Rebel In Venus

I’ll Never Tell

1

Maria lights up the half-smoked joint, passes it to me, and tells me about her ex-boyfriend, Scott.

Me: You mean the douche actor man-boy with three cars, two condos and an Emmy? That fucking Scott!

Maria: Yeah! The one who used to rape me in my sleep! And you know!…I never even knew it was happening. Not until the day I checked my fucking nanny-cam…to try and find my car keys, and there he was, that shitty actor, fucking me in my sleep! And! On top of it… my baby girl was laying right next to us, in her crib!

I don’t respond.

Maria: Hey Layla! Are you there? Layla hello!

Me: Yeah! Sorry.

Maria: Were you even listening to me?

Me: Yeah I was… I was.

Maria: It’s fucked up, right?

I don’t say anything.

Maria: Layla!

Me: Yes! Sorry! Sorry, yes. Yes it’s really shitty, and totally fucked up. But you know… it’s not that surprising. Honestly… it made me think of Andrew, that guy I dated after David, he actually did the same thing to me.

Maria: Really?! Andrew? And how’d you even find out?

Me: I’d wake up to it.

Maria: Gross.

Me: Honestly, I just tried to forget anything like that ever happened…like ever.

Maria: And how’s that working out for you Layla?

Me: Well Maria, I’m totally fucked.

I take a hit, and a moment of silence.

Me: Especially because I feel like…

I exhale.

Me: Lately it’s all coming up for me, and …it feels like there’s absolutely nothing I can do to stop it.

My First Dick-Pic

2

It was a weekday, a Wednesday I think, and some time around noon. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, the air was humid, and the heat was thick.

It’s so hot.

As I walked home from my friend Frida Perez’s house, I feverishly sang Mariah Carey’s Always Be My Baby.

Cause you’ll always be my…

At the time, Frida and I both lived in this little town, about fifteen minutes north of South Beach. It was very pedestrian friendly, the streets were lined with palm trees, and it was far away from all the clubs, and tourists. People walked, or rode their bikes often. There were a lot of families, an A-rated public elementary school, local restaurants, and best of all… direct access to the beach.

The sheer beauty of living on the beach is blinding.

While I walked home from Frida’s that day, singing and feeling innocently blissful, I heard a car engine approaching from behind.

Am I in their way?

I looked back to see a very pale man, driving a very old brown car.

Do I know him?

I’ve seen that car.

So I walked further to the right.

Now I’m totally out of his way.

Then the pale man, who looked sort of familiar, yelled out to me:

Look!

And without hesitation, I looked.

Be careful, you might never forget what you saw.

What is that?

There it was, his oddly shaped, pale-pink penis, held in his large hand, and wearing the strangest smile on his face. He looked so proud of himself too… audaciously proud.

I don’t even, I mean… what is that?!

Then he laughed.

I know that laugh.

At once, it was both comforting, and disturbing to know exactly who he was.

That’s Frida’s neighbor!

It was the same demented laugh Frida and I would hear, cackling from the other side of her backyard.

I hate that laugh.

I heard that exact laugh, while he held his pale-pink penis, and stared right into my dark brown eyes.

Why is he doing that?

Then he just drove off.

Where is he going?

He drove ferociously for two blocks, before parking his car…right next to Frida’s house.

What was that?

My mind couldn’t handle the terrifying shock of what had been forced onto me, so I quickly erased my memory by filling my mind with Maria Carey’s hit single, and running all the way home.

Cause you’ll always be my…

… does he know where I live?

**

It was a weekday, a Wednesday I think…I remember I learned how to write in cursive that day, at school.

I feel so grown up.

That day, I got my very first, most unforgettable dick-pic, from a man we all knew as Mr. Jones, Miranda’s dad.

His laugh.

His eyes.

His…

Why did he do that, to me?

I was seven years old.

Should I tell Miranda?

So were Frida, and Miranda.

Haiku For A Pedophile

3

Maria: That’s fucked up Layla.

Me: Yeah it was.

I laugh uncomfortably.

Me: Honestly, I didn’t even think you were listening to me, because of whatever you were doodling over there.

Maria: Oh no! Unlike you, I was listening! But I also wrote a haiku while listening to you.

Me: Oh, you did, did you?

Maria: I did! Do you want to hear it? I think you’ll like it. It was inspired by your little dick-pic story.

Me: Sure, why not? What’s it called?

I grab the joint from Maria’s hand, and inhale.

Maria: Haiku For A Pedophile.

I laugh so hard, I spit the joint right out of my mouth.

Me: What the fuck Maria?

