Commentaries by Cynthia

It’s true that we live in a sexually saturated society. We’re faced with it everywhere - on TV, in movies, books, magazines, on the Internet, and even on public billboards. Still, sex hasn’t been a topic that I’ve talked much about, mainly because I think it’s a personal topic that is best shared between intimate partners. But it seems like there are people out there who are curious about my sexuality, so brace yourselves, because I’m getting ready to tell you a few things about myself.

Hopefully, you didn’t have any childhood encounters with sex. If you did, you suffered greatly, had a lot of shame and confusion, and were afraid to tell anyone about the abuse. After all, you were a child, and if you grew up in the 70's or earlier, you were to be seen and not heard. I’m glad that some of that mentality has disappeared, but the fact remains that childhood sexual abuse tends to leave scars that manifest later in one’s sex life.

I’ve had conversations with abuse victims of both genders. And usually (but not always) they will either: A) become frigid and prude-like in their views of sex or, B) go the other way and become more promiscuous. I would like to say that most do NOT go on to repeat the pattern of abuse that they were subjected to, although there certainly are those who do, and these are the ones we tend to hear about in the media instead of the other two groups.

I was five when one of my brother’s friends, Michael, began trying to touch me in my “private” areas. He also exposed himself and begged me to touch him. This may sound like an innocent game of you-show-me-yours-and- I’ll-show-you-mine. But it wasn’t. He was well-past puberty and I was still a long way from it. This happened several times until I was about seven. Then, when I was alone in the house one day, he made another attempt to touch me, and I broke free and ran to my father who was outside working in the garden. I told Dad that Michael was trying to pull my dress up. Dad looked at me, kind of stunned, then anger flooded his expression. I will never forget the scene. He threw the mattock down and headed straight for the house, then confronted Michael, who of course, denied everything. But Dad believed me and told Michael to never show up at our house again. Michael slithered away and never returned, but my subjection to sexually deviant advances had only begun.

The next person was older, more clever, and a true pedophile. He was also a neighbor and a prominent member of our church. Harrison lived with his aging parents, and one Sunday a month, my mother would take me with her to visit his parents. While my mother was trying to be a good neighbor by visiting the shut-in, Harrison decided to take advantage of the situation. (Don’t all abusers?) He would gently take my hand and say, “Let’s go outside and take a walk.”

Now, you can image what happened next. Illegal and repulsive touching and kissing took place. I was around eight at the time, and maybe I should have known better, but when it’s a church leader doing these things, it really messes with your mind. And, like a lot of pedophiles, Harrison was charming, sweet, and manipulative. He somehow convinced me that what he was doing was simply showing me love and tenderness. But my spirit knew something was wrong, and I began begging my mother to let me stay home whenever she visited Harrison’s parents. She consented, although she missed the red flag that should have alerted her to a problem. I forgive her for that, because, again, this occurred in the 70's when most people in rural areas had no idea that there were adults in society who sexually preyed on children.

Fast-forward to when I was eleven. We had a large front yard, and I was practicing for softball tryouts at school by tossing a ball into the air and batting it across the yard. I was alone, and who stopped at the house to play with me but Harrison himself. It had been years since his previous advances, and I suppose I had blocked them from my mind. When he pulled into our drive and offered to pitch the ball to me, I said okay. After an hour or so, Harrison said he was thirsty and asked for some water. I went inside the kitchen and he followed. As I was getting ice from the freezer, he came up behind me and tried to slide his hands down the front of my shirt while breathing “Let me feel” near my ear. With my heart pounding in fear, I dropped the glass in my hand and took off running to my bedroom, locking the door behind me. A few minutes later, I heard Harrison’s pickup truck drive away.

I was shaking and crying when I heard my brother’s footsteps coming down the hallway. I opened the door, and he took one look at my face and asked, “What’s wrong? What happened?” I told him exactly what Harrison had done. Like my father before, my brother’s stunned expression turned into anger, then he headed back up the hallway. A few minutes later, I heard his souped-up Dodge furiously spinning out of our driveway.

My brother later told me that he had confronted Harrison and that the man had denied everything. (Abusers always deny their sick and twisted ways.) But my brother knew that I had no reason to lie, and he’d seen the panic and confusion Harrison’s behavior had left behind. My brother told Harrison that if he ever showed up at our house again, he would not only tell our parents what had occurred, he would also take it before the church congregation. Suffice it to say, Harrison never stopped to “play” with me again.

If you’re wondering what ever happened to Michael and Harrison - I will tell you that they are both dead now. Michael was found stabbed to death and rotting in a ditch when he was nineteen. Harrison had a massive stoke that left him completely paralyzed and in a nursing home for the last ten years of his life. I did not shed tears for either of them when they died, believing that the world was a safer place without them in it. I would later learn that I had not been Harrison’s only victim in the neighborhood. Conversations with others revealed that he’d made unwanted sexual advances with boys and girls alike, and this is why I call him a true pedophile.

I’m telling you because I want to understand that, if you’re repeatedly treated as a sex object, you begin to think of yourself as one. Your view of sexuality has become tainted. You begin to think, “This is all men want, so this must be all I am good for.” Of course that’s bullshit, but if that’s been your experience, you don’t really know differently. This is why I never call other women “sluts,” “ho’s” or anything else defaming. I suspect that many of them are simply acting out their pain and confusion, and God knows that most men will take advantage of the situation if given the opportunity. I’m forty-two now; I’ve never heard a man say, “Honey, you’re better than that. Don’t give yourself away so easily. You have so much more to offer society.” No. It takes a real man to say these words, and they are few and far between.

It’s taken awhile, but I’ve learned to detect sexual deviance in men, and I can now see their clever; albeit slimy tactics - the way their eyes drink you in and slide all over you. The way their lips curve upward, as if they already have you in bed with them. It makes me sick. And I swear, as God as my witness, the next time some man tries to touch me without my consent, I’m going to cold-cock the sonofabitch across the face with a knuckle sandwich. Why? Because I’ve had enough. And as Judge Judy once said, “Men only get by with what women let them get by with.”

If you mess with me, watch out, because it’s coming back around. One way or the other, you will pay and pay dearly. If you screw with people, you can expect to get screwed twice as hard in return. This is karma. And it’s the only true justice system we have in the Universe.

P.S. And so now you know why I’m leery of Christians and don’t like going to church. I spent my teenage years, listening and watching as Harrison stood up and testified to the congregation about how much he loved God, and how good God had been to him. All the while, I sat there, knowing the truth... knowing the demon behind the mask. And sadly, there are many more like him still out there.

So if you’re a Christian and you’re reading this, by all means, pray for me. I need your prayers. I do NOT need your judgment. I am the way I am for a reason. We all are. If God hasn’t told you this by now, I’ll tell you myself... I need to be healed, not beaten down and crucified.

And if you’re a pervert or a horny goat and you’re reading this, stay the hell away from me, my daughter and my granddaughters, or I might just write about your creepy sickness on this blog.