Abuse

by Nikki Sex

  This makes perfect sense. Remembering. That’s exactly what happened to me. I take a deep breath. I can no longer put off telling her what I’ve realized… what I’ve finally remembered.

  “I was afraid of him,” I say quietly, still stunned by this crushing insight.

  “I see.”

  It is an odd wound, this buried fear life has dealt me. The invisible spear inside my chest is still bleeding. It’s an injury that has never been allowed to heal. How could it? Like the naked emperor rejoicing in his new clothes, I’ve spent a lifetime denying that life draining spear.

  Minutes pass while I gather my scattered thoughts.

  Renata remains patient and motionless. I bet she’s prepared to wait all day if necessary. My heart warms from her kindness, her care and understanding.

  Finally, I explain, “The first time my father and I ‘played’ together, I think I was maybe six years old. It felt unnatural. It was too weird and gave me a sick feeling, probably anxiety. I didn’t like it and I didn’t want to do it. When I resisted, he became angry.”

  “Ah,” she says, the light of understanding in her eyes.

  “He didn’t hit me, but his face turned red. His whole body was shaking he was so enraged. I was afraid of him and put off by the strangeness of what he wanted to do. He recognized my fear, so he cruelly taunted me, telling me not to be a baby and a coward. It shamed me. He made me feel stupid and childish.”

  Her chin jerks up. “At six years old you were a baby!” Renata says, letting anger on my behalf slip through into her placid, counseling persona. “That’s such typical bullying behavior from a true asshole!”

  “Yes,” I agree. “I’d forgotten about that. It’s extraordinary to realize this after all this time. My father was so big—huge compared to me. When he became enraged, even though he’d never hit me before, I was genuinely afraid he’d hurt me. Does that make sense?”

  “Of course. Even a perfect parent can frighten small children when they become angry. Size is definitely a factor.”

  I nod and continue, my mind still focused on the past. “My father was a ‘man’s man,’ powerful, strong and brave. He liked to shoot and kill wild animals. I wanted to be just like him.”

  She studies me for a long, quiet moment. “Most little boys look up to their fathers and want to be like them.”

  I shake my head. “Not like this. Everywhere we went, he was well-known and respected, treated as a VIP—almost to the degree of celebrity. He was popular and well-loved, a born leader with natural charisma and charm. He was comparable to the 'Big Man on Campus' except this was his life.”

  Her smile is cynical and bemused. “So I’ve heard. You told me after he died, they named a local park and recreation center after him.”

  “That’s right,” I say. “At home he had his man cave, a locked den. It was a place my mother never ever went into. It was decorated with a huge bear rug, with its head and claws intact. On the walls he displayed the heads of a big buck, a moose and even a lion. Before he had children, he apparently went to Africa on safari. These were all animals he’d killed. Trophies. Visual evidence of his power over life and death.”

  Renata lowers and raises her head slightly, briefly. She’s captivated, intently following my story.

  I’m glad. I don’t think I can tell this more than once.

  My muscles tighten as I remember and re-experience the bleakness, isolation and terror of that time. “It was in the den my father played his perverted games with me… and Alex.”

  “Oh,” she says. “I see.” Empathy and compassion shine from her. Few people would understand. I can tell she does… completely. I gaze into her beautiful blue eyes. They give me courage.

  It’s as though I can see myself reflected in her soul.

  Time passes while she waits patiently for me to gather the strength to finish my story.

  Eventually, I exhale a somewhat melancholy sigh. “There’s nothing like the sight of death, no matter how subtle, for clarifying one’s mind. As a scared little kid in that room, my father might as well have been holding a loaded gun to my head.”

  “Yes,” she murmurs quietly.

  “Isn’t it amazing?” I say. “I remember admiring my father. I looked up to him and loved him, but I totally blocked out how much he scared the bejesus out of me. I don’t recall exactly what he said, other than shaming me for being a coward, but the intent was clear. If I didn’t please him, then maybe he’d kill me—just like all the animals with their heads mounted on the walls of his den.”

