Barely Legal

I was barely legal.

But I had this burning desire and tireless ambition to become a pharmacist - ever since I was twelve years old. Everything I had done so far in life was to put myself in a position to network, learn and surround myself with the most influential healthcare professionals in the industry; I craved knowledge. I am a sapiosexual, so if you could fire up these neurons, my attraction was soon to follow.

In the few years after high school graduation, I continued to branch out and network, attending job and college fairs, and collecting business cards like free samples at Costco. I met people in various stages of their healthcare careers, from 1st year pharmacy students, to ophthalmologist interns completing their final year before the big exit exams.

While leaving a job fair in downtown St. Louis, my eyes shifted towards a beautiful, muscular Black man sitting behind the College of Pharmacy booth, smoothly passing out his business cards and handing interested visitors a gift bag with the image of a pestle and mortar affixed to the front. He had a low cut goatee, sprinkled with a bit of gray just under his full, moisturized lips. His rich, dark skin was a sensual contrast to the brilliant white lab coat he adorned, allowing his navy dress shirt and lavender tie to be the combination that completed his look. His nails were neatly trimmed, and on the ring finger of his right hand he wore his HBCU college ring – and most importantly – his left ring finger was naked. His eyes were almond shaped, and locked instantly with mine as I fumbled to organize the numerous folders and pamphlets I had collected along the way.

I stopped at his booth, introduced myself, and asked a few obvious questions about the pharmacy profession just so I was able to continue to inhale his intoxicating cologne and see my reflection in his sparkling white teeth. We spoke for about ten minutes more - and to my surprise - on the back on his business card he scribbled his personal cell phone number, and encouraged me to “keep in touch.” As I sashayed off, I got a glimpse of his name tag: Harley.

Run me my gift bag, though.

I did exactly what he asked me to do, and I found myself texting Harley a few days later, just to spark up some friendly conversation. I noticed during our talks, that we didn’t seem to be on the same page with anything outside of pharmacy; music, hobbies, goals or life experiences. Then I asked the controversial question: “How old are you?” To my surprise, Harley was ten years my senior.

Yo, you could be like, my big brother. Really? 10 years?

No way would I have EVER guessed this. Harley had youthful, taunt skin, worked out daily, and played basketball with his friends almost every weekend. Harley also enjoyed hiking AND rowing.

This is DEFINITELY some wealthy people shit, because whose lake are YOU on in the middle of Saint Louis? Later, I found out he traveled to the Ozarks quite often.

But I digress.

Harley asked if the age difference would be an issue down the line should we began to become more interested in one another. I proudly boasted that even at the tender age of 19, I actually preferred older men, as I felt they were more established and stable. Harley chucked, reminding me that he has acquaintances his age that were definitely out here bummin’, and that age was truly nothing but a number. He began to open up a little about his past, and how both of his parents worked extremely hard to put themselves through medical school, and that he often felt pressured to live up to his parents’ standards, thus becoming a medical professional himself. Despite this, Harley was confident that he absolutely loved being a pharmacist, and that he was grateful for the harsh, yet determined push from his parents.

We spoke over the phone for many hours over the next few months, before finally agreeing to meet up at his place for dinner and drinks. Me, again being only 19, thought that it was both exhilarating and dangerous to be involved with such an older man (as the oldest man I had ever dated at the time was only 4 years older – I was flodging), and I was addicted to how Harley highlighted the maturity I had; I felt sophisticated. It didn’t take long after our initial conversation before I began to be showered with expensive gifts, clothing, and extravagant dinner dates. For me, I felt as though I had hit the jackpot with this man; but for him, it would soon be time to exchange “gifts”.

After telling my mother that I was going to a study group for the evening, I headed over to Harley’s house about twenty-five minutes up the highway.

Now, this was way before GPS and Google Maps, so ya girl had the printed Mapquest directions on deck in the front seat.

