try to... you know... ease into it. So over half is a no, no matter what. Out of what's left, saying maybe? Some back out. Some won't do it again, they thought it was just a fun, one time game. Not much left, and they seem to either quit when they figure out its the normal thing. Or? Something about them, makes me want to drop them. And, its not so much exactly how many, I don't think. As much of... how far did I get with them. If I were you? I'd ask that."
"How, far do you get."
"No lie? I never got this far, this long. Now, I did slowly get better at this, over time. And its still slim pickings. Yeah, I learned how to get a guy alone and tied up. But to get them coming back? Hmm. Not a lot. I had just moved here, a couple months before we met. I told you, I move around. Looking for something. Now, if I move around, and I'm single? What does that tell you. You keep coming back. Its a record."
"Do you think its a coincidence? That I keep coming back. And you know someone murdered my fiancee, and I was the one to find her. In the tub. Days later."
She kissed around my face, tender.
"Don't know. Don't care. Doesn't really matter. I wanted a willing victim. Not an easy thing to find. And a harder thing to keep, than to find. I want a permanent willing victim, obviously. Because here's the thing, about rape. Another? Dirty, little, secret. Real rape, is one of the worst things ever. But pretend rape? Is one of the most fun things ever invented. In fact, among completely normal women? Almost all of them. Report that the difference between a boring lover, and an exciting lover? The exciting lover, is aggressive and physical. They just won't take no for an answer, and they like it. The most popular positions for girlfriends and wives? They like their wrists pinned down. They like it on a counter or table, caught. They like the feeling of being forced? Into the wall, and trapped in the corner, is one of the favorites. Pretend rape? Is the gold standard, that you're not a boring fuck. So I ask you. Am I a boring fuck. Hmm?"
I swore to all that was holy, that she might be any number of things, but a boring fuck was definitely not one of them. When it had come out in the general conversation earlier, that the handcuffs lady admitted to fantasies of tracking down and murdering that lady store detective? I didn't say a word, but... yeah. True story now. That? Resonated with me.
Over time, she shared more bits and pieces of some of the extraneous details of her own rape. She said after he tied her hands behind her back, and got her clothes off of her. Again, probably not a coincidence, but... exactly the way she had manipulated me at the swing set, more or less. She teased and tugged me off, after openly offering to let me go. To what, make it legal, I guess. That I was offered a chance to escape? And I turned it down.
She had been jumped and tied up, and played with and teased about it when she squirmed and squealed, and obviously came for him. It was the defining feature of her sexual activity with me, and every single time. Whatever else eventually we got into. Something more pedestrian, but along the lines of her being in charge, definitely. I had heard the story of handcuffs lady. Now, she was rope girl.
She made sure I understood that she wouldn't do it to me, of course. Never. But, she described what had went on over time. After playing with her, he dropped her own sweatshirt over her head. She said it was weird. She had been wearing a much oversize pull over sweatshirt. He tied one arm of her sweatshirt, in a knot closing off the neck hole of the sweatshirt, turning it into a sealed bag. He tied the other arm around her neck fairly tight. Like tying a bag over her head.
She described how hot and moist and uncomfortable that sweatshirt hood had been. The rest of her was shivering and going numb. It was cold out, and more so late at night. He dragged her into the underbrush at the back end of the parking lot. Her car was abandoned in the back? Because she had parked when it was busy. Now all but empty late at night, there were few cars. He had jumped her from behind, while she was walking past some other vehicle. She never got a good look at him, and it was dark and there were no lights. This was a field, converted to extra parking use.
Over what felt like possibly a couple hours? She had no way to accurately tell. She eventually figured out that she wouldn't actually suffocate to death in the sweatshirt? But it felt like it the whole time. She described being frantic, feeling like she couldn't breathe. When she tried kicking or twisting? He beat her to a pulp. When he was done using the sweatshirt as a speed bag, and she was barely moving... he broke ribs. Punched her in the stomach, punched her in the back of her neck or in the small of her back. She read later, he must have been a boxer. The way she described it to the police. When face down, her hands tied behind her back? He was working over her kidneys. She pissed blood afterwards for a day or two.
She went numb in the freezing cold. Head beat to a pulp, in and out of consciousness. Barely able to breathe. The white hot pain of cracked ribs and having your hands tied behind your back, while someone manipulates you around for a couple hour long fuck. He smashed her face off the rocky ground in the underbrush, to teach her how to pose for him. On her back, she was to hold on with her legs or not fight him throwing her legs over the shoulders, to really fuck her hard. But when flipped over? She was taught how to do it. Face on the ground, tight. Or it got smashed off the rocks and cold ground more. Ass up, legs apart on her knees. Arch that back, and you stick that ass out for me. You invite me in, you wiggle that ass for me. Numb from the cold, she later saw all the cuts and scrapes all over her. Knees, ankles, elbows, shoulders. After what seemed like hours later? He kicked her around "like a soccer ball" and then unconscious with kicks to the head.
She came to, after first light. When the sun broke long enough, that things warmed up enough. She had almost died from hypothermia. Still tied up, wrists roped behind her back. Sweatshirt soaked with blood still tied around her head. Barely able to roll let alone move and get up on her feet without hands. All the broken ribs made standing, then taking baby steps almost impossible. She could hear people. The parking lot was active now. She had to stagger out of the underbrush, towards people. Like this. To get help.
With no look at her attacker, the police had nothing. Unless they got a DNA match one day on accident? That was about it. So, she pointed out she was spared the whole public courtroom nightmare. And since she had been hurt so bad physically? She could "prove" she was raped. This was no sissy la la he said she said date rape.
