After a while I would swat his hand away and tell him to keep his mits to himself. By then I was 14. When he saw my embarrassment was fading--cause I think that was the primary reason he was doing it--just to be an ass and embarrass me--he upped the ante. Instead of the lingering hand on my bottom he would call attention to my breasts. I was wearing typical clothing, nothing overly showy, but when I leaned over to fill one of his friends’ glasses he would reach out a hand and cup one of them. “In a couple of years,” he said nudging the guys next to him, “these are going to be fantastic. You know darling,” he would say, turning his attention to me as he ran a finger over my nipple. I felt my face flush crimson. I hadn’t been that embarrassed in a very long time, “I’m going to be very jealous when you bring home your first boyfriend.”Yeah right. Like I would ever bring a guy home for him to meet. The last thing I wanted to do was be molested by my father in front of my boyfriend. How. ‘Why not try to trust me not to hurt you?’ My heart constricted at the suggestion. He was asking me for the impossible. After three intimate boyfriends that put me through the ringer and back, I was not sure I would be able to trust another man, player or not. There was a time, after I had pulled my life together and gained the confidence that I lacked, I thought that my fears would never get the better of me again. How wrong could I have possibly been? I should face this fear head on, a strategy that had always worked in the past. A sigh escaped me, a sigh that told a story of my weariness and reluctance in the face of another fight. The problem was this fear went deeper than the others. ‘Trust is a tall order. I’m not sure I can do that.’ He was still holding onto me. I thought he would give up in defeat after that, I should have known better. ‘I know there are a lot of walls that I need to break down. If you’re willing to try in this relationship, to break down your walls, then.
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