by Marie Simas
In the end, the family was refused funeral rites and Lumelia was buried quietly outside the church cemetery on without the benefit of clergy.
CHAPTER 3
Back Home Again: Teenage Virginity Hell
Tampons Take Your Virginity
1986, AGE 13
When I was thirteen, Mother took me aside to discuss menstruation. It was a milestone for her—this little talk. She confided in me one day when my father and brother had left the house. Mother loved me and believed that her motherly duties included this requisite chat about menstruation.
“Marie,” she whispered, “you must know about ‘menstruations’ so you won’t be scared when it finally happens to you. I was thirteen when I began my menstruation and I was very afraid.”
I could tell it was an extremely difficult subject for her to discuss.
When she was growing up, Mother’s entire family of seven lived in a tiny two-bedroom cottage in the Azores with no running water and an outhouse. There was little privacy.
Mother was the eldest child. My grandmother, Amalia, never discussed sexual matters with Mother, mainly because Grandmother was even more uncomfortable with menstruation than my mother was.
Soon after her thirteenth birthday, Mother started bleeding vaginally. It happened in the middle of the day. In her terror, Mother refused to tell Grandmother about it, thinking that she would get beaten within an inch of her life.
Mother was afraid that people would think that a man had “done something” down there. Paralyzed by fear, she stuffed a clean rag in her underwear and went home. She didn’t say anything during dinner, even though her menstrual cramps were excruciatingly painful. She simply went to bed, still wearing the rag in between her legs.
My mother shared a bed with her younger sister, my aunt Angélica.
In the morning, they both woke up caked with blood. There was blood everywhere—it looked as if someone had been bludgeoned to death in the bed. Mother started sobbing uncontrollably because she knew that she couldn’t hide it. She crawled into a corner of the bed and pulled the bloodied sheets over her head and cried. She was waiting for my grandmother to come into the bedroom and beat her senseless.
Angélica was younger than my mother and she ran into the kitchen, covered in blood.
“Please come quick! There’s blood everywhere!”
My grandmother looked at Angélica and went into the girls’ bedroom, closing the door. When Grandmother saw my mother, she nodded quietly. Grandmother went back out to the kitchen and told my grandfather to leave the house with all the children except Angélica. Grandfather didn’t say anything—he just nodded and left.
Grandmother went back into the bedroom and pulled the bloody covers down. My mother was shaking, her bloody hands covering her face.
Grandmother said firmly, “Stop crying. Women have this problem. It’s normal, so you must get used to it. I’m not angry at you.”
That was it. No other explanation was given. Grandmother never discussed what menstruation was. It was possible that she barely understood it herself. My mother was so thankful she wasn’t beaten that she didn’t ask any more questions.
Mother stayed home all day. Grandmother bathed both sisters, removing all the bloody crusts from their hair and faces.
Grandmother spent the afternoon teaching my mother how to sew sanitary napkins, made from remnants of old flannel. The homemade pads were thick, like those yellow bars of laundry soap. Mother washed the bloody napkins in secret and hung the stained pads on a “special tree” secluded behind the house. Everything was done with a healthy dose of shame.
When my mother finally arrived in the United States at the age of twenty-one, she was overjoyed by the discovery of Kotex. Yes, Kotex, those giant, thick, diaper-like pads designed to be worn with an old fashioned sanitary belt. These pads were a godsend to my poor mother, who had been washing her homemade flannel pads for a decade. Now she could just wear them and throw them out. Eureka!
“So you see, Marie... you have nothing to be afraid of. One day, the menstruation will happen to you. But don’t worry; I won’t ever be angry with you.” She smiled and touched my hand.
At the end of the story, Mother showed me her box of Kotex in the closet. It was large and covered with pictures of purple orchids. I peeked inside the box. The pads looked enormous—like diapers.
Next, Mother let me into the bathroom and opened a hidden cabinet underneath the sink. She pulled out a bundle wrapped in a towel. It was a stained sanitary napkin, filled with blood. My eyes bulged. It was an impossible amount of blood, cups and quarts—gallons perhaps!
She touched my hand again, gently, and told me that she would help me when the time came. She even had a sanitary belt for me, and she showed me how to put it on over my underwear. She tried so hard to be a good mother. She embraced me.
Mother was an intensely private woman. I didn’t really appreciate how difficult it must have been for her to discuss this with me until I got much older.
When my period finally arrived, I was fourteen. To my mother’s horror, I bought tampons and never bothered using pads. Mother was convinced that I would lose my virginity to the tampons and that no man would want me if I was going to stick things in there.
My father, always an asshole, told me that I was a whore for using tampons and that I was going to die of Toxic Shock Syndrome.
Rude Guys at the Airport
1986, AGE 13
Mother told me that I wouldn’t get beaten if I could behave more like my little brother, who was quiet and obedient.
“Please, Marie, please try to be more like little Johnny,” she pleaded. “Why do you fight so much with your father?”
She begged me to behave for my own sake. But I couldn’t. I was always rebellious.
