You picked me up in the parking lot of the mini-mall near my house when I was fifteen. It was broad daylight. You were a police officer, but an addict. We had one thing in common. You drove me to your house in a beat-down part of a beat-down town and put me in a leather jockstrap. I can't tell you how humiliated I felt; even at my thinnest, a noticeable layer of fat spilled over the tiny waist. You gave me the pipe and I inhaled hungrily, but it didn't cure my shame. Eventually, you had to stop me from smoking any more. Out of greed, out of concern for my safety-- I do not know. Possibly a bit of both.
We tried to fuck but I couldn't. You were as hungry for that as I was for a free high, so I offered to call one of my "friends" who lived in your town. He was, in reality, another man in his mid-thirties who I had chatted up but never met. He came by and did the job for me, the first and last I ever saw of him. Ostensibly, I was watching, but mostly I stared at the ceiling and tried to transport myself somewhere else. The frenzied grunts distracted me and I kept getting drawn back into your dingy room, feeling like a pig in a thong made from my own skin.
You both finished and wanted me to stay longer. I told you to bring me home; you said "later." Frustrated and late for dinner, I revealed my age, dialed 911 on my phone, and threatened to press "send." I thought you might stab me. Reluctantly, you took me home, both of us still spun and newly burning with hatred for one another. You returned me to the same place you found me. I slammed the door and walked away briskly, your tires screeching in the background.