Young Sex Storys

Young Sex Storys

This article is more than 7 years old
This article is more than 7 years old
It’s long past time to shine a light on what too many children endure. Photograph: Jens Meyer/AP
Thu 29 Jan 2015 13.20 GMT Last modified on Tue 8 Aug 2017 20.04 BST
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I never felt like a victim, but long after I grew up, every sexual experience brought me back to that winter night I didn’t understand
T here’s a reason why, when a woman whispers her story of sexual abuse, when she writes about it , when she Tweets about it or carries a mattress around on her back, calls the police or a rape crisis line, I believe her.
The reason is because it happened to me. And you didn’t know, because I didn’t tell you. I didn’t tell anyone.
Uncle “Doug” was an old friend of my parents; he visited our family often and occasionally joined us for holidays. One evening, when I was six, he offered to babysit me and my older sister at his house.
Before bedtime, Uncle Doug told us both a bedtime story about a werewolf who howled at the moon in the bitter cold of winter on top of a snowy hill, just like the hill outside the window over the sink in Uncle Doug’s kitchen. He could do these pitch-perfect character voices, and in that way, he was charismatic and appealing to children. The werewolf would howl, he said, his thirst for the blood of children relentless, until one night he came charging through a window of a house trying to catch the little girl inside. The broken glass pierced his throat, and then he was dead, his head hanging over the sill, blood dripping down the wall to the floor.
And then my sister went to bed, and I sat in his small, dimly lit kitchen, on his lap, as he nuzzled my hair and then my ear and neck, and squeezed me hard and soft at the same time. I remember staring fixedly at the window in his kitchen, into the dark snowy night, through a pane of cold glass, the moon casting shadows, a dark tree, listening for the howl of the werewolf, trying not to pay attention to what was actually happening.
What was actually happening is that he was kissing me, whispering in my ear things I didn’t understand, and rubbing the tops of my 6-year-old thighs, right where my underwear started, while I sat on his lap.
Afterwards, he took to calling me his “wifey” and signed notes to me: “Love, your hubby”. There was never another physical encounter like the one at his house, but when he visited ours, he would request “private” viewings of me practicing my ballet and leer at me longingly in my leotard and tights; he looked for any opportunity to touch me – my hand, my shoulder, the small of my back. After a couple of years, when I started to understand how inappropriate his behavior was, I refused to have anything to do with him.
I never told my parents anything. My only act of acknowledgement that he did something bad was when I crossed out with a ballpoint pen the “Love, your hubby” at the bottom of a poem he had written in my autograph book when I was eight or nine. The poem: “Tulips in the garden, tulips in the park/But the best place for tulips, is tulips in the dark”.
Uncle Doug did not hurt me physically, but he laid the groundwork for who and what I would become with men throughout my adolescence and into my early adulthood – a wreckage of fondled girlhood looking out a dark window whenever a man was on top of me. His adult hand edging up my six-year-old thigh made it seem natural to me when much older men showed interest or pursued me as a teenager. Or perfectly normal for me to try to seduce a 35-year-old when I was 15.
I never felt like a victim – and I might even still argue that I wasn’t victimized enough to claim that label, and instead call myself a product of a premature sexual experience. But for years, every time a man touched me – especially if he was older, even if I pursued him and told myself and him that it was ok – I’d catch myself looking through a non-existent dark window waiting for it to be over. Relationships came and went but never lasted, and I thought both that didn’t have anything to tell, and no one to tell it to.
Eventually, I told someone: after about eight months of dating my now-husband, who was curious and emotionally invested in “us” in a way I’d never experienced, I proudly called myself promiscuous. He looked at me with compassion and confusion and said, “Really?”. I confessed: “Not promiscuous in the way you would think.” And then I told him the truth.
And then I told someone else. And someone else after that. I chose to narrate my own story, rather than let the one Doug told persist any longer in my own mind.
Doug, like most abusers, relied on me not telling. They all rely on us not telling – to save their reputations, avoid consequences, and keep on abusing. Those of us who do tell, who let go of the shame we know we’re supposed to feel, are in such a minority that it enables the rest of you to disbelieve both those that tell and the existence of those who can’t yet. It’s hard for you to imagine being in a group of five women and knowing that one was sexually assaulted. It’s hard for me to believe that we can just go unheard – our experiences unknown – without consequence.
But all of that is why it’s so important for women, for abuse survivors, to tell our stories: because the more of us who do, the more we chip away at the ability to ignore or to choose not to believe. I believe – and I believe that you can choose to as well.

