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If I wanted pizza, she made it for me. She spoiled me and made me first in her life. This, of course, created tension with my father who was supposed to be first in her life.

The problem was that he wanted me to be with her because he knew it made her happy he even told me this and so for the most part I spent time with my mother and he left us alone.

My mother, before and after the actual incest, did dress in a revealing way toward me and would allow me to see her in her lingerie.

Who needed Playboy when I had my mother? She was not interested in my body; she only wanted me to be interested in her body.

I call what happened with my mother incest and not rape. There is a big debate among psychologist as to whether a man can be raped.

Perhaps this is true but for me it was incest. My mother waited for me to take the first move. She did, of course, present herself to me in an attractive way but in waiting for me to make the first move she smeared me with the guilt.

If I had not made the first move then she would have ignored me and eventually I would have been homeless. But in the process of becoming homeless my mother would have insured that my father and all others around her would have thought it was my fault.

My mother, in public, is a regal figure and has fooled most people and her opinion holds weight. And I needed female attention so why not pay attention to my mother.

The rewards were great-up to a point. I was spoiled and spoiled and spoiled. But my mother would sometimes have to stop spoiling me because the situation would be too obvious to everyone else.

Though I gave her emotional security, my father gave her financially security to a point, but much more than I could and so she had to please him for this reason also.

My mother taught me adultery. This was the worst thing about the incest. She told me she could. I did not believe her.

The next day, while studying for my mid-term, she returned to tell me that she had wanted these children, that her mother would support her with everything she might need, and that she would not terminate the pregnancy.

She blamed me for putting her in the position to even have to decide and I reminded her of her initial threat. Enough with that already!

I had never been a victim my entire life. Would I ever be okay? Would I ever be whole? Could a heart break if it was already broken? We lived together until her mandatory bed rest a month and a half later.

She insisted on going to all of the Pride events in New York City regardless of my warnings. She even went to Provincetown with friends, a weekend full of walking about.

She was so angry when the doctor told her she had dilated. And, she blamed me. I returned to my inferno and attempted more home improvement projects as the time passed before the girls came.

The sonogram proved two little gems. I nearly lost my head. I had very unfairly longed for a boy to help with my responsibilities. When we parted ways, I even sent her an excel spreadsheet with her income and expenditures.

She was not aware of how much money she made. I thought I did it all because I loved her and wanted to make our family work.

Maybe this is the best life had to offer. Maybe this is the best I could hope for in having someone love me. How awful of me to wish to share that responsibility with a little boy.

God had finally done me something right. She allowed me to pick the names for the girls. The long and boisterous one was named after my mother and the smaller one was named after an Amazonian jungle spirit.

I had started sleeping on the sofa after she threatened to abort them and never shared a bed with her again.

I was scared that I would start cutting myself again to tolerate the pain. I scratched my skin, pinched myself, and pricked little holes and lines to remind myself that I was alive.

I wrote to the friends I had made on my trips and confided in them, but otherwise, I was completely alone. I continued to buy the girls little things, to create the baby registry for any showers we might have, and to organize the house as best I could.

There was no denying that I was overcome with depression and longed to just stop my little heart from beating. As I sanded the floor in their nursery, I scolded myself repeatedly for staining the fresh pine with my tears over and over again.

Once a crying fit started, I could not control myself. I nearly sanded that floor down to the spikes.

The day that the girls were born, I ran to the hospital to greet them for their first breaths. For more than six hours, she and her mother reminded me that only one person could be in the delivery room because the girls would be born in an operating room to be prepared for any complications associated with a multiple pregnancy.

When I could take it no more, I asked what they wanted and she told me that she preferred her mother be in the delivery room.

Who is going to fight with a pregnant woman in the middle of delivery? I conceded. Her mother was to video tape their births for me.

The nurse was thrown by the question, stumbled, and returned a response that alluded to all babies being red when they first come out.

I was appalled, but scolded by her mother when I asked if she had actually said that because there had been complications and she required a blood transfusion.