I pulled into the driveway, checked my hair and ran my cherry lip gloss across my lips one last time. Harley greeted me with a huge hug and a big smile, and I melted into his arms as if I hadn’t seen him in years. The smell of lasagna and garlic bread bounced off the pewter colored walls in his living room, and I took a seat in his large arm chair and curiously looked around his home. Harley definitely had taste – a baby grand piano in the Great room, an Étagère egg displayed in an alcove in the hallway, and a wet bar on just the other side of the kitchen. Harley offered me a drink and, wanting to keep up with the appearance of being “mature”, I chugged down a shot of this brown liquor, which released a searing, slow pain from the tip of my tongue to the core of my belly. Harley smirked, almost as if he already knew I was going to be extra, and escorted me to the kitchen table for dinner.

Man, could he throw down!

My leg bounced up and down in pleasure with every bite, and every now and then, I would look up and see Harley admiring me, his eyes sparkling with admiration and his lips quivering with lust.

We then made our way into the den to watch a movie, both cuddled under the plush throw blanket on his over-sized couch. After about an hour into the movie, I began to feel a little woozy, struggling to keep my eyes focused on the movie. It felt as though my eyelids were being controlled with tiny marionette strings, as it seemed that I couldn’t keep my eyes open unless I literally put ALL of my strength into doing so. I could hear Harley talking about the hidden messages in the movie; however, his voice sounded muffled and distorted, as if he were speaking through a cardboard tube fifty feet away.

I KNOW I’m not that damn drunk.

I turned my head to ask Harley if we could pause the movie for a little while just so I could regroup and get my coordination together, and I could recall him asking:

“Do you want to lie down in my bed?”

Now, unable to speak logically, I nodded my head “yes”, and instantly felt Harley pick me up and carry me to his bedroom.

Was sex on my mind when I agreed to come to see Harley? Yes, but not like this. Once I was placed into his bed, I could feel the covers seem to pull me down into the mattress, like a linen quicksand. The harder I tried to move, the deeper I sank. Harley tossed my limbs around like a rag doll as he proceed to “make me more comfortable”; He removed my shirt…followed by my heels and skirt, and finally my panties.

This is not how it happens, I screamed in my head. This was supposed to be a special moment for us. I thought…I thought he really liked me.

As I fell in and out of consciousness, I would recall Harley whispering to me, as if he was giving a play by play of what he was doing, and why I deserved this treatment.

“I just gave you a little something to help you relax; did you not think I had access to shit like this? C’mon now, I’m a pharmacist…”

“Don’t even try to scream – this room is sound proof anyway…”

“Would you like to see how pretty you look on camera…?”

Swirling in a whirlwind of panic, embarrassment and shock, I lose consciousness completely.

I wake up the next morning, the warmth of the sun dripping through the blinds onto my bare lower half, my cell phone frantically vibrating on the nightstand next to Harley’s bed. I notice that I am face down, and as I try to rise up, a sharp tug pins me back to the very same spot. My hands were bound above my head, and each one of my legs were tied to the bedposts below me. I hurriedly begin to squeeze my cheeks together and performed several Kegels to determine if I had been violated in one or both places. Thankfully, I was untouched – until Harley entered the room, carrying a plate of fruit.

With smeared eye liner and chapped lips, I desperately asked him to let me go home, as I had not returned home from my “study group”, and people will began to worry. Harley repeatedly told me to be quiet, and proceeded to feed me fruit and provide sips of water between sobs. Once I had consumed all of the fruit, Harley stood at the foot of the bed – a wave of humiliation and disgust swept over me like a storm cloud. He then took several pillows, folded them, and forcibly shoved them under my hips, causing my lower half to be arched and easily accessible. Harley began to remove his workout clothes, and opened the small nightstand drawer. He pulled out a clear bottle of a jelly-like substance and proudly displayed it to where I could see it. My eyes widened in fear, as Harley and I had briefly discussed my unfamiliarity with all aspects of sex, and that his latest addiction happened to be anal sex.

I began to scream at the top of my lungs, rubbing rope burns into my wrists and ankles, needing to break free, needing to get loose. I screamed and cried until my face was dewy and my throat was raw. With every plea, Harley seemed to be becoming more and more aroused, and kept a mischievous smirk on his face the entire ordeal.

“If you just relax, I promise you will like it…” he assured.

