The first time,

It was my guitar teacher.

A Peruvian in his forties, fifties, who knew.

His hand snaked up my thigh,

Beneath my dress.

I was nine.

I told at dinner.

My father rose so quickly

The chair tipped over.

I never knew what happened

Where he went,

when the car shrieked

out of the driveway,

like a bat out of hell,

but I never went back.

Fast forward,

I was seventeen,

Away on an island

With friends of my dad’s.

The adults went out for dinner

And left me in the A-frame

With their college age son.

We wanted to watch the moon walk.

He pushed me against the floor,

Climbed on me.

His weight pressing me,

his erection stabbing through my clothes.

Our parents arrived

In the proverbial nick of time.

Keep going, the clock hands spin,

We were in the era of free love,

It seemed all love was free love

And all sex was consensual,

for a few years.

Fast forward,

Well past the times

when anything was ok.

  

Times changed,

Everyone was enmeshed in drugs,

Cocaine, Qualudes,

Everyone but me.

I never liked to lose control.

It was after a party,

The guests were gone,

The hosts asked me to stay.

I stayed, and a guy I wouldn’t pay
attention to

Who pestered me all night

Raped me while they took someone
drunk

Down to get her in a cab.

He calmly took the elevator and
left.

Weeks passed,

I felt less filthy

Until I failed to bleed.

I aborted the rapist’s twins

With my mother there for support.

I’ve never loved her more.

Needless to say,

I’ve always been adamantly
pro-choice.

Adulthood, another career,

Choosing furniture

for clients in Aspen,

Designing their second home.

The man who owned the store.

The go to for Southwest goods,

While showing me armoires

on the second floor,

Unzipped and showed me his dick.

I found another source for armoires.

On holiday in India,

Having a massage,

Hands wandered

where they didn’t belong,

And in California,

The same,

And in Arizona,

The same,

Only that time

It was an unwanted kiss.

Something about the vulnerability

Of clothes off and prone?

What is it with men?

They think we crave their filthy hands

On our bodies?

Their dirty words

In our ears?

What is it with men?

When no goes unheard,

Whispered or shouted,

It should be the same.

No means no,

In every language,

At every decibel,

From every mouth.

No means no.

Susan A., Chicago 16 October 2017