She should be the priority at the moment. Not my feelings. She had commented to me that she would be unable to raise white babies. I certainly was not black — creamy, at best.

Their donor was Hawaiian, Puerto Rican, and Filipino. Had she hoped that they would develop her skin tone in utero?

Would she be able to raise my children after all? They could not take my parent bracelet away from me, so I was able to stay a few hours with my precious girls in the pediatric intensive care unit.

The younger one had difficulty warming up and I sang to her, brushed her hair, and reminded her that she would never be alone.

The one named for my mother was comfortable and I dressed her with the nurse and fed her when the time came. They would never be mine.

My life was always going to be wondering about them, praying for them, and begging them to forgive me. I loved my girls even before they came into this world and they would be stolen from me forever.

I was born with a broken heart and it will stay that way until I leave this place. You cruel fucking bitch. I wish I could slap her face.

I wish I could take the coffee cup from her hand and splash the wine across the cream colored walls. I wish I could grab those shards and cut open her thick skin, make her human again, show her that she could still bleed.

I hate your fucking ass, too. She talks of her long legs — none finer on a giraffe. She bends slightly to show the curve in her hips — none rounder on any childbearing woman.

She puckers out her breasts like a child her lips — non suppler on a cow. I look at her ugly soul every day of my life and try in vain to trade it in to the devil.

Mother says no one will buy the cow if you give the milk away for free. The clock is ticking. And then what? At least this way, I might be able to convince her to let me keep going to school and I can get a scholarship to college.

She tells me dreams are for little girls who can actually see butterflies. She makes me do pelvic exercises every morning. She still leaves me some privacy.

Not that ma ever tries. I had fallen onto the pole hard as hell and she nearly broke my head. I thought she was going to lift me up and make me feel better.

She had seen the Lifetime depiction of Sybil. Who is inspired by a schizophrenic? I want to come out of this alive. We live off of welfare.

She was waitressing and they mugged her in the back lot. Anyway, she convinced them that she would never recover.

She even found a doctor to say that her back injuries would constantly hamper her possibilities of holding down a job. She was popping pills way before that incident and she still moves around enough to keep up with her OCD.

We take the pictures. I have no grand illusion of Richard Gere climbing up my fire escape after he samples my goods. I sleep on the couch in the combination living room kitchen.

Ma would probably trap him in her bedroom and hold him hostage until he agreed to maintain her habit. Just two more years. I could survive two more years.

I had nearly sixteen under my nickers. She should have just put up a Christmas calendar — the daily countdown was that momentous. I stopped eating.

I threw myself into my books and created a parallel universe. I was a huntress. I ran with coyotes. I had a coffee colored horse named Bandit.

I was free. Is there something special you would like? Not like an Xbox, but something manageable? I wanted nothing from her.

I wanted to rescind my birth and choose another canal to travel through. This would be the last night that my body would be completely mine.

When she went to bed, I laid down and took off my pants. I explored each little hair. I touched my clitoris, followed the soft grooves.

I tried different fingers, savoring the sensation I could give myself. When I was happy that I knew myself well, I followed the contour down to my juicy hole.

I put one finger in and then two. I tried different combinations. I moved slow and then fast. I went deep and pulled my fingertips up towards my navel.

This would be the last time that my body was mine. That morning, I went to the bathroom before she woke. I took some of her painkillers and hid them in my panties.

She had left me a new set, bra and all. We went to a hotel by the railway. She checked in as mother and daughter. I swallowed all of the pills. I think I fell asleep because his hands were upon me before I could say a word.

I looked up. He moved my eyes away from him and told me not to try to look at him again. He moved me onto my side.

I had known him since the first grade, before Charlotte was moved to private school. From All The Fallen Stories.

You instantly feel guilty for even trying to ask. Mom reaches out to you, explaining, "Kimonos always go left over right! I'm not the one who doesn't know how a kimono works!

Your dad straightens up a little, awkwardly clearing his throat. You can be honest. Stare daddy down as he answers. Ask them why they're acting so weird Duck out of your robe and grab something else to cover up with.

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