After my assault, my life changed a lot.

For the sake of the sex diary, I have to fill in some details that I feel really inform the next rungs on my sexual ladder. But I won’t bore you with a novel, skip a few paragraphs if you want to get to the good parts.

I went through a pretty conventional cycle, now that I look back on it: my first emotions around it were of shame. I felt so stupid and helpless; the question that kept showing up in my mind was “How could you be so FUCKING DUMB?” And so I kept it private, and didn’t tell a soul for a long time.

Junior year started just three weeks after the assault. I changed in ways my friends remarked on: I was suddenly socially nonexistent, quiet for things that they knew me to be loud about. I very much retreated into myself and built a wall. But though I stopped being so vocal, I became even more radical. I felt filled with righteous rage. I took an introductory women’s studies class my sophomore year, and in my junior year, made it my minor. The things I learned obviously spoke to me and let me depersonalize my rage and direct it at patriarchy and capitalism; cute, considering I was a marketing major.

Naturally, I lost all appetite for dating and for men in general. I deleted the profile, and after a few months, was sure I’d never want to date a man again.

It’s only now in hindsight that I can understand why I did some of the things I did that school year. When the semester started, I immediately ditched a marketing course for a women’s studies one, making two that I had that fall. A month in, I literally took my dad’s clippers to my head, and gave myself a really, really bad buzz cut. I got a tattoo under my left breast, and then another on my left shoulder blade, and another underneath my right ass cheek (not saying exactly what they are, pervs). I got my left ear a second and third piercing, and my right labia its first. After the labia piercing, I stopped shaving my bush; after all, no one was seeing or touching it. I covered up again, like in high school: sports bras and loose-fitting shirts that hid the girls, long skirts that hid my ass and legs—a lot of black and other solid colors.

These aesthetic changes weren’t strategic so much as they were an exploration of identity. Today’s me cringes at the pictures taken, even though I’m mostly jealous. Any artist’s best work is done when they’re experimenting, and that’s what it was: I needed control over my body, the controlled pain of a tattoo, having something external represent some pain, even if literally no one saw it. Well, Quinn saw them, and was really happy and excited for me, but she knew nothing of the assault.

My mom and I had a very cliched conversation about the hair and the piercing, she showing concern and I being utterly disdainful, assuming she could never, possibly, in a million years understand, and I now regret the assumption. She did what any loving mother would do: check in. She tried hard not to judge, not to warn me against what “people” would think, but expressed curiosity. However, I was a fortress, and repaid the approach like defenders on a wall would, with boiling oil and arrows.

When I think back, of course, that must have been concerning for my parents, because not only was I doing all this shit to my appearance, but I also was SO ANGRY ALL THE TIME. Again, this was a stage of trauma recovery, though I didn’t know what that was, and it’s obvious now that the anger was about what had happened. I’d be normal in a totally mundane situation, something would happen that should have been a minor annoyance, and then at that, I’d express a rage that had never come out in public before.

My dating life vanished into nonexistence; not only did I not have any lines out, I put on such a “do not fuck with me!” vibe that even the cockiest of horny men didn’t care to put in the effort. If I was ever alone at a cafe or running errands, I noticed a massive decline in the amount of random approaches I would get. Even though achieving this level of carapacity felt good for that time, it was based on fear, because I had no way of knowing I could ever trust any man again. It felt like the incident could happen again with any new guy the moment I let my guard down.

One positive side-effect of it, though, was that I became monk-like in my studies. For me, that was the school year of reading great books and thinking great thoughts. I got very deep into feminism and cultural studies, and aced the Marketing Statistics Methods class, usually the junior level class that would force people to change majors or retake it. I was also laying the groundwork for my senior thesis the following year, narrowing my interests and brainstorming topics. I made a great impression on my two favorite professors that semester, one of whom would advise on my thesis.

My parents were great, and living there as an adult was not oppressive at all, but I could never be fully and comfortably myself there. So I contemplated moving out, though I’d need to work on the finances canlı bahis for a bit. Quinn and I talked about being roommates, and we got very close. Having a goal, even one as simple as that, focused not only my mind, but the relationship. We spent a lot of time at each other’s houses, and got even more personal. We talked about jobs and ways we could make some extra money, each of us giving ourselves a $1,000 goal, at which point we could make our jump. We revealed much more about our fears, failures, and insecurities.

