Even at a young age you can tell something's seriously fucked with your head. Especially when something freaky happens and you willfully choose not to do anything about it. Then, a decade later, you wonder where the trajectory of that very moment took you. For me, that moment came at 18, when I was hanging out at my boyfriend's watching a movie.
We were sitting on the floor under the watchful eye of his stern disciplinarian uncle Ray sitting in a recliner behind us, next to his wife. My boyfriend was in front of me and I side-sat between him and his uncle, all of us forming a lazy half circle so no one's view was obstructed. In the middle of the movie, his uncle's bare foot made contact with my leg.
It felt like what I thought an electric prod would feel. Immediately, I wanted to cry. It was an unwelcome touch and it brought up all the unpracticed emotions you'd think it would. Betrayal, apprehension. He was a mean man, a scary man. My heart beat fast and I felt that deep fear.
His wife also sat in a recliner next to his, but she said nothing. And I didn't want to make a scene, so I waited for her to.
And yet I didn't do anything to move away. I just sat there quietly and watched the movie and knew that touch wasn't an accident. Pretending it didn't happen seemed like the best way to handle it, but it felt wrong, it felt I was doing something wrong. The foot was a question and me not moving away was an intentional answer.
Uncle Ray talked throughout the movie, grousing about everything. How women portrayed in it helped deteriorate norms. How back in his day all women wore skirts. How all decent women he remembered wore pantyhose, like his wife. Subtly, saying how men were in charge. His foot never moved, just kept constant contact with my leg.
Him saying 'pantyhose' several times wasn't an accident either, I just knew that. He was telling me something subtly. His foot swept up and down my leg just a little, reminding me it was there. It wasn't an accident. He touched me on purpose, it was a fondle now. My silence answered for me.
He brought the pantyhose up several times predictably and that's when I knew I was fucked because I paid more attention to his talking than the movie, my mind greatly disturbed by his inappropriate foot, my situation an unrecognizable kind of a turn on where I felt cornered and knew I could do nothing about it. He pressed and I didn't defend myself.
His foot touching me was a demonstration of his power over me, because in the moment I didn't muster enough will power to make a protest. Longer it went on, I felt more intensely cornered. Once, I looked back behind me to see whether this was just an absent-minded mistake, and both him and his wife stared into my eyes expressionlessly.
She saw. She knew he was doing it. Her not telling him to stop scared me even more and I went back to watching the movie, keeping quiet. This was terrifying. He held power over his household, an older man usurping his nephew's relationship, taking what he wanted. Humiliating his wife, who just stared and quietly let it happen.
The feeling of being caught up in this was intoxicating and to my trembling surprise, I wanted to hear everything he wanted to say, the touching had my full attention. His repetitive comments were predictable and I felt a great yearning to want to predict what he'd say and to be as meek and obedient as his wife. It surprised me at how much I wanted it.
As he'd start a tirade about what women in pantyhose did, I held my breath until a magic word came and released me from his spell. The anticipation I felt listening to him talk was unhinged-level crazy, I had no idea why I was doing it but I waited for the moment he said the word and each time shame hit me for wearing jeans and an urgent breath I allowed myself burned a reward into my memory for guessing correctly when he'd say it. Me, the younger delectable dessert who he could take if he wanted. The submissive one who didn't know she was.
He sent his wife to bed since she had to go to work early and my heart beat faster when he did. But then the movie ended too soon and I felt crushing shame when it was time for me to go home.
Few days later I was driving late to school and I felt like crying because it wasn't my fault that I was running late but it was my third tardy that year and I'd get written up for it, and it just then hit me that it'd be better if I just pretended to be sick and skipped a day because the consequences of that were lesser. Those incentives were just badly designed.
But instead of turning around and driving home I kept driving forward aimlessly, that is until I saw a pharmacy. I parked far away from the entrance because I wasn't in any hurry and walked in and bought pantyhose with my lunch money. Dark brown, I'll never forget the color. This I soon wore under my jeans and nothing else, my panties and bra tossed in the back seat.
