First Time.

The first time I met my rapist, he told me that the first time he took Viagra, he was expecting a girl.

He waited and waited, and when there was no sign of her coming, he began to touch himself—over and over—jacking off, moaning, replaying her video, calling her name, stroking his penis until it started to peel.

The first time I met my rapist, I was lonely. He spoke to me in sweet, silent whispers, held my hands, and told me he was a sanctuary—that he would do more for me than anyone could.

The first time I met my rapist, he was sad. He said I was all he had. He held my hands and told me never to leave him.

The first time I was alone with my rapist, he slid his hands into my pants and asked if I liked it. He kissed me and told me how beautiful I was. I told him it sounded familiar—like the things I was taught in school, like the ones my mother tugged my ears to listen to. He laughed and called it “decolonization.” He said my mother and Sunday school teachers were selfish—they wouldn’t want me to enjoy what they had.

So, the day I brought him food and saw the empty Viagra tablets, I felt a fear I didn’t recognize. My instincts screamed. I rushed to the door, but not faster than him.

When he was done — like i was my mechanic —i fixed myself.  His words were stern  "welcome to adulthood"

It’s been 14 years. Maybe that’s why men only find shelter in me when there is chaos but never want me for themselves.

Maybe his spit on my clit cleansed the ability of men to choose me, to want me. Maybe they still see the mark on my neck. Maybe they hear my defenses. Maybe they still hear me scream.

Stop, Cousin