There was an emotional night where I did really badly in an interview earlier that day. I sought Quinn out like a drug, looking for something to make me feel better without getting stoned since I didn’t know when I’d have to get drug tested. I texted Quinn and she invited me over immediately; I think I shed a little tear over how sweet she was to me.

When I showed up at her door, she opened it and hugged me, and of course I exploded into tears. She didn’t shush me, but she held me tight and rubbed my back, which was soothing, and also made me cry harder. But she held me for a good while, letting me openly weep into her chest for all the world to see. “Okay, c’mon,” she said softly after a minute. I couldn’t blame her for treating me like a sad puppy; that’s what I was.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but Quinn went into parent mode, and I can see now that she was adopting a coping strategy that many parents use when their kid has suffered a terrible injustice and there’s nothing the parent can do to take that back: she put me to work. “I need your help,” she said and guided me to the kitchen where she then made me chop stuff. I felt like I could barely hold the knife at first, then got used to it. Luckily, it was a really good knife and it went smoothly through the bell peppers and garlic. “No, look, I need these in a minute. Here!” She caught me crying and showed me how to make slices in an instant. “Do this please, this oil is…burning.”

We wrecked her kitchen. Ultimately, we got all the stuff chopped and into the pan on time, with some droplets of oil on our arms accompanied by screams. What came out though, was good old-fashioned comfort food. It was a pile of thin soy noodles with all kinds of things stirred in, spicy but not obnoxiously so. Quinn tasted it on the stove and tentatively approved. She judged herself the hardest, because that instinct has to exist in an artist. From culture or compassion, she deferred to me: “This came out good, but only because you cut the things really well.”

I muttered a thank you as I filled a large bowl to the brim and fucking crushed it. It wasn’t just good, it was spectacular—the best memory of noodles ever, and I had helped to make them—but of course Quinn could’ve done everything herself. Though the kitchen was messy, because it was big, it still looked manageable. The house smelled of wonderful food aromas; I’ve no idea what spices she used, but something gave up a beauty that made me sneeze with delight.

It was getting dark when we finished our noodle feast. We didn’t talk about much, but I asked about her parents as they didn’t seem to be around at all; they had taken a quick trip to Vegas and would be back the next day. I was a little relieved, as I was still in the age of wanting to be nice to a friend’s parents but didn’t want to have to pretend around them. I felt like shit and it was nice to have this space to cry and be ugly.

Back then, streaming wasn’t as amazing as it is, and so a lot of people had DVD sets of their favorite shows. In Quinn’s case, it was Buffy, and she put on the second season. I don’t even remember what, but something in it made me start to cry (again) and we went from being on opposite ends of the couch, to me laying on my side with my feet on her lap. It felt instinctive, done as anyone would do for any friend, but Quinn began to rub my feet.

It was something I didn’t know I needed but did desperately: she did it almost professionally, putting pressure on the balls, using her thumbs to knead them to the best of her power. I didn’t clock it at the time, but it was the most intimate physical contact I had had since the assault six months ago. The feeling was indescribable to people who don’t know…there’s a reason people charge for this. It was the climax of an episode where I was feeling all the sensations at once—of a good TV show with hot people for my eyes, my sweet, beautiful, best friend rubbing my feet, and the music rising up filling my ears that I finally…moaned.

It wasn’t subtle, and it kind of went in rhythm to my feet pressing against Quinn’s hands, but right after I moaned, I felt the hands go limp and I kind of woke up from the reverie. Quinn looked taken aback, and her hands stopped moving, her eyes darted and she seemed to be looking for something. “I’m sorry,” I said, retracting my legs off her lap.

“No! Nononono, it’s okay, you’re fine!” She stroked my back more. I sobbed; I don’t know why. I was overwhelmed with emotion at the time. “Okay, c’mon,” bahis siteleri she said and laid down parallel to me. I was on my right side, facing the TV, and she curled up right behind me, draping her left arm over me, but because of the girls, there was almost nowhere else for her hands to go, and she had no choice but to try and tuck underneath, but still very much in contact with them. “I’m sorry, they’re just…uhm…”

“No, it’s fine. Thank you. This is really nice, actually.” My right hand held her wrist where it was, tucked under my breasts, and I felt so secure. I let out a deep sigh. “Can you see okay?”