Harley walked behind me, and held the lubricant high above his head, as to watch the translucent stream slowly ooze its way out of the cylindrical container and onto my skin. Unaware of what to do, I began to pray. I screamed out to God to help free me from the restraints that held me captive, and to allow me to make it out of this torture house alive. Harley watched me writhe in defeat until my voice became hoarse, and my prayers became whispers. At that point, my head was pounding and pure exhaustion set in.

I was willing to stop fighting and just accept whatever fate had in store for me, when I heard the loud click of the lubricant being closed. Harley flopped down on the bed next to me, and peered down to look at my face - eyes swollen shut from crying, a pool of saliva under where my face lay. Beads of sweat caused my baby hairs to curl up and stick to my forehead, urine puddled under my pelvis.

“You ain’t ready for this, I’m ma let you go.”

Harley untied me and threw me a washcloth to freshen up. I stood in the dimly lit bathroom and turned on the water to let it get hot. I closed and locked the door as I searched for a bar of soap to wash my body. I lathered the purple washcloth with Lever 2000 and attempted to wash up, but my trembling hands wouldn’t allow me to proceed. After the third attempt to hold the washcloth properly, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. I noticed my puffy eyes, which no longer donned the winged liner I had so meticulously perfected the night before. I noticed my lips, cracked and bleeding in its corners due to long periods of screaming. My cheeks had traces of both dried mucus and tears, zigzagging like the contrails left behind airplanes in the sky. But most importantly, I noticed that my eyes seemed to now be jet black, and not the soft dark brown that took me several years to appreciate. My pupils were swelling and shrinking simultaneously, as if my brain wasn’t sure if we were still in danger. My breathing was labored, and every time I tried to take a deep breath in, I could smell traces of the garlic bread that infused the saliva leaked from my mouth, mixed with the masculine scent of Harley’s body oil. I stared at myself again.

I was paralyzed.

Harley knocked on the door shortly after, then attempted to open the turn the knob. I snapped out of my trance and stumbled backwards in fright, thinking he would be more upset that I locked the door.

“Girl, open the damn door, it ain’t like I ain’t seen you naked…”

I opened the door slowly, and somehow greeted him with a smile. He grimaced, and handed me my clothes. Closing the door back, I hurriedly got dressed, grabbed my keys and cell phone, and waved goodbye. Harley promised that we would “try again soon”, and to call him when I made it home.

The twenty-five minute drive turned into an hour and a half, as I rode around trying to construct the perfect lie to tell my Mother when I entered through the front door. Of course, as I arrived, I was scolded, deemed inconsiderate, and even accused of being on drugs for my peculiar behavior. While I now understand that her response was simply fear shit-coated in anger and ridicule, I had definitely lost a part of my sexual purity; I was grieving. I was no longer allowed to thrive, explore and graduate into my comfortability – it would now be an experience burned into my brain and heart, that later caused hesitancy and untreated trauma once I grew into my own sexual prowess.

I went on about life as usual, internalizing abuse as a rite of passage, a badge of strength and a testimony of normalcy. I found myself constantly doubting my worth, even when its price tag was swinging boldly right in front of my eyes. I began to downplay intelligence, integrity and respect, and openly accepted promiscuity, recklessness and struggle love. Intimacy was a foreign concept to me, and I allowed my heart to be impenetrable. It wasn’t until I was able to share my story with a close friend that I realized that Harley was back at it again, this time, his victim even younger than me – my friend’s own niece.

If I could have held her tight before she had to endure the pedophilic desires of this man, I would have told her that she was:

SO much more than her physique.

SO much more than a sexual fetish.

ENTITLED to thwart his manipulative and coercive ways without repercussion.

GUARANTEED protection from abuse as a result of her strength.

ABLE to heal without repetitive gas lighting tactics or protrusions of power.

A WARRIOR, whose entrepreneurial spirit would lead to the creation of two businesses, and allow her to fulfill her dreams despite her past.

A MOTHER, who will protect and profusely love her future children with every ounce of blood that courses through her veins.

An INNOVATOR, who will triumph through her sister’s untimely death and use its fuel to change the course of her life through writing.

I would tell her…

EXACTLY what I needed to hear.