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"Ten years old. A creepy 15-year-old boy from the teens' karate class commented about how cute I was and he could see my bra."
Note: This post contains mentions of sexual assault and harassment.
If you or someone you know has been affected by sexual harassment or violence, you can find professional resources at the bottom of this post.
"They also called us sexy." — mousercritic
"They did stop, but we felt uncomfortable the rest of the trip. It's a beautiful place, but that ruined it for me." — yyccourt
"I think these are the worst ones for me." — kpthornton02
"She really made me feel embarrassed and ashamed of my own body for the first time. It's not just men who sexualize young girls but also women who are 'just looking out for you.'" — lauren9650
"I took it the best way I could — that it was a compliment to my looks — but I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was wrong and made me feel scared." — kellir7
"The moral of the story is that my teacher back then was and still is a piece of shit." — weatherboi_12
"He'd also slapped my butt a lot when we walked upstairs and he was behind me. I was scared, so if he was ever behind me, I would go very fast." — annalorraine
"I never wore it again." — clara1meade
"The teacher sat me all the way across the room from him after that and had the other teacher of the other class I had with him do the same thing." — ravenclawlaw05
"I didn't dare touch the cucumber after that." — sawthorn
"I'm sure other people nearby did, as well. It was a pretty crowded hallway. We’re both in ours 40s now and Facebook friends, but I've never mentioned what I heard him say or how it made me feel." — bacire
"I asked them to stop, and they just laughed at me. It made me very uncomfortable." — bellaevans18jsgjf
"This happened at three other intersections. One of the guys was in the paper a week later under rape charges." — theonethatsamess
"It's been over 10 years, and I still don't have that confidence back." — marmalady
"I just said no thanks and walked away. My manager and supervisors were really great about it. Any time he came into the store, I was able to sit in the back until he was gone.
It took me a few years to realize just how disgusting it was for a man in his 50s to ask an obviously 14-year-old to run away to another continent with him." — a_piri_piri
"I told my mom what had happened, and she and my sister-in-law took me to walk around the mall and find him so they could 'have a few words with him.'
We never found him, but for the rest of the day, I was too scared to leave the house, and it scared me for a few months." — jadynmarie
"I don't know what happened to him. He was an old man, too, in his early 60s, I think. This was in the early '90s, so he's probably dead by now. I'm in my 30s now, and it still bothers me." — amberhendricks85
"My mom said, 'No, she needs to lose some weight first.' My uncle kept going on about my chest. I ran into the house and never told anyone. Months later, my uncle raped me." — lobsterthirty
"What 50-year-old man says that to an 11-year-old?! As if him being family takes away from the fact he's creeping on young girls. Ew." — confettiline
"Then, when I was 10, a boy at school would repeatedly ping the back of my bra. I told the teacher, who basically said boys will boys and I shouldn't be so sensitive." — jessbudd
"I never told my mom. I remember going home that night and borrowing my mom's razor to shave my legs. I ended up cutting my other knee with the razor. Fucking asshole." — starshine72
"My dad is quite large, so the waiter was terrified, rightfully so." — jessicam48417f776
"Those people may think their comments don’t matter or it’s just a small thing, but creeping on young kids really affects their lives." — shadeofblue
"I sat in the aisle seat immediately and didn’t sleep the entire flight." — pandaliese
"For the rest of the year, he’d look me up and down every time I came into class or left." — joyously20
"I never told anyone about it, because for some reason, it was so embarrassing, even though it was about 11 years ago." — kristeylou
"It took me forever to realize that it was that sicko's fault and not mine." — jamied41
"He never came to our side of the restaurant again or bothered me. I don't know what my grandpa said, but it scared him good." — saml46833894a
"I never saw that douchebag again. I was so young — thinking back now it's like, WTF?" — nataliesi
"Apparently, the dude was a child molester, and I clearly wasn't the first one he said shit like that to. This was before Megan's Law.
That scumbag was pretty much run out of town by a posse of angry parents since the cops couldn't do anything because he didn't 'technically' do anything wrong." — tastypastry2
"She picked me up and went where my dad was buying our meals. Then, they both went back to confront the dudes." — vanessab4bda3d839
"My mom got me Dairy Queen." — chanl
"My dad commented that my fishnets weren't appropriate. I know my parents didn't mean it, but they made me feel like the harassment was all my fault." — zoecatherinegrant
Note: Submissions have been edited for length and/or clarity.
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