The following comes from AVFM commenter Yan, with our thanks for the permission to reprint. PE
I’ve never written this anywhere before, or even talked about it with anyone. I was thirteen years old when I first had sex—this happened in France where I lived for most of my life. The girl was nineteen and had a boyfriend, thought at the time she said they were broken up, and she was single. Back then I thought the same thing that many boys in my situation would have thought: “this is awesome.” And at the time, I thought it was. She was hot, seemed normal, had a job (she worked at a restaurant as a waitress where I met her, strangely enough, with my mom), and I thought I was the luckiest person.
I felt special because I was younger than her, and she was clearly pretty enough to choose any number of guys her age or older. She had an apartment that her dad paid for, and I felt like a big man coming over there on weekends to have sex with her. I’d lie to my parents and say I was going to a guy friend’s house to play video games (this was around 2004). She’d never ask me to use a condom, and I always finished inside her.
She also said there was no danger because she was on the pill. I knew what ejaculating was in theory, but I had never done so in my life until I did so inside of her. And, she told me not to tell anyone about it so of course since I liked having sex with her I didn’t tell anyone.
She’d buy me stuff and being a stupid thirteen years old I thought I had a girlfriend. This went on for about four months, us having unprotected vaginal sex, and me performing oral sex on her, and she performing on me.
She would text message me in code (“maintenant, j’ai besoin de toi pour quelque chose” —I need you for something right now) and I’d walk to her place. She eventually broke it off, she said, because she “didn’t want to corrupt me.”
I said I didn’t feel like I was being corrupted, but she insisted. I was sad of course but being thirteen, you know, whatever. I got over it or at least I thought I did. I went back to my normal routine of playing sports and video games and just hanging out with my friends and being a kid.
Looking back, I can tell she was a sick individual, and a liar and a manipulator. I was thirteen, but not one of those thirteen-year-olds with a mustache who can pass for much older. When I was thirteen, I still looked like a little boy, and I acted like a little boy, too, with little boy interests. At that age, I still showed interest in toys. Not the thirteen-year-old who is already a smooth operator with the girls at school.
She was nineteen and obviously a young woman and was going to university in Marseilles, and my adult self sees all sorts of things wrong with this. We never went out in public, like going out to eat or anything. Sometimes she’d order food, and it would come to her apartment, but I couldn’t answer the door. I could only come to her house at certain times of the day. I could never call her, only text her. At the time, Myspace was big in social media. I had an account, and she had one, but she would not “add” me to her friends. Just as well. All my friends were, of course, other tweens and early teens.
At the same time, she acted possessive and liked to keep apprised of my activities. She wanted to know who I found attractive (the answer was NOBODY, since all the other girls were kids like me, certainly not young adults putting out, with their own apartments). She also wanted to know who I spent time with and if I were f*cking anyone else.
She would constantly tell me she was in love with me and that we would have beautiful “enfants mélangé” (mixed children) because she is White and I am half White and half Asiatique, and that she loved me and that I was really good at sex. When you’re thirteen, and a beautiful nineteen-year-old is telling you how well you get her off, that’s amazing for the ego. It was all just bullshit, though. Of course, it was bullshit.
I was a little kid who still got excited when getting a bike for Christmas and had no idea what I was doing. I just did what she asked me to do with my barely pubescent body. Her pleasure with me had less to do with anything I was doing and more to do with the sick pleasure she took in asking a child to do these things to her.
I found out later she was still with her boyfriend the whole time she was molesting me (molesting is the right word), and he had no idea I existed. At least, I don’t think he did.
Jumping ahead a bit; a couple of years ago she found me on Facebook and friend-requested me. I just turned 26 this year, and she’s about 32 or 33 now, and she’s still very beautiful. She’s married now (not to the boyfriend she used to have, but to another Asian dude; surprise, surprise, and has a child with him). I don’t harbor any grudges and even though I’m married myself now, I accepted her. We don’t exchange conversation really, but it’s more like an acknowledgment that we share something unspeakable that happened a long time ago.
When I turned 26 this January, she sent me a happy birthday message and said she missed me and wished we kept in touch better. Just normal nostalgic stuff that one might send an acquaintance from primary school years later on social media.
I wanted to ask, “Why did you rape me when I was a little kid? Did I do something bad when you dumped me? Did you find another little kid to replace me? Was I just one of many? Did you say ‘I love you’ to them, too?”
I know she never raped me in the hold-me-down-and-have-your-way sense, but it’s like she raped my nice way of looking at the world and changed it forever.
If feminists say it’s rape if a man looks at a woman longingly but doesn’t speak to her or otherwise progresses beyond that, what is it when a nineteen-year-old, fully-developed young woman seduces a boy? What is it when she seduces a boy who doesn’t even have pubic hair with words like “I’m so in love with you” and “I want to get married to you someday,”
What is it when she asks him to lie to his parents so that he can go down on her in some seedy, hidden apartment, and afterward, give him five Euro to buy McDonald’s on the way home — and never speak about it?
Maybe it’s not the “bitch shut your mouth, or I’ll kill you” kind of rape, but there is a crime there, I think.
Or if there isn’t, there should be.
Not all early sex that a young men experience builds character. Some of it only pretends to do so, when really it works to crush his soul.
I know it’s weird. When I automatically, politely replied, “Merci; tu me manques aussi” (thanks, miss you too) like a socially-conditioned robot, and she complimented my wedding pictures, it’s like I’m colluding with a rapist who sexually abused me when I was still a child. And though part of me felt disgust at being in contact with her, I know that some sick, barely-remembered part of me, a part that SHE helped to sicken, still wants and longs for her approval.
