At A Music Venue

I was in high school. It was my first punk show, which sounds silly now, but at the time it felt nice to be able to align myself with some kind of culture or community. Especially one that I saw as "radically progressive". Especially one that seemed all inclusive. Especially one in which mosh pits existed.

It was an all female band, and I was excited to go because I had just learned about riot grrrl and was starting to read a lot of bell hooks and feminist theory. I was on the edge of the crowd. People were everywhere so it was impossible not to bump into someone, and while I was alone, I felt safe. I figured I was with my own kind, that nothing bad would happen here. That we all had the same morals and ethics and ideals and political values. These were likeminded people and we were all in support of each other. And then I felt a hand reach up my skirt in a way that could never be interpreted as accidental.

I didn't know what to do, and by the time I turned around, the person was already gone. My stomach was starting to knot up and I didn't know how to feel. I felt ashamed that I had let it happen. I was embarrassed, and helpless and terrified.

The rest of the show was a blur and I distinctly remember trying not to cry at one point. I felt so helpless. I wanted to tell a bouncer but talked myself out of it because I didn't know what the guy looked like. I didn't think the bouncer would believe me. I thought he would accuse me of making it up. Or that I should have known something like that would happen because I was a girl, alone, in a skirt, at a crowded show where things were bound to out of hand. That I had been asking for it to happen.

I didn't go to another show for years after that.

At his house

On Valentine's Day, D.T. asked me to go to dinner with him. I was 16. He was nearly 30. He took me to a bar, not a restaurant. We drank rum until I was well beyond in control of myself.

I was 16.

We went back to his house and he injected speed which I'd never seen before and he offered to inject me. I refused but did Inhale some. He started kissing me, then he was biting me and scratching me and I could tell he was going to leave marks on me.

I was 16.

I tried to make him stop. Finally I started crying when his hands were under my blouse and inside my bra. That finally made him stop. I was 16. I was literally wet all over my face and throat from his slobbery kissing and sucking. I sat on the porch of his house and tried to sober up and arrange myself in a way that I could go home.


I went to a fast food restaurant and washed myself off as well as I could. At home I dodged my mother and took a long hot shower trying to wash him off of me. Sixteen. I looked like if been in a car wreck, I was so bruised and covered with hickeys. It took over a week to heal up. I hid from my mother and my nanny. In turtlenecks and sweaters. He called for a long time. I wouldn't talk to him.

He sent gifts. Creepy gifts. Flowers. Silver trinkets. A fucking sweater. A perfectly creepy gift for a 16 year old girl. I heard he died of liver cancer as a by-product of hepatitis. I suppose I should be grateful he didn't rape me. I've hated him a long time.

I was that 16 year old girl that accidentally tempted a grown ass man to act like a fucking pedophile. I hope he suffered wildly.

He deserved to.