The First Handjob

I gave was some number of years ago
In an old timey theater
Watching Hound of the Baskervilles
On his birthday.

I wouldn't have, see,
But it's a theater, and really
Nobody wants to make a scene.
So I let him guide my hand.

Of course, we lost anonymity
When he made a sound like a suction cup
With his mouth and my boob. Which,
For the record, I didn't want either.

Some things are so private
You don't even share them with yourself.
Like how that wasn't consensual.
Nobody knows. Nobody can know it happened.

The First Fingering
Was in his parents' basement
This time he asked, but only after
His hands were in my underwear.

It hurt. I had never even used a tampon.
Never masturbated. He stretched my favorite shorts.
I didn't want this, either, but he
wasn't the most stable of boyfriends.

If I broke up, and he was found dead,
Surely that would be worse. Of course.
I convinced myself I liked it. So well,
In fact, that only this week I remembered I didn't.

I didn't like coming home, crotch sore,
and smiling with my parents about my
kind, respectful boyfriend. I didn't like
feeling like there was precum on my hands days after.

Truly, the mind is amazing. Years I spent thinking that,
since we never had real sex, I had no right to object.
Young girls have weathered much worse. Still, I don't know.
Was that abusive? Was it my fault?

When I gave my first blowjob, was it my fault
for opening my mouth? This very same mouth that
told my mom he's nice, even as his dried fluids
lightly lined my lips, mingled with my saliva.

There are days now when I don't think about it.
I see him every weekday, see him looking at me
With knowledge of my nude form, my inner crevices.
I have yet to shake this rage.

My parents wonder why I'm so cold to him,
While I remember his hands around my neck,
His eyes daring me to push him off.
His fingers then his dick down my throat.

Him crying, "Don't leave me," as I try
Desperately to reassure him. Him breaking up with me
To my joy, only to try to take it back an hour later.
Never again. Never again.

I can't think about dating now.
Him holding his breath when I refuse to choke him.
I can't enjoy the idea of intimacy.
My hands on his neck.

These hands will one day crumble.
I will once more feel free of this anger
Constantly pressing my chest.
One day.

One day.