I know I have no intention of ever striking anything up with her again, nor will I allow anything to happen if she has that sort of idea in her head. I know something is wrong with me for not ever saying anything, even to her—to call her out—now that I “have the chance,” as it were. I feel like I’m in a different body floating in the air looking down at myself and knowing what I should do but trapped. I’m scared that if I try to go to counseling, I’ll get laughed at or have it explained to me that I should count myself lucky to be laid like that at such a young age, or be treated like I’m trying to blame my own f*cked up feelings on someone else.
But, nevertheless, I do know that my experience with her f*cked me up a lot, with my attitudes toward women. All of my subsequent sexual experiences have been with females older than myself. My next sexual partner was 21 when I was fifteen, the next 24 when I was 16, the next 27 when I was 18, and my first wife was 25 when we married. I was 19.
After I had lost my virginity to that first girl, I didn’t really try to attract girls. Instead, older girls would come to me. Usually involved with my school somehow. The 21-year-old was a teaching assistant, the 24-year-old was an English tutor (my written English is okay now but spoken is still awful), the 27-year-old was a graduate student teaching a college class of mine. My wife was an older classmate at an American university after I moved to the United States.
The first three women after the woman with whom I lost my virginity all cheated on their boyfriends with me (the first one, of course, cheated, too), and all followed a similar pattern: text me to come over, we’d have unprotected sex, I’d keep it all a secret.
Even as a teenager I was already an old pro when it came to the get-hit-on-by-pervs game. When a young, female teacher would speak to me, I’d know within a few minutes whether she was down to f*ck eventually. A tone of voice; touching my hand when I wrote things, hugging me, the way she’d look at me or give me unasked for and unencouraged compliments, the contrived excuse to work with me more closely, the even more contrived reasons to see me outside of school.
I would not ever consciously seek this extra contact. I was painfully shy and at various points in my life some teachers even thought I was mentally disabled or autistic.
—Rather, I think that the profession these women were in allowed individuals of a certain mindset access to patsies. And as a teenager, I was quite a patsy. I was shy, foreign, spoke French with a Russian accent even though I was clearly at least partially Asian; though tall I looked skinny, gangly and prepubescent even at seventeen… I was interesting to a certain demographic of predator.
And since I was so shy and didn’t talk to the girls my age, my contact with females was limited to adults; and with them, inevitably I would get sexual results.
When you’re young, and every sexual relationship you’ve been in follows the same trajectory so predictably that you can almost “call it in the air” before she comes up with a reason to dump you, it’s hard to accept or believe that there is more out there than that.
It made me think that women were just liars and cheaters and basically bullsh*tters with the whole “I love you” and “you can trust me” crap.
My first wife wasn’t a molester or cheating on anyone to be with me, but she was a typical American feminist. Lots of high-sounding talk about equality and female empowerment but perfectly content to let me do all the work in the relationship while she spent all the money. That had its problems.
I still have a lot of trust issues with women in general, though my relationship with my current wife is excellent. The fact that we are similar ages (she’s still older, but only by two years) and from similar cultural backgrounds (both originally from Eastern Europe) has a lot to do with it, I think.
I know that on some level that with all my relationships with older women, I was trying to recreate my first happiness. That was back when I thought I was in love because a deceitful, older woman tricked my child’s mind into thinking I knew what love even was, long before I should have ever even tried to find its meaning.
I know that my father would have told me I was lucky as hell if I were seventeen and the girl were nineteen, but when I was only thirteen, he would have rightfully gone ballistic if he knew some nineteen years old was doing it with me and without a condom. At that age, my friends and I still played with Legos and Pokemon cards.
Even at thirteen, I knew the girl was breaking the law. I knew something must be wrong with her to be able to get herself going at the thought of an underdeveloped child getting naked with her, but because I was having fun and she convinced me that she cared about me, I overlooked these things or didn’t think about them too hard.
Only afterward, when it was over, did I see how it colored everything I did since.
I never told my father. Neither he nor my mother knows. Only the girl and I know unless she told anyone else. Not even my wife knows, and in some ways it kills me: did I commit to a relationship with her because she is filling a void from my childhood that had no right ever to be there?
So many people go around saying that it’s okay for older women to rape little boys because it’s a rite of passage. If that’s so, I hope that it’s not a rite of passage that every boy has to go through, because honestly it’s a lonely road and at times I felt like I didn’t want to live anymore.
It’s hard to be young and have an older person tell you all of these wonderful things when you are your most vulnerable, unsure of your changing body, and because she is naked you think she is vulnerable too, and she can’t possibly be lying to you or using you.
Then to have her let you go from a high place so that your heart crashes and you have to reassemble your life and way you think and see things. You’re scared to tell anyone what happened because you think something is wrong with you, or that people won’t believe you, think that you’re bragging, or that you failed because of some personal shortcoming and that’s why your rapist doesn’t want to rape you anymore.
So, yeah. In a lot of ways, it was cool to have sex at thirteen, because honestly, sex feels good and it helps a guy’s ego to give any girl, especially an older one, orgasms, but being lied to and manipulated doesn’t feel good. When you’re sixteen banging other sixteen-year-olds, of course, you’re going to brag to your buddies. But even back then I could never brag to my friends that I was doing it with an adult. One, because she asked me not to tell anyone, and two because even as a child I knew something was terribly wrong with what we were doing.
Yes. I liked the sex. But looking back, and knowing today what I know, I wish I could go back in time and just really be telling the truth to my mom when I said I was going to Marcel’s house to play Halo and basketball.