Scared Selfless

by Michelle Stevens, PhD

  The day of the play, Gary left early to take Madeline into the city. I’m sure they toured around and had a nice dinner together; Gary could be very romantic when he was wooing a new girl. As for me, I stayed home, seething with despair and rage that my twelve-year-old brain couldn’t articulate. Not that I had anyone to confide in anyway. Who could possibly understand my twisted feeling of betrayal? I sure as hell couldn’t! Eventually, I went to bed. Sometime in the middle of the night—midnight? one a.m.?—I heard a bang. Then harsh light filled my room. I sleepily opened my eyes to find Gary standing over my bed, angry.

  “Why didn’t you clean the kitchen?” he yelled.

  “W-w-what?” I asked, bewildered. I was still half-asleep.

  “You didn’t clean the kitchen. Get up!” he commanded. Then he grabbed me and yanked me out of the bed.

  I followed him through the dark living room to the brightly lit kitchen. Sure enough, the sink was full of dishes—his dishes from earlier that day.

  “Get to work,” he ordered, pointing to the sink.

  “Huh?” I asked, dumbfounded. I didn’t understand the issue. This was not some Better Homes and Gardens house. We left dishes in the sink for days. “I’ll do them tomorrow,” I said crankily. “I’m tired. It’s the middle of the night.”

  I turned and started back toward my bedroom.

  “Do them now,” he growled.

  I pivoted back and, with all the sass of a typical twelve-year-old, said, “Why don’t you get Madeline to do it?”

  I doubt I even got the last words out before his enormous hand was coming at my head with superhuman force. It struck so hard that my whole body flew across the kitchen. I was stunned. Despite Gary’s sadistic nature, he was a very controlled person. So this type of humdrum domestic violence was rare for him.

  Why was he so angry with me? What had I done?

  What I had done was grow up, and it really pissed him off.

  Gary had wanted a child sex slave. Now he was stuck with a smack-mouth teenager and her irascible mother. He had to house us, feed us, clothe us, all the while keeping up the ridiculous front that we were some kind of a real family. Gary had never made a secret of his disdain for my mother. He belittled her constantly, even in front of other people, and they argued nonstop. Now he clearly felt disdain for me too. So why didn’t he just throw us out?

  While I can only speculate, I believe there were two main reasons Gary kept us around. First, my mother and I provided an excellent cover for him, making his interest in children seem far less suspicious. Second, I think Gary couldn’t throw my mother out because she was an unpredictable hothead who simply knew too much.

  —

  WHEN IT COMES TO INCEST, speculation about what the mother knows or doesn’t know is tricky. Historically, mothers have been vilified by social-service types who assume moms are collusive in the sexual abuse of their children—either actively encouraging the abuse or failing to prevent it. Research, though, suggests that this type of so-called mother blame is misguided. In reality, many mothers of sexually abused children genuinely don’t know about the abuse until they’re told, at which point they attempt to protect and support their children.

  Unfortunately, my mom wasn’t like that.

  She knew there was abuse and did nothing to stop it. I can say this with absolute certainty because, when I was twelve years old, she found naked photos of me. Most were extremely graphic. I don’t know where my mom found them. But, when she did, she became hysterical and interrogated me to learn what they were all about. Not knowing what to do, I sent her to Gary, who explained that he’d taken the pictures at my request.

  Technically, this was true. I had asked him to take the pictures. It was right after that time I’d discovered him taking nude “before” shots of my mother for her diet. I’d asked him to take the same shots of me. Of course, I was nine at the time and didn’t realize the perverse nature of my request. Nor had I requested the other shots—the ones with my legs spread wide.

  Such details were lost on my mother. She was furious. At me. I realize how crazy that sounds. How could any mother find porno pics of her nine-year-old and blame her kid instead of the adult photographer? It seems indefensible, and in many ways, it is. Still, one must remember that my mother was living with a master manipulator who was far superior to her in cunning and intelligence. From the beginning, Gary created a reality where I was cast as my mother’s romantic rival instead of her child. Taught to be suspicious of me, she readily accepted every lie Gary fed her.