“Mhm.”

It wasn’t that late, I didn’t realize how tired I was, and my blinks just got longer and longer until I dozed off. I awoke sometime later, very gently, my eyes blinking open to the dim glow of a dark scene on the television, feeling just as comfortable as before but with a slight urge to move, and that was when I felt and remembered Quinn’s body curled up with mine. I listened carefully and she seemed asleep, breathing slowly and evenly into my neck. It felt so nice that I closed my eyes again and just tried to savor the feeling of safety in Quinn’s arms. Little silent tears formed in my eyes, one of them falling over the bridge of my nose and into the pillow where my head rested. Quinn was such a beautiful person and I felt so full of love for her.

While I wanted to stay like that forever, I could feel a little cramp on one of my legs and so shifted it a little. When I did, I felt Quinn jump a little bit. “Mmm, hey. You awake?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s go up to bed. Come on; this couch is lumpy as shit.” She hopped off first, then reached down and grabbed my hands to help me up. She’d never tried to pull me up before and her strength was surprising. As we started going up the stairs, Quinn asked “Do you wanna brush your teeth? We have extra toothbrushes.”

“Oh, yes please.” Quinn led me to her bathroom upstairs and dug around in the cabinet under the sink until she found a wrapped toothbrush with the contact info of a dentist on it. I said thanks and she stepped aside to leave me in front of the sink.

“There’s the toothpaste, and yeah…hey, do you mind if I grab a quick shower? I usually do before bed.”

“No…go for it.”

“Thanks.”

It didn’t occur to me in the moment that she meant she would get in that particular shower. I thought she was excusing herself from the room, but then peeled off her shirt and whisked her pants and panties down right there next to me. I only saw it out of the corner of my eye, and as she started the strip I wanted to seem nonchalant, and so I didn’t say anything or stare but put the toothpaste back and jammed the brush in my mouth.

The shower curtain rings clattered as she slid it back and turned on the water. I took a quick glance: she was a hottie. Though she didn’t really exercise, she had an adorable petite frame, her skin a dark shade of brown that ran evenly throughout her body. Her butt was very cute, not plump but still firm and, frankly, a good handful. I was lucky that the noise of the shower covered the fact that I had stopped brushing in order to let my eyes linger, so that when she turned back I could turn back to the mirror and pantomime tooth-brushing. I was wide awake now, and felt my heart racing.

She then lifted the seat cover of the toilet and sat on it. We both seemed to be staring at the ceiling trying hard not to notice each other. I couldn’t help but get caught stealing a glance though, and she caught me. “Sorry,” she said. “I like to pee before getting in the shower because I don’t like doing it in there.”

“It’s all good.” Her tits were small, but very perky with dark brown nipples and small areolas. I’d seen her topless before (we’ve gone clothes shopping together) but this felt like a very different context. She was totally nude except for her jewelry, and I was in her personal space while she peed. The running shower hid the sound of it, and helped to kind of hide my awkwardness. She summarily stood up and flushed the toilet. Again, I stole a glance as she spun around to get into the shower; she had a very cute, small, black bush. I couldn’t tell if she trimmed it or groomed it that way, or if it was natural. She then stepped into the tub and closed the curtain.

My teeth clean, I rinsed the brush and was about to leave when I heard Quinn from the shower: “You want a t-shirt to sleep in?”

I was in jeans and a tank, and kind of dying to take my bra off after a long day. “Yeah, thanks.”

“What?”

“I said yes, thanks!” yelling over the rushing water. “Wait, do you even have something that’ll fit me?” Quinn was way smaller than me, especially in the bust, and I’d never seen her wear anything terribly loose or flexible.

“Okay hang on, I’ll be out in a minute.” I didn’t know what else to do, so I just stared at the mirror and played with my face. I could hear Quinn’s motions as the water splashed around, and she pulled the curtain a bit to expose bahis şirketleri her face. “Hey, wanna get in while it’s hot?”

