Part Five - Dredging Up the Details

*** WARNING! This entry is the most explicit I've posted so far. What follows is not sexy. It is not pretty. It is not inspiring. It is sick, plain and simple. But it is truth. It is my truth. PLEASE READ WITH CAUTION! ***

In Part Five, I am going to attempt to recount some very specific details about what happened to me as a child. I am doing this primarily so I can get it all out on the surface, kind of like lancing an infected wound or better yet, major intrusive surgery to remove all the YUCK inside of me. This is supposed to be cathartic, so here goes.

It's going to be ugly and I don't even know if I'll be able to get through this today.

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First Physical Contact:
I remember being in the basement with my 2 brothers.
I remember the wooden box, smelling of tobacco and newsprint.
I remember pornography spread over the couch.
I remember my abuser wearing nothing other than my mother's pantyhose, and encouraging me and my other brother to do the same.
I remember him lying on top of me and rubbing against me.
I remember him reaching orgasm, and his jelly-like semen.

This basic scenario went on for some time, before progressing to the next stage:

I remember being in the basement again.

Same wooden box, same heavy, musky smell.
Porn spread out across the couch.
I remember looking at the magazines
and having everything explained in detail.

I remember my abuser suggesting we try some of the things in the magazines.


I remember him performing oral sex on me, and having me do the same to him.
To the best of my memory, he never ejaculated in my mouth or made me taste his semen; but I remember the texture, the smell and how much I wanted to wash it off myself.

Eventually it reached the point where he attempted to penetrate me:
I remember lying face down on the couch in the basement.
I remember my abuser climbing on top of me.
I remember him using a jar of Vaseline to lubricate his penis.
I remember him rubbing his penis in my butt crack.
I remember him pressing his penis into my rectum,
and I remember the pain.

I remember all of these things:
I remember nearly every other Saturday night from Fall through Spring.
I remember waiting for my parents to leave for their church bowling league.
I remember having to clean up and have everything back in place before they came home.

My story is true, and I have never forgotten these things I've written above. This is the first time I've ever spelled it out like this. This is the first time I've ever put it in writing like this; but this story has haunted me my entire life, from the first day the abuse started up to today. The memories don't go away, the effects remain.

There is more to the story than what I've written above; but this ends the first chapter of the abuse. My next entries will begin with the effect the abuse had upon me after my abuser left home, both in my own acting out and my self isolation.