On the year that I turned nineteen, planets aligned Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. Republicans seized control of the white house, the house and the senate. The Cubs lost the World Series. Stephen King stopped using ghost writers, and wrote his own books. That year anyone that turned nineteen, was legally bound to be nineteen at all times, until their next birthday. Only people nineteen years of age and above nineteen could have, talk, or think about a sexual relationship. Censors and thought police monitored minds daily. Nightly book burnings continued at town hall meetings, fear and hate replacing knowledge. That year against the will of the state, Hallmark Cards sponsors Halloween. I'm nineteen. In junior college, still using the same state approved spell check.
All events happen in real time.
October and Rocky Horror Night, disobeying the old man. Undressed as my favorite transvestite Transylvanian. Fishnet stockings, eyeliner, Brad and Janet. Keep your Freddy Krueger, Jason and Michael. I love the blonde, tanned Rocky in gold bikinis. Unshackled dark refrain, sing and dance to the time warp, again. Boys look like girls, girls look like Goth Elvira. The poor uninitiated look on in comic terror. I'm prancing about like Lolita Wednesday Adams. Spaced out in sensation. Teasing and hot. Posing, for the voyeuristic intentions of befuddled onlookers. Acting out the juicy parts in front of the screen. Party with the stage players after the live show. Swarm the club, enjoy the attention till dawn. Wary of sunrise, a would be horror whore.
3 AM All Hallows Eve. Walking home arms folded tight, against the night. The shortcut through the cemetery is spooky. Better than the extra blocks in five inch heels. Plus every cop that passes me, thinks I'm hooking. Because I'm in panties, and creep show drag? Walking misty back streets very late at night? Oh, please. Give me some credit. The creepy grave diggers lecherous come on? All the reason to walk faster. I don't think so! What is it with old guys? Dark shadows chill more then being scantily clad. Step up the pace girlfriend, past that owl staring from the branch. And a little more to beat the oncoming thunderstorm. Mournful gusts rustling the sidewalk dead leaves. Watching the neighbors black cat on the fence, curious as she watches me. Hissing to get her reaction. Yellow eyes and arched back. Then there at the end of the Hysteria Lane, home. The house that trick-or-treat kids avoid or egg.
Not being at all quiet, I come in by way of the front door. Just as rain drops start to pelt the glass. The garage still closed tight, mom and the old man not back yet. Both at their sedate suburban Halloween party. They always stay over at the friends house. Driving back the next morning. And...snoring? Why is there a body on the couch?...Naturally, I'm drawn to it. Closer, I see my evil stepfather sprawled, sound asleep. Half eaten sandwich and chips spilled on the floor. They came home early, he's worried about kids egging the house. He can be such a pain in the ass.
It's his house, his rules. We can never do enough, or anything to please him. Yet, mom stays with him. My real father vanished to mysterious circumstances. His body never returned from the Transylvanian authorities. A gypsy woman put a medallion around my neck, in the village. She offered a blessing, then hurried away. What she means, "never lose or allow it taken" is a mystery. Just some crazy old woman with her superstitions. It's spooky cool looking. I continue to wear it. We returned to America, to rebuild our life. Dads business partner became moms new husband, my stepfather. I just wish "he" would go away.
It's a surprise, both of us here, this time of the night. Any other time I would simply dash up stairs. Except this time I feel all empowered and fearless. I danced in the aisles, been the envy of the envious. Roamed party to party after the show. Had my own show for all to see. I'm not about to hide from him now. I have no respect for him, as it were. Drinks and pharmaceuticals are talking to me very loudly! Don't dream it, be it. Calling for my blatant emergence from my dungeon closet.
As we know emotion can be a powerful mistress. And Trisha/Glynn had indeed become its slave. At five foot five inches of Psycho Sweet. Satanic rock-and-roll, Joan Jett face. Satin bustier, attitude and black panties, bunched up between my ass cheeks. Brief trembles of doubt chills me. This is not a crowd of strangers. No this is in front of the old Vincent Price ghoul of a tyrant, himself. Who would be angry, I sneaked out. Not watching the house to keep Halloween vandals away. But no. No turning back. Not now. Tossing my leather jacket, to wake him.
Bleary eyes shocked to see this hot curly haired chick. Clicking high heeled, half naked through his living room. My seductive ecstasy buzz excites me all the more. This is my moment of unruly disorder. My turn to let him know, you don't rule me. He's off the couch and meeting me half way. Knocking the plate and bottle of mustard across the floor. I pause licking my lips. Giving him a come-hither look.
"You and mom didn't go out?" I expect him to be frozen in place. While I parade past him upstairs. Yes, my sassy, sexy moment of triumph. Take that you old corpse! He's getting an eye full. I'm not about to back down now. It's a thrill rush. Being in front of him, this naked and open.
To my surprise, he walks toward me and asks "Did you come here with Glynn?" He thinks I'm one of my girlfriends! My small curvy body compared to him must seem very girly. This throws me off for a second. I don't know what to say. I glance at the stairs, back at the jacket lying on the floor. My daze broken by his strong grip on my arm. "You don't need to be here" I can smell the liquor on his breath. He's drunk. He shouts upstairs. "Hey boy, wake up! Get down here!" Dragging me to the stairs. Still calling out.
