After William rushed to cuddle his true love, his abandonment of me to fend for myself, my being trapped behind her car, his ignoring me as he moved her Mercedes, the caught in the act event slowly boiled into an identity crisis which swept over my perception of who I was.
My comparing him to a potato chip lover failed to cure hurt feelings. His lover's shoe was a poisoned dart. The venom where it hit first inflicted shoulder pain but then shifted to my heart and mind. Her, "Bitch, you, you fucking whore," curse echoed within. It all raised the question.
Does anyone love me?
Hubby was attracted to me because I was the innocent, young, exotic Oriental girl next door; inscrutable as he often said. Once married he wanted to trade me, a sex chip to bargain for other women by swinging. Now he’s in love with his business.
Gary? How many girls did he take to Alviso’s train tracks? He was too clever and adept. He brought enough girls to know the time the train came. I wasn’t his different, mysterious, beautiful girl, just his next seduction which went amiss.
Edward changed me, changed me into his Asian fetish sex doll. He only loved his doll creation which he decorated for his sexual whims to play games with. Finding another, he ignored my email birthday greeting. I was his discarded Christmas tree. His true love was his profession and the Asian dolls he created.
Enrico was a turf raider, me his conquest of Asia. He wanted to invade and leave his mark on my husband's property. I was just a piece of ass, rustled and rebranded with his eight-inch branding iron. His pleas when I left, were just attempts to be able to dump me first.
Daryl was interested in art, my body art, not me. We were never close, never talked about love. In fact, we never talked. His love was pottery, pot and hippy friends. I wasn’t even worthy of jealousy. He left untroubled for a pot smoker, surprised I even cared.
Elliot wanted me as a trophy to hang on his seduction pad wall, the Asian doe. He got confused in his quest, unsure he might be losing his touch. He tried to capture me with his marriage proposal. He’d probably would have changed his mind if I’d agreed. Unable to capture me, he reverted to his regular prey, unperturbed. His marriage proposal was a sham to make me another of his hens, like others in his flock, clucking, if selected for his booty call. Afterward, he only called to get my things out of the apartment as he cleaned out the nest for another.
William wanted me simply as weekly sex relief, an easy lay, no commitment, abandoned without a thought when caught, just his discarded Oriental whore.
They wanted sex, not me. Like Mom in Hawaii, they were white men who sexed me, the Asian whore.
I continued mulling over my life and convinced myself, what was not true, was. I was a bitch, whore, worthless, good only for sexing and believed it.
I'm no different than the Asian bar girls dancing naked on a stage, selected by number. My stage is different but like them, I'm called by a number, my phone number. No, they dance for survival, facing the horror of what they must do to survive. Me, I dance because I want on the stage. That's who I am, a dancing whore on the meat market stage.
Convincing myself I was just a sex object, my esteem plummeted to my late teenage years. At least then I had innocence. My esteem reached its nadir.
William’s love is right; I’m a bitch whore, used for screwing then dumped. No man loves me, none ever did.
I sobbed my revised history alone and drank to numb the pain of her virulent, poisoned dart. I got a prescription for sleep, another for anxiety. I drifted into the numbness of drugs.
After a week of wallowing in worthlessness, Paul called at the office. He told me to meet him at Jeeper's in Spanaway, a country-western bar catering to the rowdy, big wheel truck crowd. I told him I’d think about it. He replied there was nothing to think about, to meet him at eight and hung up.
In the evening alone, my husband gone again, drinking wine, numb with prescription drugs, watching banal TV images flicker, thinking of life, a life where no one loved me, at 7:30, I left to meet Paul, to learn who this bold young man was.
He obviously wants to sex me like the others, what’s the difference now?
Meeting at Jeeper's was appropriate. It fit my Tropicana Village roots. Like Erica, I was a country-western bar fly, meeting a young Alpha male.
That’s why Erica and I got along so well; we are alike despite my uppity pretenses.
When I entered, line dancing was going on.
He sat at the bar watching the dancers with a mug of beer and a whiskey chaser. He either had forgotten about me or didn’t care if I came or not, an attitude appropriate for my renewed status. When I climbed the empty barstool next to him, he turned, smiled but said nothing as to say, "I knew you’d come, bitch."
I ordered a gin and tonic and accepted the cheap bar brand proffered, appropriate for my revised self-image. He told the bartender to make it a double as if to say, "Get the bitch drunk."
With loud twanging music framing our relationship, I didn't protest. Instead, I gulped it down while we looked at the line dancers to enter the alcoholic haze world. The place, except for the line dancing, reminded me of my one-night stand with Erica. I accepted it would end similarly. As I finished my second drink, he looked at me, drained the last of his beer, chugged the chaser and said, "Pay the tab, we're leaving."
