At fifty-one I’ve accumulated a lot of core memories, some good, some not-so-much. I’ve had my fair share of relationships too. I’d like to think they’ve been improving as I’ve aged, but alas, if this last one is any indication, I should probably throw in the towel and succumb to the cat lady life. I hear it’s pretty dang awesome.
For a while now I’ve toyed with writing about my first sexual experience. It’s haunted me all my life, taken decades of therapy to reconcile. While processing the fallout from this most recent disaster of a relationship I decided it was high time to tell my story, from the beginning. I will no longer feel shame for how I’ve been treated as a female in this world.
Do you know any twelve year old girls? Picture one of them right now. Keep her in mind as you read this.
My parents divorced when I was around nine. We lived in Mississippi and my four older siblings were mostly out of the house by then. About a year later Dad married my ballet teacher, and I found myself living in Florida with a younger stepsister and stepbrother. Mom had escaped to Texas and after two miserable years in the Sunshine State I begged to go live with her. She agreed, but turns out Mom was done mothering. In fact, she told me, “I’m done being a mother. I’ll feed you, clothe you, and house you. But I’m done with the rest.” As a mother I can understand how she got there, there’s nothing harder (or more rewarding), but I can’t fathom actually telling my child such a thing. At the time though, I was already pretty pissed at the world, and all I heard was freedom. So there I was, just starting eighth grade, in a tiny Texas town where new kids rarely appeared, and I might as well have been fresh meat dropped directly into the lion’s den.
I’d had my first kiss the year before while visiting friends back in Mississippi. In the back row of a movie theater a boy stuck his tongue in my mouth and proceeded to spin it round and round in circles while we swapped spit and movie candy. I still remember being repulsed by the taste of him. Two months into eighth grade, at the age of twelve – before I’d even gotten my first period, I was spending the night with a girlfriend. I already had a boyfriend, didn’t take long as the new girl. Although honestly it feels more accurate to say I’d already been claimed. He’d been pressuring me through seemingly harmless notes and elaborate drawings to kiss him, or more. That night he and his older friend with a car came to her house and snuck us out. We drove to Paradise Hills and parked. I imagine there was alcohol, but that’s not one of the details that stuck with me. My friend and the older boy were in the front. I’m honestly not sure if they were making out, but I remember at one point they appeared to have fallen asleep. Armando (yeah that’s his name – to this day I can’t think it without bile rising up in my throat, much less say it aloud, but it feels right to name him here) was quickly trying to make headway with me. He put his hand in my pants and I quietly shoved it away. He persisted. I pushed him away again. I knew what he wanted, and I knew I didn’t. But I was too scared to resist, to make a noise and wake the others, to look prude, that I silently acquiesced and lost both my virginity and self worth in the backseat of the car that night. Silver lining: his micro-penis, so at least it didn’t hurt.
I was crying when they dropped us off. My girlfriend simply congratulated me. She too had no idea how disgustingly wrong this was. Since it wasn’t violent, it took me years to call it for what it was: rape. I was twelve ferfucksake. No one had ever told me that what I had was precious, that I had a voice, much less a choice in the matter. A twelve year old is absolutely not equipped to make a decision about consensual sex. How’s that for a core memory?
But he preyed on my naiveté and was my boyfriend for at least another year. My older brother came to visit once and met him. Armando bragged to him that he was having sex with me. To this day I’m not sure why my brother didn’t kill him, but he did tell my mother. You know, the one done being a mother. She said nothing of it to me, but later took me to the gynecologist so I could get on the pill “for my cramps.” Silver lining: I didn’t get pregnant.
The years went by and with zero self worth and a desperate need to feel loved and accepted I slept with my fair share of guys. And I was drinking too. A lot. Which led to plenty of instances where I was entirely too drunk to consent. But we were feral GenXers, raised on the glorification of date rape on the big screen, and it all seemed normal. Girls were there for the taking, and we were so brainwashed by pop culture and neglected by our worn out parents that we had no idea what we were losing. Much less how we’d pay for it in the decades to come.