  Her gaze locks on mine, her features soften.

  This one eternal moment is intimate, powerful and profound.

  “I understand perfectly,” she says. “Whether an individual is conscious of it or not, fear is always a common denominator—it’s the groundwork for abuse.”

  I nod my agreement because I can see that now.

  It’s after 10 p.m. With the windows shut, I can’t hear a sound, not even our breathing. It feels as though we’re the only ones on Earth. The silence surrounds us comfortingly, like a thick warm blanket in a cold room. In this complete quiet, after everything I’ve said, our bond feels deep, unbreakable… intense.

  I’ve bared my soul and she ‘gets’ it. She gets me.

  Fear of death can drive an individual to incredible lengths. Renata knows this kind of terror intimately—too intimately. She appreciates this fully.

  Like me, she’s been there.

  Chapter 12.

  “Delusions, too, die hard. Forgetting pain is convenient, remembering it... agonizing. But recovering the truth is worth the suffering…”

  — Cheshire Cat, Alice in Wonderland.

  ~~~

  Grant Wilkinson

  “You asked me what I was afraid of, and I honestly didn’t know. I guess my unconscious mind answered the question for me. I didn’t want to remember. Like the woman who genuinely believed she had a perfect childhood, I preferred to think my father loved me. I grabbed hold of that lie as if it were life or death, like hanging by my fingernails to the edge of a cliff.”

  She shrugs. “We’ll never know what he was thinking. Whether your father loved you or not is a question for another day. What’s important now is what you think. Realizing all of this, how does that make you feel?”

  “It explains so many things, but specifically my fear of blow jobs. They remind me of the dread I felt of my father. That was the start, you know? Having his mouth on me was the very beginning of my abuse. He made it a game. He made me like it. It was also when I made my earliest decision on the subject.”

  “What decision?”

  “To do as my father says, because otherwise he might kill me,” I say with a bitter yet slightly hysterical chuckle.

  Renata smiles, probably because I’m laughing—even though it isn’t remotely humorous. I think my laugh is one of rejection and disbelief. Why wouldn’t a child be frightened of a known killer, so much bigger and stronger than themselves? Particularly when there’s a potent aura of violence and guns around him.

  “I made the exact same decision very early on myself,” she says.

  I nod. “As I’ve said before, we’re quite a pair. I think you had a far worse childhood than I did, and you think the same thing about me. Yet, we have much more in common than I thought. It turns out we were both terrified of our fathers.”

  “So true,” she agrees, “but it’s not really surprising. Abuse survivors have loads in common regardless of the nature of their abuse; nightmares, guilt, anger, shame, depression, self-hate, self-harm and addiction issues for a start. Discovering you were afraid of your father is a fantastic realization. Is there anything else you want to tell me about it?”

  I draw in a deep, steadying breath. “My father’s games became fun as time went on. It became normal and I received pleasure, praise and attention from him that I equated with love. That’s what I remember. But you know what? It’s good to realize just how evil my father was. In my mind, I wanted him to
be perfect. It seemed so much easier to believe I was the one to blame, that I was the monster, not him. Yet it’s the height of wickedness to scare a child into committing sexual perversions.”

  “Abuse of every kind is wicked.”

  “My father controlled me with fear and love, two extremely powerful forces,” I murmur, blowing out a breath.

  “What happened to you wasn’t your fault,” she says, as she’s told me many times before. “Against a man like your father, no child would’ve stood a chance.”

  Renata and I walk to the kitchen, make ourselves another warm drink and return to my bedroom, all the while discussing my new insights, at length.

  “For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted oral sex,” I explain, “but I also didn’t want oral sex in equal measure. The mere thought of it could trigger extreme anxiety, enough to quell my arousal. However, until tonight, I'd never known my introduction to the subject involved a childhood terror of being killed and mounted on the wall of my father’s den!”