  In my mother’s mind, I was to blame for the dirty photographs. And, because I also bought into Gary’s version of reality, I agreed. After all, I had initiated that particular photo session. What’s more, I had posed for countless other shots, had sex with countless other men, and allowed Gary to perform countless sex acts with me. In my mind, this meant I had betrayed my mother just as much as Gary had. I was Gary’s coconspirator, his partner in crime, which made me feel unbearably guilty.

  It was hard to get through seventh grade dwelling on the fact that I was the most vile, perverted twelve-year-old in the world. It was equally difficult to enjoy Thanksgiving dinner with the father who pimped me out. So, psychologically, I defended against this knowledge with all my might. On a conscious level, I blocked out the ugly truth, choosing instead to believe I was a normal girl living a normal life. I didn’t allow myself to think about what happened in motel rooms. Instead, I pretended to myself that I was innocent and naïve. I told myself I was a virgin just like all the other girls in middle school. This Orwellian doublethink is a typical coping mechanism employed by victims of prolonged abuse. When someone is forced to bear unbearable pain, sometimes the only option is to pretend the truth ain’t so.

  —

  BY THE SPRING OF 1982, when I was thirteen, I needed all my powers of denial. My beloved grammy became terminally ill, and my mother decided to move to Maryland to care for her. Indefinitely. Unfortunately, she left me at home. With Gary. But now that Gary was obsessed with Madeline, he didn’t want me around. His solution was to pimp me out as often as possible, allowing him more QT with his new lover. A teenage prostitute’s not worth as much as a child, though. Not unless she does kinkier tricks. So Gary started sending me out on more hard-core assignments. Dangerous stuff.

  One experience that comes to mind involved what I can only describe as a sex party. It was held at a big house on Long Island—most likely the home of a management-level mobster. Gary led me to a bedroom where I changed into a simple white nightgown. Very virginal. I waited alone in the room for a long time, not sure what to expect. Eventually, two strange men came to fetch me. They led me to a set of closed doors. One of the men knocked, and the doors swung open. The men pushed me forward. They had to; I was paralyzed with fear. I was staring at a den full of men.

  It was some kind of party—a birthday or stag thing—and the celebrant got first dibs. Egged on by his friends, he lifted off my nightgown in front of everyone and led me to a card table where half a dozen men were seated. The birthday boy laid me on the table, pulled down his pants, and fucked me. Even after years as a sex slave, this was surreal. I simply could not fathom a man screwing me while all his friends watched. They did not watch for long. As soon as the first guy was done, another took over. Then another. Then another. I got passed around like a joint in a college dorm room. This went on for hours while the men drank, laughed, played cards, and smoked cigars. Eventually, they all seemed to leave or pass out or fall asleep. As soon as I could, I crawled across the floor to a gigantic window, wrapped the bottom of the curtain around my body, and curled into a fetal ball. Sometime in the night, Gary finally came back. He handed me the nightgown and told me to put it on. I must have been in shock, because I couldn’t will myself to move. Gary seemed to understand. He lifted me up, draped the nightgown over me, and carried me out of the room.

  Another time I arriv
ed at a sex party in the suite of a hotel. A makeshift stage was set up with about fifteen men waiting impatiently for the show. Dressed in revealing lingerie, I was expected to perform a striptease like some other girls at the party had done. Gary pushed me toward the stage, but despite the edict to be obedient, I just couldn’t do it. The thought of dancing in my underwear made me too self-conscious. Again, Gary seemed to understand. He directed me into the bathroom, handed me a pill, and told me to take it. Honestly, I don’t remember much after that. I know I did the striptease without feeling self-conscious, and I assume I had sex with some of the men, though I remember none of it. Considering how quickly the pill worked and how little I remember of that night, I’m guessing that Gary gave me Rohypnol, more commonly known as “roofies.” They were just coming into popularity at the time.