I put thirty dollars on the bar and followed him out. The parking lot was fresh air from the cigarette smoke which hung in the bar and was now in my hair. I walked to my car, him next to me. I saw his big wheel pickup truck a couple of rows away. At my car, I asked, "Where’re we going?"
He grunted, "My place, you drive."
Afraid to let him in the car I told him.
"No, I'll follow you."
He shrugged as if to say, "Okay bitch," walked to his truck and waited until I pulled up behind. He was making me nervous despite my numb alcoholic and drug confidence level. I changed my mind and decided to follow a short distance; pretend I got lost and drive home. Instead, he went three blocks, took a turn right, parked in front of a house, got out and went to my car door. I kept the doors locked, rolled down the window and said, "I'm sorry, I've got to go back home."
"Lady, you want me. Don't play hard to get. Get out of the car."
Maybe it was prescription drugs, the earlier wine, the double gin, and tonics, maybe I was afraid of a scene but it was mostly my depreciated self-image. I did as he said, got out and stood next to the car. He smiled, picked me up and carried me into the house. I was his, his object to sex.
His house was ramshackle reflecting his persona. He carried me directly to his bedroom in his powerful arms. I was helpless. Standing me next to his unmade bed, I panicked. No one knew where I was and none were likely to remember my leaving the bar with him. I turned to him, placatingly, "Let me cook you something to eat."
As soon as said, I knew how stupid it sounded. Laughing he said, "You're right, I'm starved. You're the meat. Take your clothes off."
The best way to handle my predicament was to relent, let him claim his notch and scramble home as soon as he finished. Vixen scared too, wasn't meowing. I stood motionless to avoid antagonizing him. My inaction instead did.
He reached behind me and pulled my head by the hair to him, kissed me hard, pushed me back, grabbed the front of my blouse and ripped it open, the buttons popped off. He pulled the blouse down from my shoulders and entangled my arms with the sleeves. My stunned thought was he ruined an expensive blouse.
With arms entrapped and bra exposed, he again reached behind, grabbed the bra straps and instead of unfastening them, pulled them apart, bending the tie hooks and pulled the shoulder straps down to join the blouse arms.
Seeing me alarmed, he smiled at me to calm me.
"Hey, babe, it's okay. I'm sorry. I'm in a hurry, cause, I want you. I wanted you since I saw your sweet ass. You don't have to stay. You can leave. I'm sorry I tore open your shirt. Please, I'm not like you, sophisticated. Excuse me, I'm clumsy."
Thinking if I tried to walk out half exposed with my arms entangled, he might switch to enraged, I decided it better to acquiesce. Untangling my arms, I removed my blouse, bra and shoes then pulled my skirt and panty down and stood silent before him, awaiting his next move. He picked me up, plopped me on the bed, and stripped while I watched those muscular arms which attracted my fantasy. His penis was straight out. At least he wasn't lying about wanting me.
He refused the proffered condom. On the bed, he pushed my legs apart, raised my pelvis with one hand under my buttocks, jammed his penis in, positioned his self above, grabbed my arms, held them above my head and nailed me to the mattress saying.
"Move, move your ass."
I couldn't move, pinned as I was. After a few minutes of thrusting, I felt his ejaculation spew in.
At least it’s my safe period.
As he deflated atop, I wondered if he had a venereal disease as I laid flatten under his bulk. When at last he rolled off, I told him.
"I wasn’t lying; gotta get home."
He sat up.
"You okay?"
His first show of concern for me,
"I'm okay."
"Sorry about the clothes, my rushing, just wanted you when I first saw you. I'm not the genteel type. Not like your Billy boy, huh?"
"I know, how about some tea?"
"Tea? Ha! Sure, like I got tea. Never drink it, coffee?"
"Coffee's fine."
After he left naked to the kitchen, I assembled what buttons I could find, bent one hook back on my bra, enough to have it stay on, put my panty in my purse and the bra, blouse, skirt and shoes back on. I walked into the kitchen and sat at his messy table while the water boiled. He sat naked admiring my open blouse. More relaxed, I again noted his sinewy and muscular body realizing he had just been on top and in me.
Scooping instant coffee in a couple of semi-clean mugs he served coffee then went back and put his pants on. Half-finishing the tasteless coffee, we walked to my car. With the door open, I realized nothing bad happened. He kissed me but when he pulled back, I closed my door and led him back to the bedroom, pulled down his pants and told him to get in bed. The bitch whore was going to get what she came for. Going to the bathroom I found a semi-clean towel, wet it, went back to the bedroom, and washed his pubic area. He didn’t get excited.
