By the seventh grade, I was outlining my eyes in black, wearing low-rise jeans, a bra, and red thong panties, and my hips were widening. I felt more like a woman and less like a child. I enjoyed these changes and the silly jokes of my colleagues who, paradoxically, did not seem annoying to me, but flattering, admiring. Things were getting more and more meaningful, my body was starting to look like the bodies of the naked women I was drawing, and my shapes reminded me of my mother's.
The period of the gymnasium was strongly marked by erotic games, the culmination of which was the kiss. I kissed about ten girls and about eight boys, and the kiss no longer seemed disgusting, but passionate, sensual, accompanied by caresses on the waist or neck. Sometimes I felt it like a commotion, other times like an emptiness in my stomach and, most of the time, like a preparatory stage, which made me curious. My attraction for women, which never caused me confusion, but was certain, almost palpable, still exists today. But when it comes to relationships and sex, I've always chosen men.
Andrei was three years older than me and I lived in the same village. He was tall and graceful in a clumsy, masculine way. He didn't know much about books, but he had a special charm, which I can't explain even today. During the day we stayed until we were in the waters of Buzau, and in the evening we ate stolen melons on the fountain in front of my house.
Our relationship started nicely, like a play, when we were about 15 years old. On the evening of the debut, our props included a tie, a T-shirt, a road warmed by the August sun and a sky full of stars. It was midnight, we had spent a whole day together, and before it was over we lay down in the middle of the street. He took off his shirt to feel better the hot steam coming out of the asphalt, and I put it on and gave him my brown teddy bear in exchange, for a reason that seemed funny to me then. I sat there for a good few minutes, then he asked me:
Do you see how slow that star moves in the sky? ” I saw her, and in an hour, as I lay on the main street of the village where we had both grown up, I counted all the walking stars I had seen.
Before leaving, Andrei kissed me, and I left smiling, without saying a word. Then, for a year, he loved me. It was the first one I allowed myself to touch and the first one I felt comfortable sharing, particle by particle. I was left alone every night, and his warm hands went up under my blouse with the cold air outside and covered my breasts, touched until then only by me and Ioana. We often argued, you wonder what nonsense, but we always turned to each other. Then, for several months, we were separated, during which time he began a relationship.
When I was a child, I often heard my mother crying from the next room. I only intervened if the crying turned into screams.
I grew up in an abusive family. My father has always had problems with alcohol. When I was in seventh grade, "Daddy" suddenly told me, after he picked me up from school, how he had just shot a lawyer at her office. That's how my favorite father started, who made all my cravings and told me that he loves me "up to heaven and back", to turn into my eyes.
He came home drunk almost every morning, after nights spent who knows where, and forced his mother to wake up, set his table, and eat with him, whether he was hungry or not. Sometimes he threw all the food out of the fridge in the middle of the kitchen, then beat it for all sorts of imaginary reasons. On some evenings, when he wasn't the nice drunk, joking, but coming home determined to cause a scandal, I would hide the phones because he used to break them so we couldn't call the police, which happened quite often. But the police never did much, because my mother gave in, and I didn't have the strength to open my mouth and defend her at the time. Then, when I was growing up, I started intervening in scandals at home and not allowing my father to hit her. Sometimes he succeeded, and all his anger was redirected to me. He never hit me, but he swore at me, he told me countless times that I was destroying my family and that I was zero, a fool who would do nothing in life.
Her mother's grandparents encouraged her to divorce, but everything stopped when I clung to his neck, shouting "Daddy, don't leave!", With the child's despair convinced that he would lose his father. So, out of my pity, my mother no longer considered the option of divorce and my grandmother, who loved me extraordinarily much, said nothing more. Then I saw a good father, who told me every day that he loved me and who, when he came home, put his head on the door and asked "Where is my little baby?".
For a long time, my mother and I did not have a close relationship. "Everything you hurt is from your father," he would tell me whenever I did something that didn't suit him, and he and I would giggle as accomplices, almost proud, because my father was resourceful, charismatic, smart, funny. , worthy - qualities I liked to believe I inherited.
But as a teenager, my father was no longer just a "father." I also saw him as a man, as a husband, and I had come to ask my mother to rebuild her life with someone else. My mother burst into tears whenever she heard me, because she had no plans to leave another man in her life.
After my grandmother's death, my mother's strength and courage to break away from my father perished. So, married at the age of 19 to the man who sent her love letters and caressed Roza, she stayed with him. He forgave him every time he beat her, offended her, or cheated on her, because he didn't want my brother and I, six years younger than me and too young, to understand what was going on, to grow up. without a father. I haven't been able to call him "Dad" since then, let alone "Daddy."
I realized late how much I was marked by all the things to which, without my will, I was a very attentive and receptive spectator. The women I knew from childhood and adolescence were slaves in the house, and sex seemed an act over which only men had control and which only they could enjoy. But it was an important component of a relationship, I was judging, so when Andrei told me he wanted to resume the relationship and asked me to sleep with him, nothing seemed abnormal to me.
Not even the fact that we would reconcile only if I agreed to have sex before he ended his relationship with Julia, his girlfriend, with whom he had, he said, a "complete relationship."
On April 25, 2009, almost two months after I turned 16, we went to Andrei's house and stopped, with our phone flashlights on, in his grandmother's room, full of duvets and peasant rugs. It was terribly cold and we had to have sex in perfect silence, with the light off, so as not to wake anyone in the house.