  While Gary and his friends certainly used drugs and alcohol to get me to loosen up, this was the exception rather than the norm. The sad truth is: I’d been trained to be obedient at a very young age. Gary didn’t need to resort to drugs or alcohol or any type of coercion to ensure my compliance. On the contrary, in those days I usually looked like an enthusiastic participant. After so many years of abuse and prostitution, I’d learned to don a licentious persona when need be to survive. This persona was the complete opposite of the good-girl image I held of myself the rest of the time. It was also completely involuntary; my personality switched from good girl to bad girl without my conscious choice—or even my conscious knowledge. Due to doublethink, my good-girl personality was unaware that the bad girl even existed. This was an excellent coping mechanism, for it allowed me to sit through algebra on Monday mornings without pondering all the guys I’d fucked on Saturday night.

  My bad-girl persona also allowed me to do things that would’ve made my good girl die of shame. When I was thirteen, for instance, I accompanied Gary to a hotel for a baseball-card convention. While Gary worked his booth on the convention floor, I was required to stay in the hotel room and wait for the men he sent. An endless stream of johns came knocking day and night, and like a brothel worker, I gave each man what he requested. Had I been in my normal frame of mind, this would’ve been unbearable. It would’ve felt like being raped for forty-eight hours straight. Blessedly, my bad-girl persona kicked in and convinced me that I liked having sex with countless strange men. And as the bad girl, I did like it—at least with some of them. Being grateful for my mind’s ability to derive pleasure from rape may sound strange, even crazy. But when forced to live through hell, isn’t it a blessed delusion to believe it’s heaven?

  —

  UNFORTUNATELY, THERE WERE TIMES when things got so bad there was no hope of pretending otherwise. One incident comes to mind when I was thirteen and taken to a house where a party was in progress. Gary showed me to an empty bedroom, then opened the bag he was carrying. He pulled out a wedding dress and veil. I was told to put it on and wait for my trick. From experience, I understood that I was being hired to role-play a scene. In this case, it was a wedding-night scene, and I was to play the virgin bride. (Knowing Gary, he probably fooled the customer into believing I really was a virgin to get more money.) I waited for hours and, at some point, fell asleep on a window seat. When the customer finally arrived, he was noticeably drunk. He swaggered to the middle of the room and gave me a long, cold stare. I could tell from his body language that I was in trouble.

  “Take off your dress,” he said, slurring his speech.

  I immediately complied.

  “Whoo-wee!” he said, giving me the once-over. “What’re you doin’ here, huh? How’d you get into this?”

  I stayed frozen as he pulled me in for a kiss.

  Just before our lips met, though, his fist smashed into my head. The blow sent me crashing onto the floor. I was so shocked and scared that I started inching backward in a panic. I was trying to find a safe spot, I guess. But there was no safety to be found.

  He was instantly on top of me, pinning me down while he slapped my face. “What’re you doin’, huh? Huh? You tryin’ to get away? You can’t get away from me. It’s our weddin’ night, remember?” And before I could comprehend what was happening, he was viciously raping me while he smashed the back of my head into the hard floor.

  I pleaded helplessly for him to stop. That’s all I remember. I think I lost consciousness.

  The next thing I knew, it was the morning. Gary was there to fetch me, but I don’t think he expected to find me lying on the floor naked and bruised. He pulled clothes out of a bag and helped me put them on. Then he took me to a motel room to recuperate.

  —

  SOME MAY WONDER: If I was black and blue, with a possible concussion, how did Gary keep that hidden? In this case, it was the summer, and my mother was in Maryland. So all Gary had to do was keep me out of sight until the bruises were gone. This is the only time I remember getting seriously banged up in a way that could’ve drawn attention to my abuse. For the most part, Gary and the other men in the ring were quite careful not to leave visible marks. Most torture was done to the genitals, which would naturally be hidden from bystanders. (Since I was still too young to date—and wouldn’t have been allowed to anyway—boyfriends weren’t a problem.) While I did suffer endless sprained wrists and ankles due to bondage, the ACE bandages I continuously sported were explained away as injuries from gym class. Likewise, I constantly had tiny bruises on my thighs—the result of countless men gripping their fingers into my flesh. The bruises were very small, though, no bigger than fingertips. My mother told people they were due to a vitamin C deficiency.