Then I drove to Ray's.
The whole time I felt fear, I was shaking.
Ten minutes of waiting in my parked car with my brain shut off, unsure of why I was afraid, equally unsure of why I was there, I finally walked out very slowly toward his door. He tapped into something I didn't even know was there.
My knock would bring him to the door, I imagined. His wife was at work early.
He'd tell me my boyfriend wasn't there, I guessed.
Then I'd tell him I wasn't there looking for my boyfriend.
He'd invite me in without asking why, I was sure of it.
And without explaining myself, I'd show him that I was wearing pantyhose. There were no words I could utter reliably so I'd just have to show him. Pop off my shoes, he'd see the painted toes covered up by sheer brown. Rip-open the flannel and toss it to the floor, he'd see the dark top some inches below my sternum, snugly covering up my stomach. Unbutton my loose jeans and let them fall down, so he'd see nothing but pantyhose and approve.
His foot touching me meant he wanted to tell me something in private, I just knew that deep inside and needed to find out what. That's how I deluded myself.
My heart beat so fast the moment I knocked. The desire to run away was up there with wanting to breathe and live. But I was going to do what I planned and then wait to inexplicably hang onto his every word, to instruct me how to be a woman, to reward me, to punish me. To tell me what to think. To touch me against my will again. I knocked and waited to throw myself at him. And waited.
But he wasn't home that day, and I never returned.
I purposely forgot it ever happened.
The ex boyfriend got forgotten too, long ago.
But now that memory came to me vividly as I watched a good friend of ours fucking my husband. Betrayal, apprehension, inadequacy. Me discovering their tryst was a weird analog to that unwelcome foot touching me, uncovering the buried feelings it produced, making me its captive. An avalanche of unpracticed emotions came out gushing. Like on that distant day, I did nothing, just watched quietly.
The anger and urge to confront them wasn't there, but I felt fear. I watched power. My heart was beating fast and I felt primal fear of inadequacy. Of being put aside. My job as a wife was to serve him, to suck him. And yet proof of me not being enough was plainly there as he sought that elsewhere, from Leeann's mouth.
Now I remembered Ray's wife, and maybe I understood her a little from that night.
Was she supposed to stand in a corner and watch quietly? Was she supposed to just wait and miss out on sleep until Ray brought me into their bedroom? Was that all real, but just didn't happen because my boyfriend insisted on giving me a ride home? Thought of that distant memory uncovered all those long-buried feelings. The power, the callous disregard. What could have happened that night?
I felt sorry for her.
Feelings of jealousy rose up from out of nowhere and that's when I recognized that I was fucked in the head and have been for a very long time because I reshaped my feelings darkly to put myself on the other side of the fence, same side as my husband. Unnaturally. On purpose. Twisting reality. If I felt sorry for Ray's wife, should I feel sorry for myself? No, I couldn't admit that. No, I wasn't jealous, Leeann was the jealous one. The woman who could only have sneaks of my husband's cock and couldn't cook and clean for him every day and share his bed every night.
My husband was so much of a man that he needed two pussies to satisfy him, I thought intentionally because any other possibility was an admission of my deficiency. This made him twice the man I thought he was, not half. And if he needed pussy on the side, that's something I wouldn't get in his way of using so I willed myself to be turned on by what I was watching.
As I later watched him pound her on the couch and listened to Leeann's moans, I felt glad that she was being put into her place. Yeah, fuck her really good, make her hurt. Her pussy wasn't good enough to satisfy him either because he needed mine for morning fucks most days, the slut he was using could never please him and his big cock like I could.
When they switched positions and he ate her pussy, that's when I got angry. My husband shouldn't debase himself to eat that worthless bitch. Pushing past the door, I made noise and startled them. This time I didn't need to knock, I just had to put one foot in front of the other and repeat and face this.
