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 the poison 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. Moving on replaced by 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, Cobra flouted herself to be selected because I want to be a whore.
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 scan past, 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.Meeting at Jeeper's was appropriate for his ilk and my revised perception of myself. 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?"
"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. Cobra scared too, coiled down in her basket. 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 first stunned thought was he ruined an expensive blouse then it dawned.
I’m going to be raped!
With arms entrapped and bra exposed, he reached behind, grabbed the bra straps and instead of unfastening them, pulled them apart, bending the tie hooks then pulled the shoulder straps down to join the blouse arms entanglement.
Seeing me terrified, he smiled at my fear then attempted 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, as if willing. 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 now scaring me. His penis was straight out. At least he wasn't lying about wanting me.
He refused the proffered condom. Threw it aside unopened. 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.
His first show of concern for me,
"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?"
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. Cobra unafraid, hissed 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 Cobra 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 Cobra 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. 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 quintessential 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 bra when seeing him. I obeyed. He openly said I was his sex toy and I accepted it.
He would switch from debasement to admiration. He’d insult me then switch to my being. I the best thing to ever happen to him. Like a yo-yo, he spun me up with complements 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. 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, me 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.
He controlled by fear, 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. Doing his newest beckoning provided him additional exposure power over me. The more I feared, the more I tried to please as I fell into a vortex of depravity. Our relationship was my worrying about what he might do next and his thinking of what degrading thing to have me do next
He developed two intimidations for control.
He threatened 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 tapping 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 the danger of videotaping, I started paying for 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.
If I resisted some request, he’d say.
“We need to get you on video. We got to let the world see your ass banged hard.”
Gagging was his other control threat. A month after our first liaison we'd been drinking, me more than past the driving limit. He carried me from his truck to his bedroom. I stripped and waited for my twirl. Instead, he pulled his pants down, forced me to 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 with his left hand, forced my mouth wide open with his right hand’s thumb and index fingers and pushed his penis to the hilt in my mouth. Stuck in my throat it was suffocating me. I couldn’t breathe. His left hand held the back of my head forcing me to keep it all in while I panicked and flayed my hands against him. After a moment, I relaxed to see if he would release me but as soon as I did, he jerked my head back and forth, his penis in my mouth, gagging me. I vomited.
He made me get a towel and clean it up while belittling me of not being able to give a decent blow-job. The mess, smell, my misery, instead of discouraging him, turned him on. Cleaned up he again stood before me and forced his penis in to the hilt, the end stuck in my throat as I wheezed through my nose for air. He slowly withdrew then forced it in again. Over and over he held my head ridged and my mouth open as his penis slid out and in. When I choked, he pulled out but kept it in my face until I recovered sufficiently to again open my mouth wide and accept it down my throat. Finally, he pulled it out, stroked it and ejaculated on my face, then held my head rigid, re-inserted it and forced me to swallow what remained.
When he finally withdrew my jaw was sore from keeping my mouth so wide open and my cheeks ached from the force of his thumb and index finger. My mascara was streaked down my face, my lipstick gone. He complimented me for a good blow-job. Told me he’d train me to do good ones. I cleaned up and left, debased, his throat whore.
The image of his penis before my face, my mouth forced open wide, his penis down my throat 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, haunted me. I was ready to quickly obey his commands to avoid his throating me again. I was blackmailed.
Thereafter, when we had sex, my mind raced as I stripped how to get him to ejaculate without throat duty. To avoid gagging, I got cherry-flavored Cepacol sore throat lozenges. Seeing the package, he teased about popping my cherry throat. It, however, worked. When he saw them, forced my mouth open and I didn't gag, he lost interest, lifted me on the bed and entered me missionary style. If, however, I said or did something he disliked he’d say.
"Babe, you need a good throating."
I became a prisoner of fear, free only when doing what he demanded when with him, yet afraid when with him of what he might suddenly demand. When not together, it was fear of his calling. His actions were cocklebur stigmas which clung to me after every encounter. I lived in the secret hell of blackmail; thankful he didn’t force 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, slanted 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 his know what he’s missing”
Driving home, instead of being insulted, I was pleased, pleased he was happy, pleased there was no video, pleased he didn't throat me, pleased he was spent and pleased he wasn’t a threat 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 was abused, I deserved it. In my delirium, I pleased him for my sins.
Shamed, with lost self-respect, I drank at home alone 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.
Author Notes: In her mind she deserves debasement for who she is, unloved by any man.