I have never written well about being raped. I’ve scratched down thousands of words, many scattered, mostly dispensing the facts, sometimes conveying my horror. But I’ve never produced a good piece of writing about it.
What do I want you to understand about my experience? It hardened me. I left New York the following morning a street kid, willing to let anyone suck me for $5 when I needed it. I left a punk, you could suck me, but I’d never get off.
Is that what I want you to know? Is that who I wanted to be, a bitter wise ass who held back the goods? Yes and no. Beforehand I told every john they could, but I wouldn’t. A bit too honest to be considered an act of revenge.
Yes I was angry, but the tricks only procured provisions for my mission; finding a boyfriend. It took a lot of time away from home and school. I was on foot, miles away from where I should have been. It took a lot of cigarettes and burgers to be out so far and so long.
I needed a boyfriend more than before the rape. Just as being molested in the theater amplified my emptiness into a nagging hunger, the rape completely shut me down, and I was starving. I was incapable of what I so desperately believed would make me whole. But the recipe was toxic, this boyfriend had to be a magic straight boy, not a broken queer like me. His love had to be a dire crisis that only I could solve. Our lives together could only be that moment right before my kiss healed him. Because it would break the magic and we would crumble down in to our ugly everyday, just two fags neither getting what he needed.
Is that what I want you to know, just how choked my thinking was?
I want to write the piece that puts it to bed. But when I look at it, I can’t muster the imagination to hold it in a comprehensive arc. To this day, it’s still below words. I will do it, just not today.