Traumatised: Confessions of a Scared Little Girl in a Woman’s Body
Chapter 2: Policeman
Call it callow, but I had always envisioned losing my virginity with Hollywood romanticism. Well, not always, more like late at night when I had Chris Brown or Usher on repeat.
I was in no rush to do it, but I knew how I wanted it to unfold.
It’d be with the love of my life, the room would be dimly lit and outfitted with luxurious rose petals, Breezy’s Take You Down or No Bullshit would serve as the soundtrack, and my man would make the sweetest love to me after we indulged in mind-blowing foreplay.
This naive fantasy is deceased as I watch Ryan’s gold chain sway across his bulky, perspiring chest. He’s whining vigorously inside me like there’s no tomorrow. My body rocks to and fro but I’m mute and expressionless. His penis feels embittered and misfitting. This is some whack, overrated, disconnected and irritable shit. Usher and Breezy lied.
March, 2010
I didn’t know Jesus attended sporting events.
I touch my friend to make sure I’m not hallucinating. I was, after all, dehydrated after hours of parading in the sun at the National Stadium in Kingston, where the annual ISSA/GraceKennedy Boys and Girls’ Championships was being held.
“Yes, he’s waving at you,” she confirmed.
He looked like he had just walked off the set of The Passion of the Christ. He was stunningly-beautiful, and for whatever reason, he noticed little 15-year-old me.
I was standing among Kingston College supporters in the Bleachers section when our eyes made four. He looked of Persian descent, had the most enrapturing eyes, and wore a diamond stud earring with a sparkle that rivalled his immaculate teeth. He made me laugh as he tried to speak to me from the Grandstand. The event was culminating and the overwhelming noise hindered our verbal communication, so he resorted to hand gestures to give me his phone number.
Zale, that was his name. He was 27, a national athlete with uptown roots, and a coach at a popular high school. It didn’t take long for us to meet again. The first time — and what feels like every other time — was a disaster.
My relationship with my mother had grown estranged and volcanic at that time. I resented her for neglecting me in her search for love, which left me taking care of the household and my brother when she slept out at night. Now that she was a Christian, I felt like she expected me to forget her indiscretions under the premise of people being imperfect. Had my mom written this, she’d say I was acting out and grossly ill-mannered. I probably was, but I was also tired of picking up the slack, only to be expected to smile and move on because she’d found God. So, I loved being out of the house. I’d get home from school, change, then head to my best friend’s house where I’d stay for hours until nightfall.
Sometimes we would tour the community and neighbouring ones, other times we’d go window-shopping. Whenever my mom asked where I was, I’d say, “With Andrica.” Other times I’d be at church with the ‘new family’. I’d use either as my alibi whenever I spent time with Zale. He knew I was a virgin and I think he was fascinated by that. During my first visit to his Barbican abode, we sat on the opposite ends of the bed as he schooled me.
“It’s never a good experience having sex with a virgin,” he claimed. “The woman is usually apprehensive, and it’s extra work for a man to help her through those emotions. It’s a hassle and takes away from the experience. No man wants to have sex with a virgin. You should get rid of it as soon as you can.”
I had no input, I had no experience to decipher if it was true or not. I knew no more than what the church and secular music had told me. The church said the body is the temple of God so I should save myself until marriage, and secular music told me to find a lovemaker who could make it last beyond one minute. Now Zale was telling me virgins are undesirable and extra work.
He never tried to have sex with me during our time together. He did, however, dry-hump me. I think he was waiting until I reached the age of consent, but I wasn’t going to give myself to him unless he left his girlfriend. She lived overseas, was light-skinned with long, straight hair, and surely had more money and freedom than I did. He said they were in a bad place, but I recognised that line from novels and books.
He started calling less when he realised I wasn’t budging. Soon enough, summer came around, so too did his girlfriend and their unborn child.
August, 2010
It was another dull day when my friend and I decided to take our usual stroll on the nearby highway.
I was wearing a black wife beater, baggy brown capris, and cheap flip flops. My hair was crazy but I didn’t care. I wasn’t trying to pursue or be pursued, then Ryan’s car stopped.
“He’s honking at you,” my friend said as I continued walking.
Usually I’d ignore such tacky tactics, but she kept nagging me to speak to him. I obliged.
“What?” I asked after making my way to the brown Honda Accord. He looked old, wore ridiculous aviator glasses and had no sense of style.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, sticking out an ID which showed his name and occupation. He was a detective, I wasn’t impressed.
After listening to him compliment my raggedy ass, he asked for my number. My friend was nudging me again. I gave it to him. Before I had reached my house, he phoned. He asked standard questions like my age, who I lived with and where I went to school. He didn’t excite me like Zale did. He was something to do when there was nothing to do.
Within days we’d meet at the same spot he had met me. We never spoke much, nothing deep anyway. I never felt like I could be myself around him. I was reserved and careful about how I portrayed myself.
He first took me to a beach spot by Palisadoes. It was deserted, as if he’d been there often enough to know no one would be there. He hugged and kissed me while we were there. On our way back, he stopped on the side of the road behind a minibus. I thought he was going to speak to the driver, you know, cop stuff. But instead, I felt my seat recline and him climbing atop me. He was trying to have sex with me and I told him I didn’t want to. It took more than one declaration for it to stick and he finally got off.