“Yeah…sure.” In the split second inside those ellipses, I was suddenly very aware of my body, how turned on I was, and started to think that maybe Quinn was…interested. Was it possible? We had bonded quickly as friends and were even familiar with each other’s bodies to an extent, but despite all that, Quinn never threw out “gay vibes.” She’d only ever talked about men in sexual or romantic contexts, and of course as far as I knew only dated men. Maybe nothing was on offer, we were just getting comfortable, just us girls…

In taking off my tank top I got a whiff of my BO, and was suddenly really glad to be taking a shower. I wondered if I stank, and that’s why Quinn was heavily suggesting that I take one. It’d been a full day since I applied deodorant that morning; no one wants to cuddle up with that. It was when I freed my tits from the sports bra that I felt a wave of relief, though. Even though they didn’t sag, they were still pressed in that thing and I couldn’t help but give myself a little massage. I slipped my plain black cotton underwear off and rubbed the spot where the elastic had been chafing.

Quinn’s head peaked behind the curtain, “Get in, I’m almost done. Wow! Your tattoo looks really good when I see the uh…whole picture.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled shyly as I stepped toward the shower, my eyes cast down. I still wasn’t sure at all where this was going, but over the last few months I’d built a trust with Quinn that rivaled any pair of siblings.

There had to be an element of attraction as well that was laying siege to my fortress and sapping my walls: Quinn was about my age (20) and gorgeous. When I stepped into the shower, she looked downright alluring dripping wet. “Wow!” she said, putting her hands on my hips and turning me to better see the tattoo on the side of my thigh. As before, she was so firm as she grabbed me, and I could feel myself melting.

One more factor to mention at this point: it had been more than six months since my assault, and I was starving for sex. Amidst the swirl of feelings and having to fake it a bit to keep going with an outwardly normal life, I basically tried to shut that part of my mind down. Obviously I hadn’t had sex; I didn’t even have the potential to have sex because I didn’t go on a single date. Perhaps worse than that, I stopped masturbating and eventually grew uncomfortable with my own sexual thoughts. I mostly avoided arousal, and I sought pain to clamp it down. On a few occasions where I couldn’t get pierced and the feelings came fast, I just found a quiet place and cried. I’m able to say in retrospect that I was so ashamed of what had happened that I was trying to punish my sexuality; it was classic suppression. I buried Andre in a drawer and hadn’t taken him out once. And now, this incontrovertibly gorgeous girl with perfect brown skin was wet and naked in front of me.

She turned around and put her head under the water, massaging her own scalp and practically presenting her firm, perfect tits to my face. “Sorry, one sec, I just want to scrape the shit out. Are you cold?”

“No.”

“Okay…can you get my back?” She turned around and her right hand poked back, offering me a loofah.

I took it and was about to start scrubbing her; “Is there soap on it?”

“What?!”

“Is there soap on it!?” I kept forgetting that the noise of the shower was making indoor voice impossible.

“Yeah, I put that body wash. There’s more if you want it.” She took her hair in her hand and moved it to one side, exposing her neck. I tentatively put the loofah on her upper back, moving in wide circles. “What the fuck? How are you gonna exfoliate?” She turned around, took my free hand and put on her hip, then took my loofah-ed hand and pressed it hard on her shoulder. “Scrub hard please, like, hard!”

“Okay! Damn, bitch!” We giggled as I did as she requested, crushing that bad boy on her back. Being a bit bigger than her, I could really shove it onto her back and she buckled a little under the pressure. I worried she might slip in the shower, but we were steady on our feet. I worked from the top of her back to the bottom. She looked back and smiled midway through it. I was grinning from ear to ear.

“There!” I said when I finished her lower back, stopping short of her butt. Impulsively, I gave her a good smack on her left butt cheek.

She yelped. “BITCH! Okay, okay, here! And she steadied herself with my hips while we changed places. The water was at a perfect level of heat; it hurt for the first second, then got great. I moved my head under the spray and let it cascade over my body, I scrubbed with my fingernails under my buzz cut: so very soothing. My eyes were closed and my face uplifted, and in a few seconds got self-conscious of the fact that I was waving my (much larger) tits in Quinn’s (much more level) face. She wasn’t making any move to get out. I turned around and started moving my hands about like I was in any normal shower by myself, all the while wondering again, what exactly was going on here. Quinn seemed to be clearly dawdling, as I saw from some movement out of the corner of my eye.