No words, just bad memories

This is going to be the hardest thing I have ever written about.  It is not for the squeamish.  In August of this year (2016), I got back some bad memories that I would rather have not gotten back.  I had repressed them, and can’t believe they ever happened, but they did.  I am ready to talk about them now.

About a year after I left the church and went hardcore into the gay lifestyle, someone I was seeing tried to rape me.  His name was Paul.  Normally I don’t use real names, but in this case I don’t think he would complain much, if he is still alive.  Am I doing this out of some petty revenge?  Yes.

I had been together with him a few times sexually.  Already I was getting tired of the gay life, and wanted to end it.  On the night he attacked me, we were already in bed and undressed.  We made out for a few minutes, but I wasn’t in the mood.  I told him that I was sorry, but I couldn’t.  He thought I was joking.

He began tickling me, knowing I was very ticklish, and would probably relent.  I giggled and squirmed.  He took this opportunity to get on top of me and kiss me.  I told him no.  He shoved his  tongue down my throat.  I let him kiss me for about a minute more when I stopped him and said no again.

He asked what was wrong, not getting off me.  I told him that I wasn’t in the mood.

“Sure you are.” he said.

“No I’m not.” I said, trying to push him off.

He began tickling me again.  I squirmed and rolled over on my side.  He turned me over the rest of the way and spread my legs.  I could feel his erect penis pressing against my exposed buttocks.  I suddenly knew what was about to happen.  I slid out from under him and onto the floor.  Maybe he thought I was being playful.  He jumped off the bed and began kissing me again.  I shoved him away.

He seemed taken back, almost as if was surprised.  He tried to kiss me again.  I pushed him away again.

“What is your deal?” he said with a raised voice.  He tried kissing me again.  This time I shoved him away hard.  He lunged at me, knocking me over.  He grabbed my legs and began pushing them up against my chest.  I grabbed him in a headlock and slung him off me and against the wall.  He tackled me again and we began brawling, naked on the floor.  It must have lasted just a few minutes, but it ended up with me decking him in the face.  My hand came away bloody.

He was holding his left hand to his mouth.  Blood was dribbling between his fingers and down his arm.  He pulled his hand away from his mouth, and revealed a massive bloody mess.  One of his lower front teeth was missing.  I ejaculated.

“What the hell?”  He shouted.  He got up and began scrounging around for his clothes.  He got on his pants, throwing his shirt over his shoulder.  Blood was running down his chest and had spattered all across the bedroom carpet.  “I don’t need this shit!”

“I’m sorry,” I pleaded.  He got on his shoes without his socks and stormed out of my apartment, trailing droplets of blood everywhere.  It looked like someone had been murdered.  I like to have never gotten all the blood up.

He slammed the door, leaving me sitting on the floor, naked.

I felt guilty.  I looked at the blood on my hand wondering if it was his or mine.  Maybe it was both.  I had successfully fought off someone who was trying to take advantage of me.  So why did I feel like shit?  Why had I seemingly enjoyed it?  What was wrong with me?  Was I a pervert?  Did I find somthing new to be excited about?  I looked at my mess on the floor, and threw up.

I went to the bathroom and threw up again.  After I was finished, I looked in the mirror.  My right hand was covered in drying blood.  It had run down my arm and was already starting there too.  I washed it off and examined the damage.  My knuckles had been skinned, but there was no real damage.

I got dressed and started to clean up all the mess that had made all across my bedroom:  the blood, the vomit, the…

Paul had left his underwear behind.  I threw it away.  I scrubbed his blood out of the carpet in the apartment with a washcloth, and mopped the kitchen floor with bleach.  I rinsed out the cloth and cleaned up the other messes.  I was officially a sicko pervert, who got his jollies by committing violence.  What was wrong with me?

The next day I began searching for a new apartment.  A friend of mine (who was gay also) was looking to move as well. We found a small house and took in another friend who was going through a divorce.  As I was moving the last of my furniture out of the bedroom, I found Paul’s tooth on the floor.  I threw it away.

Paul saw me moving out and tried to apologize.  I didn’t say much, as I was busy with the move and I was still pissed at what he tried to do, and that I had apparently enjoyed it.  He asked if I was going to call him.  I said I would think about it, but never did.

I’m not ticklish anymore.


10 thoughts on “No words, just bad memories

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s