When I got home, he called to apologise for his actions, adding I’m just “so attractive” that he couldn’t help himself. He said he would never hurt me because he loves me — his theme song. Ryan knew I was a virgin, but clearly had no issues putting his police, supposedly-law-enforcing penis inside underaged me. Though I felt violated, I couldn’t shake Zale’s voice in my head, telling me how much virgins were a hassle.
Ryan asked to see me again, and the desire to not be in my tumultuous household led me to his car. I thought it was going to be a regular drive-out, but we eventually pulled up to a restaurant somewhere in St Thomas and he told me to stay in the car. I thought he was collecting food or something, but then he returned and turned off the engine.
“Come,” he instructed.
I didn’t know where I was but it was hella far from my home, so, I obliged. We stepped in and the receptionist pointed to a staircase. The staircase led to a suite of rooms and that was when I realised it was a motel. I was really scared, but remembered his recent impassioned apology which offered some comfort.
“You know I love you, I’d never do anything to hurt you,” his signature lines chimed as he closed the door.
I felt deceived. He didn’t tell me where we were going and he took me far away from the familiar. I was wearing the same wife beater he had met me in a week prior, with rhinestone denim shorts. He removed his aviator glasses, placed his gun on the night table, and came over to me. He started kissing me. I didn’t want to do anything, but I didn’t say anything. It’s the most foolish I’ve ever felt in my life. I had failed to remember that I had a voice and that I could have used it to say no. But I also heard Zale telling me how I needed to get rid of it.
After a few dry kisses he removed my blouse, then my shorts and underwear. That was it for the fairytale foreplay I had night-dreamed about. I saw he was about to penetrate me and told him to use protection. I felt so exposed, cheap and stupid as I watched him put on the condom. He wasn’t slow or gentle in entering me, and I bawled.
“I can be gentle, see,” he tried slower strokes. I hated his smile. His roundness and smirk reminded me of Robert. He hadn’t been inside me more than three minutes when I felt a difference. I looked down and saw that the condom was removed.
“What the fuck?!” I snapped, jumping up and getting off the bed.
“Oh, I didn’t realise it came off,” this Robert motherfucker said.
“I want to go home,” I insisted.
“I’ll put it back on,” he said, approaching me.
I ran to the bathroom and locked the door, reiterating that I wanted to go home. He told me he’d take me home, and I hurriedly got dressed and stood by the door until he was ready.
On the way back he opened his glove compartment and I saw a thick book about criminal law. He realised that I had noticed.
“I’m studying criminal law at UTECH,” he quenched my curiosity while amplifying my clown status. Not only had this 27-year-old detective taken my virginity, the criminal law student also knowingly committed statutory rape. I don’t know if he intentionally opened the compartment for me to see the book as to send some message that he had outsmarted me, but I knew from that moment I would never see this man again.
“I thought you said you were a virgin?” he interrupted my thoughts. “There was no blood.”
As if I didn’t feel low enough for giving myself to this con man, he was now invalidating my virginity because of a lack of blood. His smartass should have studied medicine, and my dumbass should have just waited for Zale.
A few days had passed when I started itching. My discharge had changed too and I was worried that Ryan had given me an STD. He had phoned and texted me since the bloodless day, but I was ignoring him. The change in my body concerned me and I couldn’t tell my mom, certainly not my friends, so I felt compelled to call Ryan and tell him about it.
“Are you trying to say I gave you something? For all I know you were having sex with other guys.”
I got emotional. The man who “loved” me was suddenly cold and dismissive. He stopped answering my calls and texts from that day, and I was left swollen and endlessly-itching. I had no money to go to the doctor, and if I went at 15, my mom would find out and kill me. Ryan would kill me.
I later met an older man, Lance, who I confided in about my predicament. He asked for Ryan’s number, adamant that he should pay for my medical expenses. I didn’t think about it at the time, I was desperate and gave him Ryan’s number. All I know is, the next day as my friends and I were exiting the school grounds, I saw Ryan sitting in his car outside the school gate. He saw me, shot me a stare and drove away. My friends noticed and asked if I knew him, I told them some bullshit story and we continued walking. I was terrified, but not as frightened as I was when we saw him again up the road. I think the whole thing was a scare tactic to let me know I should leave him alone. I also believe had I not been walking with my friends, I wouldn’t be alive today.
Lance was no different from Ryan. He said he’d give me money to get checked out if I had sex with him. I cut him off and watched time fly. I turned 16, still itching like a bitch. I was in such a dark place. I couldn’t fathom how the same girl who witnessed her father use her mother for sex, turned around and gave herself to a Robert at 15.
I was blessed to have met Adam, a church leader and teacher who I became close with. I told him about everything and he accompanied me to the doctor and covered all the costs.
I had a yeast infection; it was my first and I was relieved it wasn’t an STD. Of course, Adam gave me a lecture, but he never made me feel less than, cheap or stupid because of my actions. Most importantly, he wasn’t a creep.
I appreciated Adam’s presence in my life. He kept me off the streets and away from strolls. I’d leave school and go to his workplace and sit in his classes until he was finished. He’d buy us food afterwards then walk me home.
But Adam couldn’t accompany me everywhere, neither could he protect me from every man.
Little did I know there was a predator who’d been watching me all along. He was my uncle, and he was ready to strike.