  “Yeah, that sounds pretty scary.”

  “It was,” I say, “I took up hunting myself as time went on. It was a choice, I guess. I felt safer being the one behind the gun and doing the shooting.”

  She nods. “Genuine fear of death of oneself or of a loved one is the basis of PTSD.”

  “As a kid, I remember having nightmares of people trying to kill me,” I say, slanting her a self-conscious look. “I also wet my bed for years. It was embarrassing.”

  “Night terrors and bed wetting are classic signs of severe psychic disturbance in a child,” she says.

  “You got that right.” I smile, feeling so much better about everything. “It seems an unconscious fear of death was the key to my oral sex hang-ups. I thought it was just the shame, disgust and guilt I associated with any sexual act, even though this felt way more extreme. It was fear that held me back.”

  “Oh?” Renata murmurs, encouraging me to continue.

  “It’s difficult to admit,” I say as I cringe, “a very shameful truth, but I learned to enjoy both giving and receiving oral sex with my… abuser. I liked it. A lot.”

  “Perfectly natural,” she remarks. “Psychology! Biology! Children want to please adults, they need love and attention. And as terrible as it is, even little boys get hard and feel good when their penises are fondled.”

  “True,” I agree. “Yet after our ‘games’ stopped, instead of pleasure, the whole idea of sex became a source of pain. Isn’t that strange?”

  She shrugs. “Your father may have stopped his abuse, but the negative associations he left you with never went away.”

  I nod.

  “By the way,” she adds, “I’m impressed with your bravery. You seem quite comfortable discussing this subject openly. It can’t be easy.”

  I snort. “André made me share exact details of what my father did with me—at length. Now when I see my story from his point of view, I understand why he was able to be so calm during my confessions. He saw me as a child being expertly groomed for abuse, while, I viewed myself as a monster and a pervert. André didn’t see that at all. Still, sometimes the truth can be incredibly difficult to face.”

  “I can hear André now,” Renata says. ‘The truth—oui, oui! It can be oh-so painful,’ she says, imitating André’s French accent and mannerisms while giving me a Gaelic shrug of philosophical resignation. She raises both hands, palms up. ‘And yet, it is still the truth, n’est-ce-pas?’

  Her impersonation is so perfect, it’s like having André right here with us. We break into sidesplitting laughter, easing the tension that’s been building.

  It’s been quite a journey. As a child, I lived the illusion of having the perfect father. I blocked out what I couldn’t face—I was overawed and afraid of him. This hidden terror is now banished. I’m no longer crippled by my once forgotten fear.

  Remembering can be agony, but facing the truth is worth the pain.

  What price can one place on the freedom of one’s mind, heart and soul?

  A significant part of my past has been unearthed and examined. This may not be the last puzzle piece to fall into place, but it’s certainly a significant piece. It explains so much.

  Emotionally, I’m exhausted, but I feel so much lighter with that oppressive weight lifted and gone. Happy. Cleansed. Alive.

  For years my only goal was to ease my pain, to attain a state where life was bearable. I never imagined I could be content, much less happy. It was a modest goal, to hope that someday my time spent on this Earth was ‘OK.’

  Just now, I’m happy. Joyously happy. Every day is a gift.

  Chapter 13.

  “The more we trust, the farther we are able to venture.”

  ― Esther Perel

  ~~~

  Grant Wilkinson

  “I think we both need some sleep,” Renata says with a cheeky grin on her face. “And I know exactly how to help you to conk out,” she adds mischievously, clearly referring to mad, passionate, sheet-tearing sex.

  A smile tugs my lips. “Is that right?”

  “Yep.” She stands up, moving to position herself before me. Her bathrobe drops to the floor.

  My eyes trail from that fallen robe upwards, admiring her long, supple legs, the wonderful feminine shape of her soft thighs and hips, her curvy figure, full breasts. Her brows arch mischievously.

  Her smile takes my breath away.

  I’m definitely the luckiest guy in the whole world.

  To my surprise, she places her soft hands on my knees and parts my legs. In one graceful movement, she kneels between my thighs once more.