"Glynn get down here" My eyes wide, a dozen thoughts at once.
He doesn't know it's me. I feel relived, scared, disappointed and confused at the same time. His grip increases, sparking a momentary domination fantasy. With each playful step, I'm flirting, teasing. Playing with my hair and leaning into his body. Kick the mustard bottle, spills on the stairs. I'm casting him spooky naughty girl eyes. Taking his scotch, and downing it straight. I'm on the verge of saying; It's me you idiot. Saying goodnight and running upstairs. Until he slaps and squeezes my butt. "You think you're pretty don't you, you look like a tramp. Lucky his mothers not here, lucky for me that is." Moms not here. We are alone, just me and him! His hands fingering between my cheeks. I try to climb the stairs faster and trip on the high heels.
Stupidly, falling into his open arms. Grinning, laughing, and drunkenly feeling me up. I try to push him away. That only put my butt in his hands. His powerful grip scares me. My plaything naughty self, is caught charade.
"Be careful, don't break anything" Looking upstairs, listening, of course hearing nothing.
"His mother won't be back until I go get her. And that boy could sleep through his own funeral" I stare at him stunned. He leans in close, my wrist locked in his grip.
"You want him to know you're down here whoring for me?" Before I can answer he squeezes my arms painfully, pushing me against the wall. The drunk smell intoxicates me all the more. I try to turn my head. He slaps my face and covered my mouth with his own. My eyes wide, my legs weaken with panic.
Stunned at him, frozen, being forcefully kissed. I break away, pulling my mouth from his. Angry at the rejection he slap me, to face the wall. Pawing my ass, and thighs. Oh my God, don't do this to me. His mouth hot on my neck. Kicking my feet apart, his strength takes me down.
"You on the pill or something?" I shake my head no, confused. "Fuck it then, you can take it up the ass, bet it's not your first time" He pulls the belt from his pants. "Stupid painted up whore!" Whipping me. For all my bad boy bravado, all I can muster is a crying "no, no."
"We can start with these" Pulling the long braided wrap of beads from my neck. My gypsy medallion chain and pendant falling to the floor.
Sharp leather stings, drive me to my hands and knees. My stepfather treating me like a dirty street slut. He inserts bead after bead, into my ass. The strand long as I am tall. I lifted it from moms jewelry, to put back before it's missed. Each time his rough fingertips tucks more into me, I feel more violated. More ashamed. Moms pretty necklace taken from me, without a fight. For all my anger at him, I'm afraid to lift my head and face him. Now he's filling me with it. Laughing at me and taunting me. He thinks I'm really a girl.
"Looks better in you, than it did on you!"
His belt answers when I try to resist. The old man pauses to view his work of me. Kneeling, crying scared to move. Ass full of her bead necklace. Enough hanging out for him play with, degrading me more. Tugging at the strand, laughing. Then the raw ugly feeling, his mouth to my ear. "Try not to piss yourself" Slowly pulling the long strand out. Dozens of grape sized balls inch by inch. Each one sending shivers through my body. Lash of the belt and stimulation of the beads. Back and forth, pleasure and pain. His new pathetic plaything. Never I have known such gross humiliation. The very knowledge it is "HIM" doing this to me. My mouth bitter with the taste of copper pennies. Bringing me to whimper in deeper shame.
I hate this idiot. The way he rules her. Since the they married. She was never the same. That constant beaten look. On her knees in the rose garden looking up at him. Being more docile everyday. He scolds us, what to do, when to come home. His house, his rules. She never says a word. The sounds that come from that room. Slaps, shouting, crying. Whatever he did to her, she has that Stepford Wife look. She never complains, running about. Getting his drinks, his paper. When he raises his voice, she jumps. I hate him. His persistent crude remarks. I vow, I will get even. Oh, how I wanted to show where he could get off.
Now he is about to get off, with me. My boy muscles only serve to look kinky. The old pervert treated to my girlishly smooth butt. Now splattered with yellow mustard. Fingers lubricating me for entry, the spicy sauce burning. I elbow at his face, striking his jaw. Kicking, pushing. Trying to stand. Another belt lash. Fight him, turn back, fight him, my determination shouting at me. Then all my defiance, easily overcome with the rude insertion of his long middle finger into my butt. Not beads anymore, his naked finger up inside of me. My knees pinch together. Toes pointed. Scared, angry, confused. Painted red lips form a candy-o, kissing at empty air. My own fingers flexing at nothing. Ending up clutched tight. Sucking air through clenched teeth, I wriggle vainly at the intrusion.
He presses deeper without hesitation, to the knuckle. My mind spinning, he's my step dad. No, no, this is sick. Make him stop. All the while he takes control. And I lose control. He challenges, probes, preparing me. In and out, finger fucking me. Watching my downward spiral, nails lightly brushing my skin, down my spine. Sensing my will nearing it's end, he releases me. Save for that one trespassing finger, violating my ass.
Only holding me in place with a single finger. I can bolt for the top of the stairs. He's just a drunk old man. I'm young and fast. I can get away. My hands grips the rail post. My goal, top of the stairs. Legs poised to....
