The Best Hand Job I’ve Ever Given

Photo by Andrej Lišakov on Unsplash

There is no name for that relationship. We were best friends for a while, then things moved to a kind of dating. I loved him, but I didn’t want to have a boyfriend. I was afraid of my father, who didn’t want to see his underage daughter with a boyfriend. Plus, I had seen my girlfriends, my cousin, my sister, struggling because of men and I didn’t want to be involved with them. Not in a romantic way. Turns out it wouldn’t be romantic anyways.

He was seventeen, he wanted sex, as boys are told this is what they have to chase. Or is it biology? I was fifteen, I wanted to figure out where that teenage self-loathe was coming from, as girls are told they’re never enough. Or is it biology? I didn’t want to have sex, I was scared to death to get pregnant. First because my dad would kill him — literally: I’d seen my dad shooting at my sister’s boyfriend once. He didn’t kill the guy, but the drug cartel did a week later. My dad didn’t want my sister dating a drug dealer. My guy wasn’t a drug dealer, he was involved in auto theft. My dad would never respect a boy who was only brave enough to steal cars when no one is watching: “If he wants to be a man, he should rob a bank” — I could hear my dad saying. Well, there’s some truth in that, the guy was a coward.

The second reason I was so scared to get pregnant was because I’d seen all the teen moms at school having zero fun. Pregnancy looked like bad luck. So I knew I wouldn’t have sex in my life before moving out of my parents’ house and being able to make my own money. I’d be the virgin of the group and I was OK with that. And I made this very clear to this boy, my best friend for a while. There were no shady words, there were no body language, I said directly and clear, more than once: “I will not have sex with you. Forget about it.” But he thought he could convince me. He believed he could convince me.

After our dating-kinda-thing began, he started playing a weird game of lowering my self-esteem. I think his instincts were that a person with a low self-esteem is easier to convince to have sex with, it turns the person into an easier prey. Lowering a younger girl’s self-esteem, something that the ads, the movies and my parents had already done half of the job of, wasn’t at all difficult to achieve. But he was only brave enough to steal cars when no one was watching. He was a coward as a friend, as a date and as a criminal. But I wasn’t able to see any of that, he had gained my trust as a friend beforehand and I believed him.

At that time in my life, I didn’t know what I was doing in the world and I didn’t know if I would ever have the strength to find out. And even if I discovered, I believed I wouldn’t have the strength to pursue. I was uncertain if I could face the world as an adult, if I could power through the deterrents life had given me, if I could be bigger than the violence and poverty I was born into. So it was easy for me to believe in the things he used to say about me. His speciality was telling me how ugly I was, how fat I was, how I needed to lose weight but even if I did I was ugly anyways. Everyday I would look in the mirror and see an obese body. I believed him. I weighted 113 pounds.

He was always pushing for sex, and I was always saying no. As much as his bullying made an imprint in my mind, it couldn’t prevail over my fear of my dad. Every time we’d see each other and not have sex, he’d go home frustrated, blaming me. It was horrible and would make me angry: angry at my negatives, angry about the words he used when talking about my body, angry with life, as if life was something to be angry at. I was in constant rage, like a wild animal that becomes violent because everything around it wants to kill it. I started drinking and nurturing self-destructive thoughts that are still present in my mind. I learned how to make my thoughts direct my body to attack itself. It took me years to break this train of thoughts. Addictive thought processes are the hardest addiction to quit — and there’s no twelve steps for that.

One day we were making out and he tried to take my shirt off. I said no. A little while later, he tried again. I said no again. So he pushed my shirt anyways. I pushed his hands back, and he pushed harder. He was 6’3, around 270 pounds, I was 4’11 and 113 pounds. There was no chance for me to win a warm wrestling with him. I pushed harder and he did it too. I had no chance. If he decided to use force, I was done. We were alone at his house, no one would hear me yelling. It wasn’t fair and I’d had enough. When his hand was about to push my shirt through my neck, I bursted in anger: I bite his hand. He dropped my shirt. His face became thunderstruck, scared, gargoyled. His wide eyes yelled: “ARE YOU CRAZY?” I realized there was something in my mouth, and I spit it. It was a piece of his hand. A good chunk of it. Then I saw his hand bleeding. “WHAT DID YOU DO? ARE YOU CRAZY?” — he yelled again. Well, he wanted a hand job…