  In truth, I got very little medical attention when I was young. I didn’t have the annual checkups that normal children get. Even when my parents suspected I had a sprained ankle or strep throat, they didn’t bother to take me to the doctor. I assume this was because my parents didn’t want medical personnel asking too many questions. I’ve also come to the harsh realization that Gary simply didn’t care what happened to me. I mean, what’s the point in paying good money for a doctor if you don’t care whether the patient lives or dies?

  —

  LOOKING BACK, I think the fact that I didn’t die during my childhood is a miracle. Gary put me in so many dangerous situations with so many dangerous men that I sometimes can’t fathom how I survived. Take my experiences at a place called the Revolution Motel. Gary and I stayed at the Revolution two summers in a row. The place was a dive, which wasn’t unusual. Every place we ever stayed at was a dump. What was unusual about the Revolution Motel was its layout. Rather than just offering the standard rooms, the place also rented out cottages—separate structures without shared walls. This offered a unique type of privacy that Gary used to his advantage.

  Our cottage, which was really just a run-down mobile home, featured two bedrooms. In the past, Gary and I had always shared a room (and usually a bed), so I thought this new arrangement was a victory—proof that my father was acknowledging my independence. Stupid me. Gary’s real intention was to lease me out to men who wanted to fulfill their abduction fantasies. I was tied to a headboard, blindfolded, and gagged for days on end while various men played “kidnap” with me.

  Once again, I get that this sounds totally fucked up. I mean, who the hell pays for a fake abductee? Believe it or not, abduction fantasies are very common, and people frequently seek out would-be abductors or abductees on Craigslist. These fantasies are so prevalent, in fact, that there are professional sex workers who specialize in this type of scene. Goddess Lady D of Wisconsin, for instance, offers a “kidnapping fantasy” special via the Internet in which she promises “24 hours of pain, discomfort, disorientation and naked humiliation” all for the low price of “only $600!” In all fairness to Goddess Lady D of Wisconsin and the posters on Craigslist, it appears that they are interested in fulfilling their abduction fantasies with consenting adults. But for the pedophile, an adult will not suffice, and the real abduction of a child can cause dire legal con
sequences. By offering me up as a pseudo-abducted child, Gary found a lucrative niche.

  For me, the experience was terrifying. Tied to a bed without the ability to move, see, or scream, I had to wait helplessly for unknown men. Some of the johns approached the scene like it was ho-hum prostitution—“Just the acts, ma’am.” Others took the whole abduction thing way too seriously—handling me roughly, calling me names, even threatening to hurt or kill me. The worst was a trio of good ol’ boys who stayed for hours—drinking, brandishing weapons, and generally turning my gang rape into their own little Clockwork Orange. They must’ve been partying a little too loudly, for there was suddenly a knock at the door, followed by a woman yoo-hooing. Right away, they all hushed up. One of them clamped his hand over my mouth and dragged me into the closet. He held me there while the other two answered the door. I couldn’t hear what was said, but I remember being absolutely terrified. The strange thing is: I was scared of the woman at the door. If she found me, I feared that I would be in trouble. I thought I was the one doing something wrong.

  Whatever the men said to the woman, she must have been satisfied because she left. So did they. But not before tying me up, gagging me, and leaving me in the closet. Gary came back a while later. He untied me and let me go to the bathroom then gave me something to eat. This was the ritual at the Revolution Motel. Each morning and night, Gary freed me just long enough to take care of essentials. The crazy thing is: Every night when he came back and untied me, when he took off the gag and the blindfold, and gave me a hamburger, I felt immensely grateful. Even though Gary was the person locking me in the lion’s den, his presence was the only thing that made me feel safe and provided relief.