Sexual Abuse and Genophobia

It seems that the time I took away from blogging didn’t steal away forever my desire to write like I had initially thought. I’d like to thank you guys for sticking with me and staying so loyal. I’ve known some of you for going on 7 years and that is pretty damn awesome.

Responding to comments in a timely fashion remains difficult, but please know that I read and appreciate them all.


Today’s post is about (surprise) abuse, an ongoing theme of mine, in case you’re new around here.

But this particular topic of abuse is of the sexual nature. (Trigger warning is in full effect.)

Receiving the divorce papers a few days ago triggered the holy hell out of me. It brought back a nasty secret that I had planned on taking to my grave. I’ve now told 4 people who I trust to keep it to themselves.

Sharing it felt like expelling a demon from my heart and soul, finally not only just my burden to bear. (I am sorry, but I am unable to write it out here, it’s rather horrific.)

I lay awake at night and go back in time, to specific incidents that foretold the future. I was always reassured that it didn’t happen at all (gaslighting) to it not being a big deal, I was just making a mountain out of a molehill (manipulation.)

He did have numerous dalliances with other females during the course of our 15 year relationship, before marriage and then afterwards.

I’d just take my giant broom and sweep it under the rug. (Getting awfully dusty in here, cough, cough.)

Like the time his cellphone buzzed off of the dresser and I picked it up only to see a message from someone named Kathy. She missed him, when could she see him again?

“Who the fuck is Kathy?” I had screamed, while I threw his cell at him as he snoozed on the couch.

Oh, she was just a smitten groupie fan of his band at the time, nothing to get my panties in a twist about.

It became some sort of an inside joke between us, because the idea that he would ever do something like that to me was unthinkable.

The sexual harassment allegation against him when we worked at the same company, but in different departments. The girl was hitting on him, I mean, everybody knew that Lynette was always trying to sleep with the few men who were employed there, bending over on purpose to show her cleavage and g-string. What a total lying slut she was, he wouldn’t touch her with a ten foot pole in fear of catching herpes.

I believed him.

All of the times when he’d never come home until the next day and then act like I was being unreasonable when I got upset. He didn’t owe me anything, we weren’t even married. He was just partying with his buddies, calm the fuck down and leave him alone.

He would log off of the computer as soon as I walked into the room, looking at me defensively like he was just waiting for me to say something.

The porn (fellatio mostly) addiction that he had, downloading a slew of them onto his computer and watching them right in front of me in the living room, my daughter oftentimes just upstairs.

His inability to go even an hour without making some sort of sexual innuendo. (Yet another joke, I timed him once. He lasted less than 15 minutes.)

Oh, that perverted man of mine!

Picking up a hooker on the video game Grand Theft Auto and then killing her so that he could get his virtual money back.

Bringing me coffee in bed and in return expecting oral sex. (Coffee and a blow-job, he called it.) If I wasn’t in the mood, he’d get all pissed off and annoyed.

His continuous need for me to tell him that he had the absolute best penis ever, even going as far as spending money on male enhancement products that I’d admonish wasn’t necessary.

It’s no wonder that I now have genophobia, which is seeping into my current relationship. It had started long ago with my daughters father, only to be sharpened by him like an arrow.

My boyfriend is careful not to use overtly carnal terms for anything pertaining to sex, but sometimes he’ll slip and unintentionally trigger a panic attack.

I’ll shut down completely and then cry my eyes out.

And honestly…I absolutely despise oral sex, giving and receiving.

How do I explain that to my boyfriend?

I avoid it as long as possible and then I put on my mask, inwardly cringing and waiting for it to end.

Shoot Twixt My Wind And Water

Two young women talking to each other

Blanche has invited her dear friend Patsy, who has recently gotten herself free, over for coffee and crumpets. There is a tray of Rice Crispy treats in the immaculate kitchen, covered over with saran wrap. 

Pasty: Wait until I tell you what I did last night!

Blanche: Did you finally try those homemade pickles I made?

Patsy: No, I had thought of it, though, many nights. But I found something much better instead!

Blanche: What can be better than my pickles?

Pasty: That handsome older man who works at the butcher shop, his name is Sam, I’m sure you’ve seen him before, Pasty. You shop at the same store as I do!

Blanche: Oh, of course, yes. He seems a decent fella, alright.

Patsy: That he is and his meat can’t be beat!

Blanche: True, he does offer the finest of carnivorous meat products.

Pasty: I’m even thinking that I’m finally ready to ask him if he’ll shoot twixt my wind and water.

Blanche almost spits out her coffee at her quite randy friend for using such saucy, yet oddly old fashioned, sexual terminology.

Blanche: Oh my goodness, you’re making me dizzy!

Patsy: I’m sorry, dear. And I was trying so hard to be proper and polite and everything.

Blanche: It’s just that…well, never mind. It’s always so wonderful to see you. You look so vibrant and carefree.

I’m like, really jealous.

Pasty: I indulge in so many new and marvelous things right now, you wouldn’t believe your ears if I told you!

Blanche: Fucking try me, Patsy.

Pasty: Chocolate milk whenever I want, even at 2 am, naked as a jaybird in my kitchen. Bottles of semi decent wine and a bubble bath, without someone outside the bathroom door listening to every breath you take, while you read by candlelight the newest trashy novels written by M. Moistbottom.

Blanche: We watch the same shows every night, Pasty. If I have to pretend to like his sexist jokes one more time, I might…well, I might have to tell him to shut his pie hole!

Could you loan me one of those sinful novels?

Patsy hands Blanche a paperback from her handbag, noticing that her friends face is clearly reddened with embarrassment due to her disclosure of lack of d’amore.

Pasty: Now why don’t I leave so you can run a hot bath, pour yourself a glass of wine and here’s a hint…skip to page 53.

Fifteen Years

*This poem is a bit more crude than my usual fare, but I’m really fucking angry right now.


How blind was I to believe your lies?

Devotedly crawling between your thighs

Eating your bullshit in the name of love

Our pairing a match made from up above


We were both blasé when we first met

But you were still eager to get your dick wet

You’d insisted we’d screwed, it became a “joke”

You’re such a fuck boy, eat dick and choke


I was sorely deluded believing I could fix

All that was absent from part of your mix

For you are a douche with a selfish heart

Been that way (fucking liar) from the very start


You almost destroyed me, so undeniably sad

And I’m told that I’ve every right to be mad

But baby, mostly, I just want my time back

You owe me fifteen years, you filth-ridden sack


You said you adored me, even made me your kin

While you hid your perversions right under your skin

But just like dominoes, they came crashing down

Fuck you and forgiveness, I wanna watch you drown