The first time I saw a penis on the subway, I was on the platform for the N train three blocks from my house in Queens, on my way to school. I was 12. I had just missed a train, so I was the only person there other than a man all the way at the other end of the platform. He was so far away that I could see only the outline of his shape, but soon I noticed his hand moving furiously – and that he was walking quickly towards me with his penis in his hand. I had always thought myself prepared for something like this; I knew I was supposed to yell or run, but I just stood there. I didn’t look away or turn around, and even though I felt my knees giving out, my feet felt strongly planted to the ground.
As soon as I “got a chest”, as my mom would say, the taunts about my face stopped as boys became more interested in feeling me up than making me cry. I started to forget about my face and mean girls, and focused on the things my body could do and inspire. During summer break, a male friend whom I had known since childhood put his hand on my breast as we watched a movie in the room over from our parents, saying nothing. I remained frozen, unsure what to do. Wasn’t he supposed to kiss me first? I was 11.
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When I left junior high, I had what I thought seemed like a reasonably womanish body and improving makeup skills. I was optimistic that I could leave behind my reputation as the nerdy one of my friends. In my new school, a top school, full of maths and science aficionados, the girl with well-developed boobs was queen. I was being asked on a lot of dates. Proper dates to pool halls and movie theatres, lunches at a diner on the weekend or a walk to Central Park. I had boyfriends. Later, in between high school relationships, my male friends would jokingly/not jokingly ask to “talk business” with me – code for “Let’s negotiate how it’s in your best interest to suck my dick.” I turned them down
It’s called the cycle of violence, but in my family, female suffering is linear: abuse is passed down like the world’s worst birthright, largely skipping the men and marking the women with scars, night terrors (and fantastic senses of humour). My aunts and my mom joked about how often it happened to them when they were younger: the man who flashed a jacket open and had a big red bow on his cock; the neighbourhood pervert who masturbated visibly in his window as they walked to school as girls. (The cops told them the man could do whatever he wanted in his own house.) “Just point and laugh,” my aunt said. “That usually sends them running.” Usually.
On the worst day – a few years later – I didn’t notice the man at all. The train was crowded; my mind was elsewhere. I was listening to A Tribe Called Quest on my Walkman and thinking about how warm it was. When I stepped out of the subway, the sun hit my face and I was happy to be almost home. But when I started to put my hand in my back pocket, I felt something wet: I had made it the whole ride back without noticing that a man, whose face I would never see, had come on me.
I wiped my hand on the lower leg of my jeans and looked around to see if anyone had noticed. I walked the three blocks home with my backpack slung as low as possible, so that no one walking behind me could see what had happened or could think I had peed myself.
I peeled the jeans off when I got home and, even though most of the semen had landed on the pocket – giving me two, rather than just one, layers of protection – the skin on my ass was still damp from it. I ran the tub until there were two inches of scalding water along the bottom, squirted in some of my sister’s Victoria’s Secret vanilla-scented bath gel, and sat in it quickly, my shirt still on.
I wrapped a pink towel around myself when I stepped out of the tub and turned my jeans inside out before putting them in the laundry basket so my mother wouldn’t find out. I knew she would cry. I piled some sheets on top of the jeans to be safe.
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