He, like Darryl, was a one-hit-wonder despite being a bucking bull for the first round. I orally stimulated him until at last, the bull was up if not charging a matador’s cape. I lay on the bed and told him to do me again. He re-pinioned me, taking a while to finish. Vixen, unafraid, squealed a climax of delight. After he finished, I wiggled out from under him, got up, dressed as best as I could and left him lying in bed, spent.
Once home, sober, I vowed to never see him again while I showered myself clean.
When he calls, I’m going to say I made a mistake, No I’ll say we got what we wanted and I’m too old for him. No, just don’t take the call. No, tell him it was wonderful but it was a one-time thing.
So, I told myself. For a week he didn’t call. His eventual call at the office caught me off guard. Despite myself, I was glad. For a week Vixen remembered his strong arms and my pounding on the bed.
He told me to come to his house right then and there, said he was thinking of me and wanted me that instant. Despite my vow and worry about not using a condom, I went. I don't know why. It wasn’t Vixen who agreed to see him. I still ask myself why, why could I debase myself so easily. I suspect it was the thought, at least someone wanted me, the bitch whore. I did learn something about myself, something, I wish to this day, I didn’t know.
He tripped a psychological wire and I became trapped in his snare, his beck and call sex object. The sex was rough but the roughness was more mental than physical. While uneducated and crude, he had a peasant's shrewdness. Savvy, he knew when to switch from being rough to feigning kindness. He'd, say how much I meant to him, how he had changed by what he learned when with me then switch to belittlement once I was happy.
He captured my will, not my heart. He led. I was not to think but do, do as he said. He established his foothold in my will then extrapolated it into emotional control. I obeyed him to feel wanted. Once wanted, he jerked the wanted requirement higher. It was better to jump higher and again be wanted than not, I told myself in idiotic justification.
I paid for any expenses incurred together. He told me not to wear panties or a bra when seeing him. I obeyed. He openly said I was his sex toy and I accepted it because that’s what I thought I was.
He would switch from debasement to admiration. He’d insult me then switch to my being the best thing to ever happen to him. Like a yo-yo, he spun me up with compliments to throw me down with insults. I spun up and down on his control string in cycles of faster rotation.
When taken to his bedroom or later to a motel room, I immediately took off my blouse and dropped my skirt as he demanded. Naked he would turn me around and around until he decided to either pinion me missionary style or rear me doggie style. Instead of being upset, I was grateful I was pleasing him.
The rhythm of his bed's headboard and later the motel's hitting against the wall from his thrusting echoed in my ears afterward. The echo reminded me of who I was, his bitch whore. We met only once a week and the times together were only a few hours but the pernicious debasement lasted from call to call. I took the pill to avoid pregnancy but feared contracting an STD and then giving it to my husband, thus destroying my real world.
We didn't make love. Instead, he used me as his sperm dump which I was pleased to be because I deserved to be one. He never worried if I was sexually satisfied. I only knew while he was in me, I was doing what I was supposed to do. If I climaxed it was when he ejaculated, pleased I’d satisfied him and my world was safe for another week.
I tried to gain his recalcitrant respect by thinking of and then doing things to please him. My attempts to teach him finer things could switch suddenly to my debasement. In response, he'd demand to know who I thought I was with my uppity attitude. He learned my psychological weak points and used them to destabilize any self-confidence I retained. He hectored me by calling me babe, slant eyes, old lady but then would switch to say how much he cared for me.
I let him control due to my fear he would destroy my other world of family, marriage, social standing, even maybe harm my husband. Once he stormed into the office and loudly told me to get up and go with him. Rushing out, I told everyone he was providing a bid to build a deck for the house. Fortunately, my husband was out but his coming undermined my office position. Worrying he might again barge into the office I agreed to respond immediately to his telephone calls, do what he asked, and not question him.
Pleasing him avoided his threat of exposure. It also allowed him to further push my debasement. I knowingly and willingly fell into a vortex of depravity but worried about what he might do next.
There were two things he might do which I wanted to avoid.
He wanted to videotape me performing sex. Men have an obsession with capturing their conquests on film or tape. Edward wanted to use his Polaroid camera which I nixed. I let my husband take a few Polaroids but made him destroy them as the children got older. William had his video camera on a tripod. Again, I nixed his videoing and made sure it was not set up to tape us.
