Free Not Without My Sister by Kristina Jones, Celeste Jones, Juliana Buhring Page B

whether I wanted to or not quickly turned it into a duty. I resented being parcelled out without any consideration for how I felt or what I wanted.

Besides our dates with the boys, Armi and I were also scheduled with the adult men. Paul Peloquin would ask me to masturbate as he got off. He said it turned him on to watch me. I hated it, especially since I was afraid of him. I would imitate the motions as I had been taught, but felt nothing but fear that if I didn't please him he would lash out in anger.

I had been taught that black was white until my normality was upside down and backwards--but there was some kind of inner spark of morality deep-seated in me that told me what was really right and what was wrong. Sex with men old enough to be my father—with anyone I didn't choose—was wrong. Their touches were uncomfortable and awkward. It was an assault on my body that I had to grin and bear; I was powerless to stop it. I was trapped. Dad should have saved me, but he didn't.
    Jeremy Spencer worked with Dad on
Life with Grandpa
as the artist. He lived in the small, detached room in the courtyard that was built for the maid. On our dates he would play a tape of saxophone music. The routine was by now familiar—undress, pray, kiss, and then give him a hand job. Jeremy would try to masturbate me but it just ended up feeling raw and hurting. I would move position so that he would rub a different spot, but I never understood why he—and the other men--kept on rubbing and rubbing. If I said I did not enjoy it they would accuse me of being prudish or proud. I just pretended to have an orgasm to get them to stop,,

Because we were supposed to "be loving and share," my protests were seen as rebellion which was the spirit of the Devil. Eman Artist worked directly with Mo he was treated as special and had the pick of any woman or girl he wanted. He was a short man, overweight, wore glasses, and had already lost most of his hair even though he was only in his early thirties. I had just started to develop breasts and they were tender. Eman liked to come up behind me and feel me up, or wrap his arms around my chest and squeeze me tight. It felt like he was suffocating me.

"You're hurting me," I would say, as I pushed him away.

"You're just little Miss Queeny, aren't you?" he'd snap back. "So proud,
Queeny
," he would mock, emphasizing the word "Queeny." I hated that name.
I managed to avoid him for a while, but then the dreaded evening came when he asked me to come to his room for a date. I could not bear the thought of being alone with him. In desperation, I went to my teacher, Sally, and said I could not do it.
    "He's horrible, pushy, and disgusting," I told her. "Sweetie, sometimes it can be difficult to share but God gives us the strength to do it. Why don't we pray together?" She laid her hand on my shoulder.

I listened dejectedly to her prayer, feeling betrayed and helpless. If she was not going to stop it then no one would. She handed me her tape recorder and suggested I play some music and do a dance for the loathsome man. She even escorted me to Eman Artist's room. I hated her. I hated the fact that I was being forced to suck the dick of a perverted, fat man who persisted on pushing himself on me when he knew I hated it. The worst part was the way he gloated. He had power over me and there was nothing I could do about
it.

He smirked as he exposed himself. "Suck me off," he ordered. Forcefully he pushed my face down on to his penis until I gagged. But although he puffed and groaned, nothing happened. So he asked me to dance for him, directing me to wiggle and rub my bottom in a suggestive way, as he tried to get it on himself. He failed to climax and his impotence made him agitated and more demanding. After what seemed like hours, I stumbled out of his room and cried myself to sleep on my own bed. The assault was over, but the nightmare continued to haunt me for years.

I never thought of telling Dad how I felt about the