I was terrified of Father, even from a very young age. I don’t recall him saying “I love you” to any of us, ever. I remember Father threatening to kill me numerous times over the years.
I never remember actually liking Father, although there was a time when I was desperate for his approval. This changed, however, one fateful day.
On that day, we were walking through the airport. I don’t remember where we were going, or if we were just coming back home. We three trailed dutifully behind Father like baby ducklings. He led the way, followed by Mother, then my brother, silent as always, and me.
As we walked through the airport, Father became confused. He was lost. He wanted to ask for directions. Father stopped suddenly and spun in a circle like a ballerina, looking for persons of authority. He zeroed in on two men who were speaking to one another, both airport employees.
To most people, it would seem like nothing—just one man approaching two other men who were talking. But my perception had become sharp after years of beatings and constant fear.
Father walked up to the employees and put his finger up to get their attention. Both of the men ignored him—it was like he wasn’t even there. The men continued their conversation for several minutes without acknowledging my father’s presence.
In the meantime, my father rocked back and forth on his heels. He did not drop his finger. He kept it there, suspended in the air, waiting for those two men to acknowledge him. His question trembled on his lips. My eyes narrowed as I watched this scene in disbelief. Why wasn’t he speaking up?
At that point, any normal person would have walked away. Or they would have spoken up and said something snotty about the customer service. But Father didn’t move. He just stood there, his question aborted in the air, waiting for a recognition. His tanned finger stayed up, crooked and stabbing at the air.
My mouth dropped open—I realized then, in a flash, that my father was intimidated by those men. As the male strangers continued to speak to one another, Father seemed to shrink. He became smaller and smaller, until he looked like a miniature version of himself. The other two men became enormous in my field of vision. Minutes later, when the two employees finally looked up, they only turned
their heads, not their bodies.
“Yeah?” one of them said. They looked irritated.
When my father finally asked his question, his finger, which had been suspended in the air for all that time, came down and curled into his palm. But his hand remained in the air. The men gave a one word answer and point in the opposite direction. My father mumbled “Thanks” and walked away.
Mother and Johnny followed quietly behind. But I was transfixed. I stood there, staring at the two men. They ignored me, too. I continued standing in front of them until my father whistled for me in the distance. I ran to catch up with my miserable family.
I figured it out. I never fathomed that my father would be intimidated by anyone, much less a complete stranger. But there it was. The truth is, my father wasn’t a big man or a tough guy—he was only an asshole to people who were physically weaker than him, like women and children. He wasn’t brave or strong... he was a snot-nosed bully.
I was never the same again. I didn’t stop being afraid, but I lost any respect I had for my father that day.
Discovering Real Boys
1988, AGE 15
I was a geek in high school. I had elaborate fantasies about fictional characters like He-Man and Spider-Man. I read Harlequin romance novels, which were difficult to obtain. I had to lie and tell the librarian that they were for my mother.
I would come home from school, close my bedroom door, and lie in bed for hours thinking up these fantastic stories. I lived in them like a second life.
Eventually, I discovered real boys and forgot about He-man and Spidey. I was short, but my body was fit and I had nice breasts. I was attractive, with long auburn hair and green eyes.
Unfortunately for me, I was socially retarded. I had difficulty even in the most basic settings.
I remember one instance when we had company over for dinner at our house. We were all sitting at the table and the adults were having a discussion. I took a bite off my plate with my fork while simultaneously lifting one ass cheek. I farted loooong and loud at the dinner table, slowly chewing my food. Everyone was so shocked, they dropped their forks and stared at me.
“Marie!” my father yelled.
“What?” I stared at him, slightly bored.
I kept eating like nothing had happened. Luckily, my father didn’t belt me right then and there.
But I was pretty. Men still wanted me, despite all the weirdness.
At fifteen, I had my first serious sexual experience. I fell deeply in love with James, a nineteen-year-old boy. James was sexually experienced and the most attractive boy I had ever seen—certainly the most attractive to ever pay attention to me. He was tall with light brown hair. He chewed tobacco and sold small amounts of marijuana. He loved Mötley Crüe, the heavy metal band, and knew all of their songs by heart.
We would drive around all night and listen to popular hair-band music. These were the ridiculous glam metal bands of the 80s and 90s—Winger, Stryper, Cinderella, and Great White. It’s so embarrassing to admit that I listened to that vapid shit, but it was popular back then.
Perhaps you don’t remember how utterly shitty glam rock really was. Well, let me refresh your memory. My favorite hit song in 1988 was Seventeen by Winger, and here are some choice lyrics:
“Dancin’ close to the borderline
She’s a magic mountain
She’s a leather glove (oh)
She’s my soul.”
It was absolute crap. As a teenager, I ate that shit up— it was poetry! We played that shitty rock music as loud as the speakers would let us. James would sit in the back seat and play air drums. I just stared at him. I still remember everything about him. It’s been almost twenty years, but my memory of him is clear.
Some things never leave you.
At that time, I lived in Central California, and James lived in Texas. James came to California to visit his half-brother, Gabe, who was a closeted homosexual and a total asshole. I hated Gabe because he was manipulative and had cheated on my best friend, Jennifer. She was older than me and had already graduated high school. We met when we worked together at the same doctor’s office.