  Shit. Of course she wants to give me a blow job. Why didn’t I expect that? Despite my reservations, my cock is hard and ready, jutting out in front of me.

  “Want to try this oral sex thing again?” she asks. When her gaze lights on my stiffening erection, she smiles and says, “Oh, I see that you do.” She arches a playful brow and purses her mouth. “Tell me, tough guy. Do you want to come in my mouth?”

  My swollen shaft twitches as I run a hand through my hair, considering her offer. Can I do it? I’ve always wanted to. The idea of having Renata’s thick, luscious lips around my cock makes my breath quicken and my pulse race—in a good way for a change.

  I inhale deeply. “Would that be all right?” I ask. “I’ve fantasized about having a woman go down on me for years. It terrified me and captivated me, but never once did I try to act out the dream.”

  “Mmm. Years, eh?” She waggles her eyebrows. “I’m all about fulfilling fantasies.”

  I give her a tight smile. “Well then…” I swallow uneasily, “hell yeah.”

  Yet, even though my dick is hard and I want to do this, I find myself thinking too much. Once I get into self-conscious mode I’m screwed. What do I do? This is awkward. I feel uncomfortable and still have my doubts.

  What if I can’t climax?

  With those few thoughts the stiffness of my hard-on lessens considerably.

  Ever aware of my moods, she tilts her head, studying my face. Conscious of my misgivings, she stands up, and returns to sit beside me on the bed.

  Neither of us say a word.

  Renata knows me so well. We don’t need to speak in order to fully understand each other.

  Our eyes lock. What starts as a look of acceptance, companionship and understanding leaps into raw lust. Her eyes grow large, her pupils darken.

  Once again, the air virtually sizzles between us. Seconds pass—or a minute. Or an eternity. Just like that, my entire body is fully primed and ready for her. Yet, this isn’t only about sex. This is an awareness, a joining that engages my heart and fires my soul.

  “Grant,” she whispers quietly, suddenly reverent, as if she’s in a church.

  The soft, musical sound of her voice pleasurably tightens my chest. I hear my name on her lips, but with that one word she’s telling me, Hey, it’s OK. I understand. I need you and I want you so much.

  My lungs and throat seize. My
breath hitches. “Renata,” I whisper back.

  We come together in a soft, intimate kiss. I feel her chest rise against me as she inhales a deep breath. As much as I long to fall on her with animal-lust, to take her and ravage her, I don’t.

  This moment of magic seems profound.

  To my surprise, my mind conjures a memory, a time in the forest when I witnessed a mother deer and her white spotted fawn. Maybe ten or eleven years old, on the cusp of manhood. Alone and upset, I’d been out walking.

  I could no longer pretend my relationship with my father was normal. Reality had been seeping in. Deep inside, I’d known it. Hate, fear, shame—I’d been captured by a tumult of ugly, unwanted emotions.

  The moment I’d seen that deer and her fawn, I’d gaped in astonishment. Suddenly, I saw the forest glade as it was—not as an obstacle to be trudged through or to escape into, not as a killing ground for my father on his hunt, but as a tiny Eden.

  The trees rose majestically, their boughs giving shelter to mother and child. A small creek burbled nearby. Running water must be what brought them here, a part of me realized. But most of my thoughts were caught up in the perfection of the moment before me.

  Unconditional love.

  The beauty and utter simplicity of that vision took my breath away. All of my angst and torment had instantly disappeared.

  I knew I would never forget this perfect moment.

  Hate couldn’t live there.

  Not when surrounded by so much good.

  I remember becoming alive with awe and wonder. Innocence. The sense of rightness. The magical perfection of the natural world.

  For me, Renata is exactly like that unspoiled moment. I need her. She calms the fear and rage inside of me. She teases me out of my moods. She heals me. Transforms me. Completes me… loves me.

  “Mmm,” she moans, deep and long, enjoying our loving, sensual kiss.

  I groan with need.