At the age of 145,875 views
I have spent the last 15 years or so actively suppressing what I am about to share with you, so I am not sure what effect it is going to have on me to actively try to remember as many details as I can.
I still get flashes. His erect penis in front of me, forced into my mouth. The smell of his pubic area. His laugh. His terrifying voice.
He made me feel like this is all I deserve. He made me feel like this was what my life was about.
At the age of 14, my brother forced me to suck his dick.
At the age of 14, my brother ruined my life.
I don’t remember how it started. All I remember is that I suddenly found myself sitting on the couch in our living room, and my brother dropping his pants, releasing his fully erect penis, and grabbing me by the hair, as he pressed it against my face.
I remember odd things.
I remember that the kitchen light was on.
I remember that some woman on the television was selling some fake jewelry.
I remember thinking I wanted to bite his penis off.
I remember thinking that if I did, he would kill me.
I remember the sound of the clock ticking.
I remember, “Suck my cock you fucking faggot.”
I remember that his pubic hair was the first thing I tasted.
He kept his cock pressed against my mouth for a while. I refused to open my mouth, and the smell of his cock on my face made me nauseous.
He kept talking. I don’t remember what he was saying, but I remember it made me feel like shit. It made me feel like I was a cocksucker, in the worst possible connotations associated with that word.
He grabbed my neck with his hands, started to strangle me, until I opened my mouth for air. He put his fingers in my mouth and pulled my mouth open enough to get his full cock in there.
I wanted to bite.
He started pulling it in and out of my mouth, and I was sitting there, completely frozen.
I closed my eyes and went to Disneyland. I could see Donald Duck walking down Main Street, I could smell the cotton candy, I could hear “It’s A Small World” playing, I could feel the wind in my hair as I went down Splash Mountain.
A salty taste in my mouth brought me back to reality. I opened my eyes and saw that my brother was now putting his pants back on. In my mouth, on my chin, and on my shirt, there was something white and sticky. I don’t remember the taste of it.
I only remember the taste of my tears.
I got up and went to take a shower. I sat there, on the floor, crying, shivering, puking.
My mother knocked on the door.
“You’ve been in there for an hour. Yalla!”
She was back home. It was safe. I got out, put on my pajamas and slept.
15 years later, I wish I had never woken up.
I can’t look at my brother today. There is too much anger. I wonder if he remembers. I wonder if he feels guilty. I wonder if I will ever be able to be comfortable around him.
I wonder if he hurt anyone else. I wonder if his child, my nephew, is safe. I wonder if he remembers.
I can’t talk about it. I have not tried to understand what happened. I don’t want to.
I am not ready.
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