Seventeen

You stifle a giggle. Not because you are happy, but because you are nervous. You hate this about yourself, almost as much as your jiggly thighs and extra belly flab. There a lot of things you hate about yourself, besides your nervous giggles and fat. There are things you are too ashamed to admit because you've always been told they are wrong or because you so desperately want to fit in. Some of this has led to cutting yourself, some of it to the drinking, some of it to the thoughts you are afraid to even admit to yourself.

You are nervous because this guy is flirting with you. He has glasses, black hair and he smokes. He kind of reminds you of Johnny Depp in "Cry Baby," only slightly though. You are nervous because he has already mentioned sex, you are still a virgin even though you are sixteen (almost seventeen), and you are just outside church. He is talking about how he was a masseuse in Vegas, he knows how to make a woman orgasm just by rubbing her feet, or so he says.

Sex talk has always made you nervous. It makes you feel sick in your stomach. Not just because you've never had it, but because you believe God will hate you and because you genuinely believe no one will want to have sex with you. You are so wrapped up in your fears; the fear you'll die alone, the fear that no one will ever love you because you are too fat, the fear that you will just be abused again. Its your biggest fear, that you are holding yourself back, that makes you open yourself up to this guy even though he makes you nervous.

You've only just met him, but you tell him a secret. You don't want to go to your family reunion because your grandmother will make a snide comment about your weight. She always does. Its inevitable. That's why you are outside, waiting for your mother to pick you up, because you still don't know how to drive.

He is interesting, you think. He seems to be genuinely into you too. But there is something off about all this. You don't quite know what it could be, but you begin to feel more confident and you return the flirtation. You can't wait to see him next week when you go to church, having already fallen kind of hard for this man you just met.

You are desperate for some positive male attention. Or even bad attention, at this point. Your father and mother are divorced, your step-father ignores you and you have a younger brother who just annoys you most of the time. You love him fiercely, but he is a different guilt that you carry tucked in the pocket of your, already over-burdened, heart. You are a mess right now. The one positive male role-model you have has just left for Paris. You don't know who you are, but you are so desperate to just feel normal for a bit, feel loved for a little while.

You go to the reunion, in spite of the fear. These are the things that have led to bulimia, to overeating, to overcompensating. You believe if you could just be perfect, somehow, your grandmother will suddenly realize she loves you. She'll stop making those hurtful jabs about your weight. The jabs that your grandfather tries to deflect, but never successfully quells. You think about your grandfather and how much he loves you. You believe, for a moment, that maybe all you need is grandpa and you'll be okay.

But grandpa is an alcoholic, his love transitory depending on the number of beers. Its not as bad as some of the times when you were younger, but you suspect that his love lessens depending on the level of alcohol in his system. Or maybe its just your belief that you'll never be good enough.

Its inevitable. She makes a comment about your weight. You're not skinny. Never have been, really. You've always been a little plump. Recently though you've gained and you weigh more than you ever have. You blame it on moving to the house you live in currently. Its a nice house, but it doesn't have the open landscape the last one did. You can't run or ride bikes like you used to. Plus things have gotten progressively worse at home, you're sick all the time and you hide in your room writing your crappy poetry. She always gives you that same disappointed and cruel look. Your mom tries to step in, grandpa scolds. You hold your breath, trying to make yourself smaller. Trying to stop the tears you feel building in your chest, like a scream.

You don't say anything, you take the verbal beating, like you always have, and then go to the car and cry. You think about the guy from church with his black hair and easy smile. You decide he has pretty eyes.

The next week he gives you his phone number and you find out he is a convicted child molester. This doesn't deter you, even though you liken it to your mother's relationship with your father. This guy is eight years older than you, he smokes, he is a convicted felon, he's divorced. He's smart though. He's charming. He's your father without being your father.

He has the decency to wait until you turn seventeen before asking you out. You readily agree because you tell yourself you love him. Even though you know you don't. You aren't even sure what love is, but you are still missing your guy friend who is in Paris and you are still wishing for a Mr. Right at Last.

The first time he kisses you, you feel yourself melting. He has soft lips, but he tastes of cigarette smoke. He is trying to quit, for you, he says. He is a good kisser, easy and gentle. He slips just the tip of his tongue into your mouth and you eagerly meet him. This is your first "French Kiss" and you find it isn't unpleasant. In fact it is arousing, but you don't know what being aroused means. You don't even know what masturbation is or how it works, you just know you feel warm and fuzzy all over. He is a gentleman, at first, just content to kiss you.

Slowly, however, his hand moves over your breasts, which are large and another source of frustration for you. They're always in the way and you don't even know why you need them. Something happens when he touches them though. You suddenly feel this pressure building up in your pelvis, almost like you have to pee. And the need gets stronger when his hand slides down in-between your legs. He doesn't go under your clothes, which you silently thank God for, he just rubs. It doesn't get you anywhere in particular, but you really feel like you'll burst. You wonder, distantly, if this is what sex is like. Feeling like you really have to pee, but with none of the relief you get from using the bathroom.