We laugh.

Maria: Wait you gotta hear it, to really appreciate it.

Me: I’m sure.

Maria takes a good hit before beginning. Then she stands up, passes the joint back to me, and holds up the piece of paper she had been scribbling on.

Maria: Okay… eh-hem… "I want to love you. But you are too young for me. Don’t care, I still will."

I laugh even harder.

Me: Maria no!… like…no! No Puedo!

Maria giggles, and takes a hit.

Maria: It’s a little funny.

She passes me the joint, I take a hit, and pass it back.

Me: Yeah, it’s almost as funny as the first time I ever masturbated…with a toy that looked like a ladybug.

Maria laughs as hard as I did at her pedophile haiku, and just like me, spits out the joint from her laughter.

Maria: Layla! Explain yourself!

A Good Luck Neck Massage

4

When I was eight, my grandmother had this battery-operated neck massager, shaped like a giant ladybug. She won the toy-like prize in a highly competitive game night, better known as Friday Night Poker.

I love Friday’s.

Things like bottle openers in the shape of alligators, or neck massagers disguised as ladybugs, were at great stake during these games.

Yes! Grandma won the cool ladybug thing!

The little massager my grandmother had won (which to me looked like a toy), would flutter, and vibrate whenever you clicked its little wings. But, unlike my toys that were kept in my toy-chest, the ladybug was tucked away in my grandmother’s card drawer, and it would remain there all week long. That is, until Friday Night Poker at her friends, Claire and Eddies, where the ladybug would emerge. In fact, it had become a Friday night ritual for all the players, something all the adults called a good luck neck massage.

**

After poker, I’d often spend the night at my grandmother’s, and while she would sleep in the next morning, I’d go quietly into the living room (which was frozen in time, circa-1977), and watch my favorite cartoons all by myself.

We’re zany to the…

It was on one of those perfect all-to-myself mornings (while in the living room), that I decided to sneak into my grandmother’s card drawer, and get the ladybug. I simply wanted to play with it, as I watched back-to-back episodes of Animaniacs; and figure out, once and for all, what the big deal was.

I wonder why everyone likes it.

My childlike mind was only searching for pleasure.

I grabbed the ladybug, sat down on the soft teal-colored carpet, turned on the ladybug, and put it on my neck… just like all the adults had done at poker.

That does feel really good.

But soon I began to wonder what it would feel like on the other parts of my body, too. So I tried it out… on my forearm, my elbow…even my stomach, calf, and quad. Then finally, I innocently made my way toward my inner thigh.

Whoa!

**

It was official. I had done it. For the first time in my life, while watching cartoons, in my grandmother’s 1977-esque living room, with the ladybug-toy she had won at poker… I had masturbated.

That feels good!

I remember I could not stop.

Again.

Again!!

Again!!!

Over and over, until the batteries died, and the ladybug’s wings stopped flapping, I just kept on going.

Wow!

It was such an intuitive exploration, too.

Wait a minute.

There was however, something else that was as intuitive as discovering my own pleasure.

This is… bad.

Right?

It was a fear that I’d done something wrong, and I’d get in trouble if I were to get caught doing it.

I don’t think I should be doing this.

But why not?

Mixed Up

5

I take a hit of the joint, and pass it to Maria.

Maria: So you masturbated when you were eight?

Me: Yeah, but I felt super guilty about it.

Maria: Shit, you know my cousin, she was twenty-two when she first masturbated, because my tia sex-shamed her at home. Poor thing actually thought if she touched herself, or had sex before she was married, the devil would snatch her coochi in her sleep!

We both laugh.

Maria: Damn! Is everything fucked up for little girls?

We stop laughing, and sit quietly for a few minutes.

Me: Well… so right after that, Eddie happened. And it became this sort of strange, and new sensation of physical pleasure, mixed with physical pain, and fear. But I didn’t talk about it, or get it. I don’t know, it was such a fucked-up swing of experiences. It’s still not really too clear yet. It’s all still… kinda cloudy, and pink.

No Pink Balloons At My Birthday Party

6

The walls were pink like pepto-bismol, and everything in the room was too.

Everything.

The shag carpet, curtains, wicker furniture, and bed set… all the same disgusting shade of pink.

I hate this place.

My eyes opened, and peered around the monochrome room, which looked a lot like the nightmare that had kept me up all night.

I don’t think I slept.

I could smell coffee coming from the kitchen, which was mixing with the thick scent of Marlboro-lights.

I hate that smell.

Then, I felt someone behind me.

Who is that?

**

The night before had been like