Spindle (it just doesn’t mean what you think it means)

He
asked if
he
could come over.
He
was old enough to be
my
father.
He
asked if
he
could show
me
something.
I
told
him
yes.
I
was naive.
He
was hungry for it. That much,
I
knew.
I
liked the attention until we were alone together. Until
he
said
he
wanted to teach
me.
Until the knot of the necktie tightened around
my
wrists. Until
he
said that it was about mastering fear and doing what
he
said, because
he
would know best, and
I
would like it and
he
would take care of
me.
He
put
me
on
my
back, and held
my
fists over
my
head.
When
I
brought them down
he
would force them back up.
He
was huge. Stronger than
me.
Older than
me,
and most importantly,
I
thought
he
was more powerful than
me.
He
spread
my
thighs and put
his
face between them.
He
sounded like a hungry animal.
He
made
me
come — and that made
me
think
I
wanted it. Made
me
think
I
was broken. Made
me
think
I
deserved it.
I
was queasy. It was an orgasm, but confusing.
I
was wet but shaking, and not with desire.
I
didn’t know how to say no once
I
had already said yes.
I
got quiet.
I
was afraid.
I
did everything
I
could to make sure
he
finished and left, told
him
I
didn’t want to lie to
his
wife, and once
he
was gone,
I
made a single phone call.
You
probably don’t even remember the details but
you
probably saved
my
life.
I
had decided then that because
I
was so obviously
self-
destructive, that there must be something wrong with
me
and if
you
hadn’t named him as wrong and promised
me
I
was all right
I
would never have managed to climb back out of that bathtub and into
your
arms.

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