Paul didn't have a video recorder. I managed to forget his requests to bring mine, the one command I disobeyed. Still, I feared he would get one and have his roommate tape us and then blackmail me. To avoid videotaping, I paid to go to a no-name Korean operated motel on Old Highway 99, south of Tacoma. Appropriately it also served Fort Lewis and McCord Air Base servicemen with their freelancers. It accepted cash, needed no I. D. and was in an area I was unlikely to be seen by anyone known.
He’d say, “We need to get you on video. We got to let the world see your ass banged hard.”
I always managed to avoid it.
Gagging was another thing I avoided. A month after our first liaison we'd been drinking, me more than past the driving limit. I was high on prescription drugs which made everything alright when it wasn’t. He carried me from his truck to his bedroom. I stripped and waited for my twirl. Instead, he pulled his pants down, had me kneel before him and directed me to orally stimulate him.
As I trilled my tongue on his penis, he gripped the back of my head by the hair and pushed his penis to the hilt in my mouth. I vomited.
He had me get a towel and clean it up while belittling me of not being able to give a decent blow job. Cleaned up, he again stood before me and had me open my mouth wide for his penis until he finished then switched to a compliment for a good blow-job. He told me he’d train me to do it even better. I left, debased, his throat whore status accepted as my revised image of myself.
The image of his penis before my face, however, kept coming back again and again. It didn't matter where, sitting in the office, trying to sleep in bed, walking down the street even now as I write
Thereafter, when we had sex, my mind raced as I stripped how to get him to ejaculate without throat duty. If, however, I said or did something he disliked he’d say, "Babe, you need a good throating."
I became a willing prisoner who was only happy when doing what he demanded when with him, yet afraid when with him of what he might suddenly demand. His actions were cocklebur stigmas that clung to me after every encounter. I was thankful he didn’t want me to do anal which probably was only due to his lack of imagination.
Once, he refused to go to the Korean motel and drove to his house when his roommate was in. I was terrified it was a video setup. Instead, he just led me past his roommate in the kitchen to the bedroom where I quickly stripped as expected and he pounded on me with the headboard banging against the wall as usual. As we left, he stopped me in front of his roommate, "Babe, lift your dress; Jeff, look, Oriental cunt!"
They laughed and gave thumbs-up as I dropped my skirt back down. He led me to my car and said, “I just wanted Jeff to see your beautiful Oriental cunt to let him know what he’s missing.”
Driving home, instead of being insulted, I was pleased. Pleased he was happy, pleased there was no video, please he didn't throat me, pleased he was spent and pleased I was free for a week. My level of debasement was such, I was simply pleased I was doing what he wanted and in return, he didn't expose or throat me. It was okay, I deserved it. In my delirium, I pleased him for my sins.
Shamed, with lost self-respect, I drank and took prescription drugs to numb the abyss of debasement I’d fallen into. I wandered in and out of the house in a dyspeptic stupor. There were times I shouldn’t have driven. I took medication to sleep, sometimes in the middle of the day. I popped pills for anxiety and nerves. Hubby knew something was wrong. He asked if I was ill. I was, mentally and morally.
He badgered me to see a doctor. Eventually, I did, to see if I had contracted an STD.
After six months, Paul made a mistake which broke the chains, he held me by. He sat in bed after sex while I re-dressed and bragged how much better he was than wimps like William and my husband. He asked.
"You have any contact with Billy boy since your big blow up?"
"What blow up?"
"What blow up! His bitch caught you and him fucking! She hit you with a shoe! God, I wish I could've seen it. Babe, it's a good thing you're rid of wimp Billy. As soon as I saw your rich bitch ass, I knew you needed fucking by a real man."
"You have nothing to do with William and me. How do you know about a shoe?'
With a big grin, as letting me, his stupid bitch, in on the obvious he chuckled, "Babe, who told his bitch to leave work and catch you fucking Billy Boy? Who? Me! When I saw your big diamond ring and fancy clothes, your car, I knew you were a rich married bitch there to get quick fuckie, fuckie by Billy boy. Drove by a week later, snuck up to the garage, sure enough, your car was hiding there. I called his bitch to let her know her lover boy was home banging his rich bitch. She told me she whacked you with her shoe. God, I wish I could ‘a seen it."
I was stunned. It was obvious. I was an idiot not to figure it out. I turned, saw him for the first time as he was, not the fearsome brawny hulk with no social restraints but a boorish sneak. Suddenly my mind cleared, free of his grasp, lucid again.