“Sixteen Candles’ Jake Ryan is the dream boy of the 1980s. He’s also an accessory to date rape.“
Tenth grade brought my first experience with infidelity. My boyfriend cheated on me with our English teacher. And the adults knew. And nothing happened. She even had the audacity to show up to our reunion years later.
High school culminated with a physically abusive relationship. Not real hard to see that coming. He was the quarterback and much like most high school athletes at the time, he was taking steroids. It started with intimidation. Later he bought me a dog and when he wanted to get his point across with me, he’d beat her. I’d cave to spare the dog. Eventually the dog wasn’t enough. Senior year spring break, in a crowded condo, I refused to have sex with him. We got in a fight and he backhanded me to the ground. At least six other guys witnessed it. And not ONE stood up against him. Of course men think they can get away with murder. They’ve never faced real repercussions for their reprehensible behaviors.
It should come as no surprise when I tell you my adult years didn’t get a whole lot better. A lifetime of therapy has shown me it boils down to a lack of self-worth resulting in various insecurities and sub-consciously believing I am not deserving of love. I did date one really good guy in college, but I was so broken and had absolutely no idea what to do with someone who was actually kind and respectful to me. At twenty-three I married a man who was by no means a bad person. We made it twelve years, and had two kids together, but our foundation was weak and we were entirely too immature for the trials and tribulations that came with parenting and adulting. He was a small guy, and I realized later I probably picked him partly because I knew he wouldn’t physically hurt me. Silver lining: two amazing young men.
Fast forward a couple years and I met my first charmer. He love bombed the shit out of me and I fell hard. I’d never been romanced like that in my life. Well, the shine wore off and, go figure, he was a self-hating bully who isolated me, emotionally abused me for two years, and ultimately got physical. It was with him that I truly understood why some women stay in abusive relationships. Not only was I afraid to leave, but a part of me believed he could be helped, wanted help in fact, and how could I give up on him? Sadly it took him actually hitting me to break the spell.
Around that time both of my parents died within a year of each other. I was a wreck to say the least. Then I met a guy in a bar; the chemistry was undeniable. He was pretty clear that he wasn’t the commitment type, and I was pretty aware that I didn’t care right then. What ensued, however, was six and a half years of feast and famine where he fed me just enough crumbs to keep me hooked, interspersed with the occasional feasts and promises, but never resulted in anything real. I tried to leave multiple times, but he always sucked me back in. I even cheated on him, a low I’d never before stooped to. I thought if I did something so unforgivable then surely I couldn’t go back. But no, he lured me back in and confined me to purgatory for the next two years. I realized at some point that I stayed because I no longer trusted myself to be single. At least he wasn’t abusive. What if the next one was? Was I ever going to love myself enough to set healthy boundaries? Ultimately he cheated on me with his younger coworker and made the decision for me.
Over the next couple years I dated a little here and there, but nothing serious. At the time I had gone back to school. Got my degree in May of 2022, and started looking for work. I was ready to leave Texas. My boys had flown the coop and I needed to as well. A fresh start. Landed a four-month internship in New Mexico, sold the RV I had been living in for the last six years, and didn’t look back. Once that ended I got a permanent job, still in New Mexico, and embraced my new life in the mountains. After months of living in yet another tiny town, with zero prospects for dating, I reluctantly tried my luck at online dating again. A few lackluster dates under my belt and then in late November of 2023 a new match on Bumble: Ryan from Albuquerque. He was physically out of my wheelhouse, but something about his bio caught my eye. I swiped right, and will regret it for the rest of my life.
The conversation from the get go was refreshing. He seemed so in touch emotionally, had all the right things to say (insert red flag), was curious, and available. However, I was heading to Texas for nearly a month, with no time to meet in person beforehand. I mentioned this, and told him “you’ll probably find another shiny object before I get back.” He replied with, “Oh, I don’t know. I think this shiny object might be worth waiting for.” The hook was set.
