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 hers, being caught in the act slowly boiled into an identity crisis which swept away my perception of who I was.
My downgrading him to a potato chip lover failed to cure hurt feelings. His lover's shoe was a poisoned dart, its shoulder pain changed to venom, the poison infected my heart and mind, her "Slut, you, fucking whore!" curse echoed over and over, 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 he replaced me by another and 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 an Asian. 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 and became 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 a weekly easy lay, no commitment, abandoned without a thought when caught, just his discarded Oriental slut whore.
They wanted sex, not me. Like Mom in Hawaii, they were white men who sexed me, their Asian slut whore.
I continued mulling over my life and convinced myself I was a worthless, good only to men for fucking and believed it.
The Asian bar girls who dance naked on a stage to be selected by their number are better than me. They dance for survival. I dance on my stage because I’m an attention whore, flouting my availability by my phone number. I’m the whore Mom was, she against her will, me because I want to.
Convinced I was only a sex object, my esteem plummeted to below my teenage years when at least I had innocence until it reached its nadir.
William’s love is right; I’m a slut whore, used for screwing then discarded 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 to escape a life of wanton guilt.
After a week of wallowing in worthlessness and guilt, 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 traveling for his business mistress, 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 fuck me like the others, what’s the difference now?
Meeting at Jeeper's was appropriate for his ilk and my revised self-perception that my Tropicana Village roots and dysfunctional family heritage. 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’re 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, and said nothing as to say.
"I knew you’d come."
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 her drunk."
With loud twanging music framing our relationship, I didn't protest. I gulped it down to enter the alcoholic haze world and stared at the line dancers. 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 then 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," walked to his truck and waited until I pulled up behind. He was making me nervous despite my numbed 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 told him.
"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 his object to sex.
The house yard and interior were 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!."
I couldn't move, pinned as I was. After a few minutes of his thrusting, he finished.
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 more was going to happen, and I could leave unmolested.
Once home, later 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 I’m too old for him. No, just don’t take the call.
For a week he didn’t call. His eventual call at the office caught me off guard. Despite myself, I was pleased, pleased to be wanted.
He told me to come to his house, said he was thinking of me and wanted me. Despite my vow and worry about his not using a condom, I went. Why, I don't know. It wasn’t Cobra who agreed to see him. I still ask myself; how could I debase myself. Was it, at least someone wanted me? I learned something about myself, something I didn’t want to learn. I’m susceptible to debasement.
He tripped a mind 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 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 pleased him.
He captured my will, not my heart. I was not to think but do, do as told. 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.
He’d switch from debasement to admiration, insult me then switch to my being the best thing to ever happen to him. Like a yo-yo, he spun me up with complements then threw me down with debasement. I spun up and down on his string in cycles of faster rotation.
The rhythm of his bed's headboard and later a motel's hitting against the wall from his thrusting echoed in my ears afterward. The echo reminded me of my revised status. 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, he used me. He never worried about my sexual satisfaction. Neither did I. My concern was doing what I was supposed to do to please him. When he finished, my happiness was my world was safe for another week.
I tried to gain his recalcitrant respect by thinking up of things to please him and then doing them. My attempts to teach him finer things would switch to my debasement. 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 harm my husband. 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 tried to please out of fear, the deeper 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 wanted to video tape us.
I feared he would have his roommate videotape us and then blackmail me. To avoid the danger of videotaping, I stopped going to his house and paid 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 freelancers. It accepted cash, needed no I. D. and was in an area I was unlikely to be seen by anyone known.
month after our first liaison we'd been drinking, me more than past the driving limit. He carried me to his bedroom, pulled his pants down, made me kneel and forced his penis in my mouth. He gripped the back of my head by the hair and pushed it ii to the hilt. Stuck in my throat, I vomited.
He made me get a towel and clean it up while belittling me of not being able to give a decent blowjob. The image of his penis before my face 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. If 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.
My level of debasement was such, I was simply pleased I was doing what he wanted. 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. 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.
Author Notes: In her mind she deserves debasement for who she is, unloved by any man.
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United States • 73 years old