Gabe actually slept with Jennifer’s ex-boyfriend. Gabe claimed to be bisexual, but I think that he was just milking Jennifer for rent money. Another pathetic loser.
Jennifer was a doe-eyed white girl and she looked as innocent as apple pie. But Jennifer liked to party HARD. She got drunk, smoked weed, dropped acid—anything you can think of. She was crazy. Jennifer was the only person I ever met who smoked unfiltered Camels.
Jennifer asked my father if I could stay overnight and he said yes. Woo hoo! Jennifer and I peeled out of my driveway in her crappy hatchback. Party time!
I spent almost all day with Jennifer and we went over to Gabe’s house at night. That’s how I first met James. Instantly, I adored him.
It was late December and James was in California for three weeks. I snuck out of the house every night so I could spend more time with him . We watched movies and touched each other under blankets. Our sexual activity escalated. James knew I was a virgin.
Two weeks after our first meeting, James admitted he was molested at age twelve by an older female babysitter, and lost his virginity to her. The babysitter had been in her forties. He said it was horrible—terrifying.
I believed him.
“Marie, I’ve slept with so many girls I’ve lost count. I know you’re a good girl. We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to.”
He never forced me to do anything. I would have followed him off the edge of a cliff if he’d asked.
On New Year’s Eve, I lost my virginity to James on Jennifer’s bedroom floor. The first time wasn’t painful, although I bled a little bit. He didn’t wear a condom. He told me he couldn’t get me pregnant because he was as “sterile as a whale.” That’s an exact quote. It is seared into my memory.
It was a lie, of course. Years later I discovered that James had fathered a son.
All night, he embraced me. It was the happiest night of my life. Sometimes illusions are better than reality. I created another elaborate fantasy with this young man—my handsome, swashbuckling hero. It was better than Spidey or He-Man. This time, it was real!
We would live happily ever after... right?
A few days later, James kissed me goodbye and went back home to Texas. We both cried. I knew that he had feelings for me and I was positive he would call me. He would surely come and get me. James would save me! He would take me away from my father and all of the abuse.
I had it all planned out. I would escape in the dead of night by jumping out my bedroom window. I packed my backpack and folded a neat stack of clothes on the floor of my bedroom closet, ready for him to call. Then, I would fly into the night and leave my horrible life forever!
I believed. I really believed.
I waited patiently for James to call. Weeks went by.
A month later, James finally called me. He asked if I wanted to come to Texas. I said yes, but I didn’t have any suitcases. Somehow, this was extremely important. The conversation ended after a few minutes and he never called me again. I continued to believe that James would come for me. I waited nine months.
Jennifer finally got tired of me talking about him. She took me to lunch one day and said, “Face it. James is not coming back, Marie. You got fucked and that’s it. Learn to live with it.”
I didn’t say anything. I just sat there, eating my burger. I walked home slowly that day, like a zombie. I didn’t eat dinner at home. Even my parents noticed that I was unusually quiet.
I went into my room and shut the door. I lay down on the bed and started crying. Soon, I was sobbing so loud I couldn’t control it, so I stuffed a washcloth in my mouth to muffle the noise. I pulled the covers over my head. I cried until dawn.
When I woke up in the morning, my eyes were sealed shut with hardened mucous. My face was so puffy that my father asked me what was wrong. I told him that I had food poisoning and that I ha
d thrown up. I asked if I could stay home. I didn’t go to school. I stayed in bed all day, barely moving.
That night, I fell asleep as soon as it got dark outside. The sun set on my adolescence. Though I had experienced severe beatings, threats, and almost constant fear, nothing could compare to the pain I felt from lost love.
My mother was dying and my father wanted to kill me. The only man I had ever loved was an illusion. And now, my virginity was gone. No man would ever want me. My life caved in upon itself. There was nothing good in the world.
Overnight, a switch occurred. I became a predator. Not the way you might think—unlike other girls, I never dated men for their money. I paid my own bills and I lived independently. I didn’t want their fucking money.
Nope. I didn’t want money, cars, or gifts. None of those material things impressed me. I wanted their jugular. Nothing less. In the end, I had sex with men only to disembowel them. It happened again and again. Everything was a contest of wills. I found vulnerable men, built them up, and then tore them down. I was torturing earthworms all over again.
They begged me to stay. I always left.
I didn’t always succeed—a few men were immune. There was one in particular who was obsessed with Japanese girls. He split up with me. Rather than being upset, I learned to avoid men with fetishes—they were weirder than I was and not worth the effort.
Some threatened suicide. I don’t know if any of them actually killed themselves, but I guess it’s possible.
I played this little game for a decade. I’m glad that none of them came back and shot me.
Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire
1988, AGE: 15
I learned how to lie at a very young age. It was simple selfpreservation. I found a million ways to get out of the house, usually with the help of a complicit friend. The friend would dress up in her Sunday best and come over and talk my father into letting me sleep over. Then we would go out and get drunk, party, whatever.
