Ben and I had set up a daily routine. He drove me home from our school in his dad’s tan pontanaic sedan. On the back sported an anti-Al Gore bumper sticker-8 YEARS IS ENOUGH! (This was a year after the 2000 presidential election). As soon as we parked in front of my house, Ben and I would make a run for it. It was more of a mind set than actually running. I didn’t want my dad to engage in any conversations with Ben. I also knew he was going to ask me to watch my two little brothers, who were 4 and 5 years old, so my dad could leave and get his daily blow job(s). It was a 50/50 gamble. On bad days, nope. We were subject to my dad’s corny jokes and other communist manifesto quotes. Ben would politely laugh and nod. I wondered what was going on in Ben’s head during these times, but I was too embarrassed to ask. Once my dad got his high off of irritating the young, he’d say… “Okay. Watch the kids for a minute. I’ll be right back.”
But on good days, I would be left alone in my bedroom with my boyfriend. Feeling like a regular teenager. Well, almost. Ben and I rarely talked. I suppose we didn’t have that much to say to each other, yet there was so much to say. We were both misfits and virgins and angry and sad. I had a quiet understanding for Ben’s obsession with violence. At the same time, I think he understood the pain from my family and house…to a degree. Any degree felt like love, and love was what I longed for.
We displayed our weirdness differently, but we were similar. We were equally terrified to talk, so we didn’t. Instead, he expressed himself physically, but I was even terrified of that. Of course I didn’t say no. I was never the type of girl to say no to things. Unfortunately four months in, Ben created a bad habit of aggressively fingering me….which caused me to create a bad habit of faking an orgasm in order for him to stop. He was basically punching my vagina, and I hated it. I’d seen enough porn in my childhood to know what an orgasm sounded like. Plus, I was studying to be an actress. So, the tools were there. I realized I was giving him the wrong signal by rewarding him with my phony moans, but what else was I suppose to do? My screams were not of pleasure, but a desperate howl for him to stop.
“Did you cum?” Ben asked.
“Yeah, I did.” I said, looking into his green, gullible eyes.
The relief of the finger-banging being over was as close to an orgasm as I was going to get. I didn’t want Ben to think there was anything wrong with me. Weren’t girls suppose to like it hard and fast? I assumed my vagina was inept, and I needed to keep that a secret. He’d then pull out his 17 year old dick, and we’d take turns jerking him off til he came. He was light years better at it than me. I felt intimidated. My wrists were weak. There was no way my hand could go that fast.
Sexual behavior, terror, and lies were the foundation of our communication. But that’s normal, right?