A wave of nausea swept me as I looked at him, grinning smugly among the rumpled sheets, so pleased with his cleverness. The realization of my stupidity sent waves of revulsion as I looked back at him. He was nothing more than a verminous debaser, an emotional grifter, crudeness’s avatar. While nauseated, I still feared him and said nothing while he kept laughing at his sagacity of sending her to catch me in the act and then picking me up as William's replacement. His laugh grated my ears. He finally stopped and said, "I heard you tooted your horn!"
"I did, you happy?"
He got out of bed and sat naked at the little table.
"Babe, get me a beer out of my truck. I laughed so hard my throat’s dry."
The latter was an oblique throating threat but spent, he couldn’t carry it out. We had come to the motel in separate vehicles. I could just grab my purse and leave but reconsidered. I needed time to decide my escape, not just from the room but from him. I needed to pretend nothing had changed by his revelation until I knew what I was going to do.
I brought him his beer. I left him sitting naked at the little table, laughing over his adroitness. As the motel room door closed behind me, I knew he was history. I was going to be brave, and be free, free of his threats, his blackmail and reclaim my pride, wipe him from memory.
I knew I had to risk everything, including exposure but I was determined to break free. I told the office personnel never to take his call or allow him in, to keep the front door locked. That he was a crooked contractor attempting to blackmail me into paying a bill for deck work never done.
I changed our home phone to unlisted, told my husband there was a crank making threats and went to the police. I said he was harassing me and I needed a restraining order. There, I learned he was on parole, a lucky ace card I could play to trump his threats. I wanted more than the ace card, I wanted back up.
Like many men, hubby extended his penis with a gun collection. I never touched them but now asked for a "lady" gun. He immediately bought a 380 Sig Sauer semi-automatic, pleased with my wanting a gun and even more pleased to take me to shooting practice.
I practiced through boxes of shells, my target an imaginary Paul until I was a dead-eye as hubby called me. I obtained a concealed weapon permit and kept the gun, not chambered but clip loaded in my purse. If Paul attacked, I was shooting him dead. His debasement had caused a fundamental change. I could kill.
When Paul eventually managed to get through to me, calling the office with some excuse, he said he needed to talk to me. I told him there was a restraining order against him. He already knew. Part of the procedure was the police informing him so.
He turned on his best charm of how he was sorry for everything, how I had changed him so much for the better and how he missed me, a woman with class. I replied if he called again, came to the office or house or even drove by I was calling the police but if I saw him first, I was shooting him dead and hung up.
The restraining order, if breached, was a parole violation and damped his ardor. I wanted to believe he was afraid that I would shoot him because of what he had done to me but he probably wasn't. I knew despite everything I couldn't shoot him on sight. I worried he would go berserk and try to kill me or worse my husband. Then I would shoot. The most realistic fear was his exposing me, somehow telling hubby or those in the office. My fear slowly faded as he dropped out of my life, unseen. I suspected he took consolation in bragging on construction sites of the rich old Asian bitch he banged.
Previously I was contemptuous of a woman who let a man use her. It just didn’t make sense a woman would allow herself to be a victim. The only positive result of Paul was learning I was not immune or so clever but was as vulnerable as the next. I vowed never to allow a man to debase me again and changed to having sympathy for abused women. To redeem my self-esteem, I again reviewed who I was, what I had become and how to better myself. My first effort was to eliminate Paul from memory but as you've read, you know it was not successful.
I visited two doctors to check for STDs experienced terrible embarrassment and of course, felt stupid. Sitting in humiliation at the doctor's office confronted me with the extent of my being used and guilt for allowing it. I hated him, the first time I hated anyone but I hated myself more. The second batch of negative test results relieved the physical cloud of anxiety but not the spiritual. Free of him, on reflection, I couldn't understand how I could jeopardize all that was important.
While lucky, I felt dirty and thought my life a lie that didn't deserve respect. I thought of the older woman I worked swing shift with and her admonishment about not losing a good husband. I mentally thanked her, hoped she was well, then realized I was now about the age she was back then.
During my soapy shower mortal sins, I appeared unblemished walking to and from the communion rail but knew I lived in mortal sin. Rededicating myself to husband, business and kids I appeared unblemished but my debasement shadowed me, Paul’s execrable debasement clung to and besmirched my actions, even if not visible to others. I wasn’t only guilty but dirty, unable to be clean.
Yet life went on. Shortly after Paul, I turned forty-three. With the kids out of college, employed and married or soon to be so, I had other things to concentrate on to help me forget. As a family, we all had success.
Only I was tied to a secret debasement, an unacknowledged failure among winners. My secret puppet shadow blocked the rays of family and middle-aged happiness.