You date for two weeks before he proposes the idea of marriage. You agree, without hesitation. You want to be married. You want to be free of the guilt you feel for being a sexual being. You want to have children, be away from your step-father, who makes you increasingly uncomfortable. You want to escape.

You buy your engagement ring, a cubic zirconium affair that cost you less than five dollars. He slips it on your finger outside of church before sneaking a kiss from you. You know that he could get in trouble for being with you, you're under eighteen and he is a convicted molester. Everyone is warning you away from him too. Your best friend despises him. Even the pastor's wife has taken you aside to discuss the "situation" as she put it.

She warns you about how you can't trust him, especially around children. Instead of making you wary, it makes you angry. You rant to your journal about how it is gossip to discuss his conviction amongst everyone in the whole church. You rant about how he is innocent, his ex-wife set him up, the children were lying. You fight back, even though you know it isn't healthy.

In the back of a friend's car, on the way to your house, you give him an orgasm. Something you've never done before. It starts innocently, you let your hand stray to his groin and rub. You feel him "rise to the occasion," but you don't stop. It doesn't take long. Less than a few minutes, but the wet spot on his blue jeans gives you such a feeling of power. A feeling of ecstasy. You have power you didn't realize you did.

This is the day he whistles for you, like you were a dog, in front of your mother and you obey. You come to him, as though you really were nothing more than a pet. You catch a glimpse of the worry in your mother's eyes, but she never tells you to stop. She never warns you away from him. She doesn't discourage you, though sometimes you wish she would. Some days you wish she would tell you no. Partly to have an excuse to run away, partly because you want to stop, because you are starting to doubt.

One day he has a bike wreck. He cuts his upper lip, but somehow he looks even more attractive then. He talks you into a slow dance outside your aunt's house, he keeps kissing you even though it bumps his lip. You lie to yourself and say you truly love him. Maybe a part of you does, but the inner you knows this is all wrong. There have been signs along the way and you've been ignoring them. Especially the ones that hurt.

You've been together a month when you both decide to break up. Not because you want to, but because his uncle has threatened to call the police and expose your relationship. You begin cutting again. You had promised the other guy friend that you wouldn't anymore, but you can't scream. You can't cry. You have to bleed it out. You cut your upper thighs because no one will see them. You become so depressed you can't even see straight. Your mother doesn't say anything, but she worries about you.

You are only broken up a week, before he tells you that he can't do it and its too painful to be separated like that. He gallantly says he's willing to go back to jail to be with you. You love him even more. Or so you say.

You are together for another month before you discover he has been cheating on you the whole time. You have no actual proof, but you trust what you've been told. Not only that but he has gotten into some gang activity, which scares you. You don't want him to be involved with the gang, but can't stop him. You break up with him, but still cut yourself over him. He has the gang spy on you. Some days you look out the living room windows to see a black car with tinted windows sitting at the top of the driveway, just sitting.

He tries, unsuccessfully, to win you back after he gets a car of his own. He plays a stupid song about making out with a ghost. You let him kiss you, because you enjoy kissing so much. But you don't agree to go out with him again. There is retaliation from the gang toward one of your girlfriends, but none towards you.

It doesn't take long before he is caught violating his probation and he is sent back to jail. His phone isn't disconnected though and sometimes, when you are extremely lonely, you call to listen to his voice on the voice-mail. Sometimes you wish you had agreed to go out with him again. It doesn't matter though, because you find out he has a new girlfriend, a thinner and prettier girl.

It takes a car wreck and a spontaneous letter from him to make you look back on those days. You regret them with your everything. You regret the decisions you made after he was gone, decisions that you still keep hidden in the pocket of your, still over-burdened, heart. You read his letter and recognize the manipulation. You recognize it because it was there all along.

Sometimes, when you are kissing your, now, husband, you can taste the man with the cigarette breath. It always shakes you up, because you always have a reaction to it. You feel the same feelings you did then, when you were seventeen and lonely. It still shakes you up because a part of you misses the feeling of his hands on your hips as you danced in the grass. A part of you misses the power to make him aroused.

You keep the letter from him in a box, hidden in the closet, out of sight. You keep track of him on a sexual predator tracking site. You only look every couple of months, just so you know you are still safe. You are still frightened of him. Not because he could actually hurt you, physically, but because of how you will feel if you see him.

You don't love him. You never loved him. You cared about him, more than you should've. You can't forgive yourself for your foolishness though. You can't forget how you felt when he would caress you, when he would kiss you. He never loved you, but you miss him sometimes.