I left town, and for three weeks we texted, talked, or FaceTimed for HOURS each day. Shared childhood stories, insecurities, dreams, you name it. Never had I gotten to know someone so much before getting intimate. Mind you, it did turn sexual pretty damn fast (insert red flag). Within a week he had sent me the dreaded unsolicited dick pic. After just telling me that he’d gotten in a whole mess of trouble at work for that very thing (insert red flag). But the rest seemed so refreshingly healthy I let it slide. I remember telling him multiple times that I owed his therapist a drink.
After three weeks of this, a week before I was scheduled to return home, he flew to Texas to meet me. I was blown away by the effort. Recorded the whole romantic meet-cute “first look” in the airport. We had thirty-six amazing hours together. Sometime about half way through, he blurted out that he loved me. Sure it seemed soon, but honestly I’d been choking back the same words (insert red flag). He claimed to have a vision of us getting married on the pier where we’d stood after leaving the airport. Note: Trust me, looking back I can see the signs, and it is both embarrassing and disgusting to see it in front of me like this. But at the time, I was one thousand percent under his spell already.
The next eight months were a whirlwind. He lived an hour and a half from me, but we spent most of our time together. Mostly at his place in Albuquerque, but he came to see me when his work/dad schedules allowed. He has two small kids (I have two grown kids), and while this gave me pause, I embraced it. He talked all the time about making “core memories” together. It felt so real, so genuine. He was the most caring man I’d ever dated.
By June I was nearly living with him, and we had discussed me moving in officially once the summer was over. We shared locations on our phones. He made no effort to hide his passcode when opening his; never did he act shady. Yes, he’d told me the story of why he resigned from his job. He admitted that he had overlapped with two women in the past; they’d gotten upset, and went for the jugular. Made claims to his work that he’d been sending dick pics on the job. When that didn’t get traction they upped the ante and found something that stuck. I’ll spare the details here, mainly for the sake of brevity, because believe me I’d love to call every last bit of it out. Anyway, he masterfully presented it in such a way that I actually felt sorry for him. And over the next few months I actually helped him get his career back.
August comes around. He and the kids are visiting me. His phone isn’t charging correctly and he hands it to me to see if I can see anything clogging the charging port. As I’m holding his phone I see a notification pop up. An icon I’ve never seen and it says, “You have a new message.” I take note, try not to jump to conclusions, and decide not to say anything. Then I googled the icon, 3F. A threesome dating app. The blood seemed to drain out of my body. But we were heading out for dinner and a concert with the kids. No time for a discussion like this. I kept it to myself until we got back home. When the kids were occupied I pulled up the app on my phone, showed it to him, and asked why it was on his phone. Of course by now he’d had time to delete any evidence. He froze, then said he had no idea what that app was. Tried to tell me I must have seen something else. “It looks a lot like the Threads icon. That’s probably what you saw. I can’t believe you don’t trust me.” Gaslighting 101. I asked to see his phone. He reluctantly gave it to me, but by then anything incriminating was long gone. Then I asked to see his app purchase history. At that he said he thought it was best if he left, and then fled the scene at 10pm with two sleepy, confused children (red flags galore).
Over the course of the next few weeks, thorough many deep conversations, and sob stories about working to be a better person (he went to therapy weekly), he convinced me to give him a second chance. I agreed because this was so out of line with the person I thought I knew. He’d never acted shady, and his location was never questionable. In October we were still working towards reestablishing trust. I was trying, but was admittedly struggling (all those red flags were becoming harder and harder to ignore), and it was frustrating him to be held at arm’s length. But I hadn’t quite given up. I had to go to Texas for a few weeks, and he definitely had a hard time with the physical distance. But we’d already made plans for him to fly to see me for the final weekend and then drive back together. He arrived, I introduced him to friends and family, and despite me being quite sick with an upper respiratory virus, we had a good time. I was almost hopeful that maybe we could recover.
