When I was fifteen I moved in with my dad and two older brothers, the only female in a household of males. The apartment was just a few blocks from a bread bakery and oh the delicious aromas that assaulted my nostrils! This seemed like a good omen of sorts, this living in a neighborhood which smelled of freshly baked bread.
The only concern my mother voiced about my moving out was, “How will you get your feminine products without your dad and brothers seeing them?” This seemed to be a great worry to her, more so than the reasons for my moving out in the first place. Did she spend sleepless nights wondering if and when I’d tell my dad everything that had gone down in that House of Incest? Did she wait nervously for the irate phone call from Dad, or flinch each time there was an unexpected knock at the door? If so, she hid well such fears, allowing herself to express concern only for the logistics of my getting feminine products into my father’s household without anyone being any the wiser.
I didn’t understand this concern. Freedom is heady stuff, and boy had I hit the jackpot! By joining my father’s household I’d said goodbye to sexual slavery and embraced the wonder of owning my body for the first time in over eight years. I didn’t care who saw my feminine products.
I remember the first time I walked to the corner store for tampons. When I was back in the privacy of my bedroom (the room my brother had willingly vacated so that I could have that privacy) I decided to keep them on my dresser top, right smack in full view of anyone who wandered in. On some level I was testing this male household, flaunting the evidence of my femaleness with my box of tampons right out in plain sight. No more hiding the evidences of my gender as if they were hideous and capable of contamination.
Was this a safe household? Would seeing the accouterments of my femininity tempt a father, a brother into perverted acts? I had to know. I had to know the lay of the land, and so I boldly proclaimed my womanhood by purposely not hiding my feminine products and lacy bras.
When I get up during the night to use the bathroom will there be an unwanted touch and crude comments whispered in my ear? Do you see the curve of my hips, the swell of my blossoming breasts? Do they drive you to the madness of sexual perversion?
Oh, deep inside on a level I wasn’t even aware of lurked the suspicion that my step dad’s unholy acts with my flesh were all my own doing: my fault for being born female. If my flesh could drive him to molestation and rape wouldn’t it be the same with any man?
I left my tampons and lacy bras in plain view, a sort of double-dog dare. I wouldn’t have thought of parading through the apartment half-naked, deliberately exposing myself to my male household. But this I would do: boldly proclaim my femaleness in less obvious ways and hope against hope that it was safe to do so. Either way, I had to know.
For the year and a half that I lived under my dad’s roof, I was safe. Safe in ways I couldn’t have imagined such safety during the years with my mother and step-dad. No foul comments caused me mortification and endless embarrassment, there were no mocking, snickering remarks about my developing body. My dad and brothers conducted themselves as they should have, and for this I’ll be forever grateful.
Richard Murch 16 days ago
.. Very nice recorded memories…
Beautifuldreamer 16 days ago
Thank you Richard!