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“It’s a numbing feeling to write about this moment that lingers with me from day to day. I’m not enraged about this moment, I think I’ve been living with it for so long that it has become another skin that I wear with me through my life battles.” -GIRL ON GIRL


Because of the countless hours of watching the Playboy channel on my sister’s stolen cable in our shared basement bedroom, I wanted to be a Playboy Bunny at the age of 12. While my female peers were living in their Barbie doll desires for a perfect world, I would imagine what it would be like to be a porn star. Just the thought of being the center of attention, while being extremely confident and comfortable with my sexuality, was mentally freeing to me. I wouldn’t be the tall, fat girl with glasses that was disgusted by her own reflection. At the time, I was a bit overweight and looked forward to losing the baggage. At one point I had a dream that I was denied at the Playboy Bunny Auditions, which cut those precious aspirations short. The provocative and seductive images of smooth and curve-injected females that grace the glossy pages of indie fashion magazines, strip club scenes in my favorite music videos, and scandalous Instagram pictures, via #NickiMinajHalloweenCostume2013, play with my perception of sexuality; forcing me into a flexible state of hesitation. Within the past year I’ve had my share of make-out sessions with random international vixens and gentlemen in dimly lit nightclubs, from New York City to Shanghai. I won’t label who or what I am; I love to dance on the line between femininity and masculinity. With my favorite color being pink and my desire to only wear men’s cologne,

society might say that I’m confused…and I might have to agree with them, just this once, even though I am enjoying every moment of it! ########################## It was a weekday morning and school was cancelled for one reason or another. My mother had to work and my sister had to go run errands. My sister’s cousin, who was a pretty 19 year-old girl, was babysitting me. The primary detail that still clings to my memory about this day is red silk sheets. Because of this one trivial detail I have come to always associate the color red with sex, passion, and anger; I’ve found it to symbolize phony and detached dominance. Those red silk sheets felt like butter as they entangled my half-naked 8 year-old body. I laid length-wise on a king sized waterbed, staring at myself in the massive ceiling mirror. I don’t remember how I even got in the bed in the first place, but I do remember the room itself was messy. A dusty, but classic, 90s Chunky TV sat across from where I was lying, playing the daily re-runs of Jerry Springer. My confused thoughts were all I had to cling to as I laid, helplessly in the Lion’s Den. Scantily clad in cotton underwear and a t-shirt, my 19 year-old baby-sitter was lying right next to me, ready to ex-


plore my innocence, while demanding that I explore her maturity. I did what I was told to do; after all she was the babysitter I was told to listen to. She told me to touch and use my mouth on places that I was scared to even look at. I was confused as to why I was even performing these acts, I felt dirty and used; this wouldn’t be the last time I felt this way either. I didn’t feel innocent, but then again I don’t ever remember feeling innocent in the first place; I wonder if anyone really remembers the feeling of innocence. After I did what I was told, a lot of things are hazy in my memory, but I do remember later on that day we had went into another room across the hall that had a bunk bed. While I laid on the bed she began to take off what little clothes she had on and told me to cover my eyes while she got dressed. This confused me even further; at this point we had to be like best friends or something more. Maybe she was detached from what she had just done with me. I had thought that since we had shared that intimate moment that we had some new connection with each-other. I was wrong. One day, later that month she had come to my house with other relatives of my sister and I remember being so nervous that she would tell on me getting me in trouble with my mother. I stayed upstairs the most of the time to avoid seeing her, but was called down by my mother to see everyone. I nervously descended down the stairs to the living room, and she basically ignored me. I was nothing but an easy lay I’m sure. Recently I went to a psychic

that told me that at the moment I was molested, a female spirit entered me that doesn’t want me to be happy. She says the spirit also pushes men away from me, which I could understand; whenever I start to like any guy, they break my heart. This made me think of my father; if what she said was true then maybe that’s the reason my father has stayed so far away from me for so long. But I’m sure she was bullshitting me. At the end of the day I have to live and thrive with the soul I’ve got; I can’t really make any excuses for that. At the age I was molested, I was consumed with anxiety and obedience; always trying my hardest to stay beneath the radar. I just knew that I would get in trouble after this was over, but what would she do if I got up and left the room, or locked myself in the bathroom? I wish I had the courage to speak up. This moment has added to my life being a continuous anxiety attack. I remember one time I Googled the post-symptoms of a child that has been molested, and one symptom was wetting the bed. I wet the bed until I was 12 years old; an embarrassing side note to my life. This has shaped the way I view sexuality, authority, and selfworth, which are strong staples in my life that I’m still struggling with. Around that time, I had begun to experiment with this girl in my 2nd Grade class. I have no clue how this friendship/relationship even started, but she was a pretty light-skinned girl with big brown eyes and a slim face. We would either sneak off to the bathroom, occupy adjacent stalls, and look at each other naked or sit next


to each other in class, with a large puffy coat on top of us, in the winter, and play with each other while everyone was oblivious to what was going on. We actually almost got caught once by a security guard one day while we were “playing” in the bathroom. He thought the situation was just silly school-girl antics; little did he know that we were far from innocent in our intentions. It’s a numbing feeling to write about this moment that lingers with me from day to day. I’m not enraged about this moment, I think I’ve been living with it for so long that it has become another skin that I wear with me through my life battles. I do still believe that everything happens for a reason…but my reason is still up in the air for interpretation. Since I was younger I always imagined that at the very moment that you die, you come face-to-face with God and ask him all the questions that you have from your lifetime; gaining the answers you need in order for your soul to progress forward into the next life. Maybe when I die, I’ll have tea and crumpets with God and we can chat about it.