We drove back to New Mexico and I spent the next few days sick in his bed. We had our first couples therapy session later that week. It didn’t go quite as expected. We were both asked at the beginning if we were committed to the relationship, and I said no, I was still trying to figure that out. He knew this, we’d discussed it openly. But in that moment he acted shocked; he couldn’t believe I wasn’t all in. And the therapist responded by telling us couples therapy was probably not the right route if we weren’t both sure. We were given some other options and that was that. I went home the next day. Had a hard time sleeping that night and thought of some questions for him, specifically about the dating app. I FaceTimed him the next day, and tried to get clarity. He stuck to his original story (that he’d done nothing wrong, it was simply a message to renew). Then said to me, “Since we’re being brutally honest, I should tell you that while we were in Texas I read your journal.” He knew that a previous ex (the one I was with for six years) had read my journal. He knew that was a deal breaker for me. I told him as much on the phone. The conversation continued off and on for a few days, with him gaslighting me more, even having the gall to ask ME if I was seeing someone else. But that was the final straw for me. Ironically what he’d found in my journal was a pros and cons list about him.
We cut ties and I was moving on with my life. We texted a couple times since then (early November), each time he mentioned having such a hard time, still loving me, and then explained that he had to delete me from social media because it was “too hard on his nervous system” to see me living my life. And then mid-January everything changed. To protect everyone’s privacy I won’t explain how it all came to light but here’s a snippet of what I’ve found out since then:
- He was “exclusively” seeing someone else from August until mid-January. Told her we’d broken up in early August because I didn’t want to be around his kids. Love bombed her, talked about the future, being monogamous, all the same tactics. Spent my birthday with her. Told her he was going to Austin to see friends when he flew to see me in Texas. Spent his birthday night with her while still emailing me that he was in love with me.
- She caught another woman at his house. Since then she has discovered at least three other women that were in one way or another involved with him since early December.
- The woman who originally caught him cheating reached out to me and said she and the other woman he was seeing identified SEVENTEEN other women that he’d been with over the course of their year and a half relationship.
- He was physically aggressive when confronted about it.
- There are multiple other claims about seriously unethical behavior while on the job, way beyond sending dick pics.
I lost my appetite for a week, felt physically ill. I’ve never been manipulated and deceived like this before. He regularly puts the mental and physical health of his unwitting partners at risk, with absolutely no remorse or accountability. As far as I am concerned, my sexual encounters with him are the equivalent of rape. I agreed to a monogamous relationship, and he changed the terms on me WITHOUT MY CONSENT. This man is a sexual predator, plain and simple. I feel violated and can’t imagine ever seeing the world the same again. These are core memories I won’t shake any time soon.
If this all feels vindictive, well, it is. However, I assure you, it’s far milder than what I’ve fantasized about doing. If it weren’t illegal I’d tattoo CHEATER across his forehead and chop his dick off. Or blast billboards all over New Mexico. But in lieu of anything so drastic, I hope that sharing my story can prevent at least one more woman from getting ensnared in his or another man’s web of lies. Or get the fuck out before it’s too late. Silver lining: I’ve met three of his other victims and I’m pretty sure we’re gonna be friends for life.
I don’t know when (or if) I’ll be able to trust again. I didn’t think my track record with men could get any worse. It’s embarrassing to recount all my “failures” like this. I’ve made a lot of progress with self-worth, but clearly I need to work on trusting my gut, seeing the red flags for what they are, and being far more selective when doling out my trust. I want to believe people are inherently good. I don’t want to be jaded and walled off. But knowing that dangerous men like this are out there, and how easily I fell into his trap, access to my heart and my body will be behind lock and key.
And to that twelve year old girl, YOU ARE WORTHY. None of this is your fault. I refuse to feel shame for growing up in a world where women and girls are objects to be conquered. Where men can lie, cheat, manipulate women and face ZERO consequences. A world where a convicted rapist can become president. I refuse to keep the truth to myself anymore. In the words of Gisele Pelicot: SHAME MUST CHANGE SIDES. And if you don’t know her story, educate yourself now.