After two days pissing blood? It took a week, to not feel like she was cold and freezing. Lingering effects of hypothermia. She said it took a month to breathe right. That is, without hearing her ribs crack every morning, as she woke up and took that first involuntary big breath. Three months, before she could walk outside, by herself. Another month, to be able to walk to the corner store at her parents house and run scared back home. Maybe a year of therapy, getting calmed down.
Naturally no way out of the emotional breakdown. Long crying fits. Bad depression. High anxiety. Bad nightmares and flashbacks. A year of dating different therapists, to find the one that fit. Took a year to get better enough, that she could get off the psychiatric medication they had her doped up with. They had to switch her medications around, until she got off the stuff. My ears pricked up at that, I can tell you.
She recounted, never having had anything resembling any kind of even slight mental health issue. Normal childhood, normal young adult now in college. After this? PTSD, depression, anxiety. Related stuff. What really amazed me though I kept silent on, was when she described getting off of the psychiatric medication. They used shots like on me in the hospital and for a time after? Then they switched to pills. She said she encountered some kind of... weird emotional withdrawal from trying to go cold turkey off the happy pills? And the description was eerily similar to my own description of what happened to me. What I felt, until given the shots. What returned, if I tried to lower or quit my shots.
Mercifully, I've never had any kind of breakdown around her. I guess she sees me for how I present. I come off as quiet, but sarcastic with gallows humor. I have to guess what goes on in her head, behind those eyes, but... she seemed to at times sort of marvel at how I sat there, and was able to listen to any horrible details of anything. Maybe she suspects I'm on medication for what happened. I don't know. But just like a real heroin addict? I hide my drugs, I hide my shoot up kit. I go and hide, when I use it. I sneak off, like a cat to die alone? When any kind of an attack is starting to ramp up. I can detect it early now, I have experience. I can recognize it a day or two before, picking up the little clues and feelings.
My lady lawyer's girlfriend? Taught me to hide. Yeah, I might need actual medication? But unless you have a diabetes card to show them... getting caught not hiding well enough when shooting up? Can be bad. The room mate didn't ask any questions. Strange man? Saw him shooting up, when he didn't know I was sneaking around and peeking around the corner. I got locked in my room, for hours. I had to shit in a vase. If there had been a fire and she had left? I could have died, trapped. So without any compelling reason? I keep that shit to myself. Just in case. Maybe this girl needs me to be the strong silent type. Would knowing I have to inject myself weekly and sometimes more, with happy juice make me less of a rock in her storm, perhaps? I don't want to find out.
Its not just the promise of getting to have sex again, though I admit that's a motivation as well. I have something that passes for a relationship now. I care about her, and I feel like she seems to care abut me. She's up front and always on guard about it, that she wants only my time. She says its a big deal to her, that she can take care of herself. Financially. Emotionally. She insists, that there's no "next step" planned. If its working for her, if its working for me? Why shouldn't we just leave well enough alone.
Lots of little things. We both survived bad trauma and pain. Hers physical on top of emotionally, me maybe more emotionally with no physical trauma. We're both damaged goods.
I guess we both had broken wings. Our wings got taken care of, and we got healed up. Now? We're both baby birds. Flapping like hell, trying to get back to learning how to fly again. We're both some weird mix of... an almost heroic ability to take it, survive, and refuse to lay down and just die. Mixed equally with something pathetic. Like, two bad burn victims? Together because the bad scars don't bug each other.
She makes me feel better, too. I don't like having this craving desire for murderous revenge inside me. But its normal, I see. Handcuffs lady? Fantasizes and daydreams about tracking and slaughtering her own rapist. If she went off and actually ever did it? I hope she got away with it. I hope she can rationalize it, and get over it. If she ever did go and do it, I don't fault her the tiniest bit. You put me, on that jury? You better pray you don't need a unanimous jury vote to convict her. I will staunchly refuse to vote guilty? No matter what. Eleven bored people? Will fail to browbeat me into going along with the cool kids, to say guilty. She did it and admits it, lets go home. No way in hell.
She freely admits the same fantasy to kill her rapist. I asked her, after a big joint. Laying around in our underwear. So. How would you do it. She wants him tied up, helpless. Zip tie a sweatshirt over his head. She's not a big guy and a boxer? She needs a little baseball bat, to break all his ribs, and swell his head up like a melon. Being careful, to keep him both alive and conscious. She hustles to point out? Its just a daydream. A fantasy. She knows, that if she got caught taking any revenge? She spends the rest of her life in jail, if caught.
I tell her how normal that is, its fine.
Little does she know, little does she suspect. I've already killed four people, and it doesn't bother me in the slightest. I know I have at least one more, but he's going to take a while to get to. I'm patient. The chessboard will align itself, eventually. I really don't think she'd fault me for it, getting the people that had anything to do with the apparatus that murdered my precious Rain? But just like shooting up. That's on a need to know basis.
Both lead to getting locked in a little room, and shitting in a vase in the corner.
She wanted to spend time with me at her mobile home or while working a shift. She never came over and stayed. I never tried to force the issue. I always tried taking her out, but she wanted to stay in. She obviously preferred buying food for meals and cooking them for me, and having me over to eat and spend time with her.
I wanted to buy food at least, and we sort of argued over that. I ended up with a program of just putting the food I bought away, and she would sort of faux complain as she discovered it. Always threatening to punish me for it, which was of course the exact opposite of punishment. It had become the treat.
I guess the whole ball of hot wax that was my personal life, was fucked up and sweet at the same time. While I couldn't say the burden had been lifted, I am able to say that it was ten pounds lighter. I mean, if you're carrying a load of bricks? One less brick, is an improvement. I'll take what I can get.
With things about as good as they were likely to ever get, I began to plan. Plot. Imagine. Think. Calculate.