The Note (part 1)

A regrettable missive exposed and triggered a predator who groomed me for her gratification.

Jul 05, 2025

From my earliest memories, my father inflicted severe physical abuse on me—pouring scalding water on my wrists, repeatedly trying to drown me, confining me in a wooden chest, and beating me nearly daily. My mother offered neither protection nor love. That violence shattered my sense of safety, my sense of self, and any belief that I was worth protecting.

My adolescent sexual abuse cannot be understood without that foundation. I was already broken when, at ten, a nineteen-year-old woman began abusing me, continuing for two years. A week after my thirteenth birthday, I was raped by a college sophomore, the big sister of a friend. These experiences confirmed what the beatings had already taught me: I was powerless. They set the stage for a destructive sexual obsession that consumed me from fifteen to twenty. It took until I was sixty-seven—and my ninth attempt at finding a therapist—before I found someone competent and trustworthy enough to begin healing.

Society rarely views what happened to me as abuse. When women are perpetrators and boys are victims, the cultural response often defaults to mythology: you were lucky; most boys would dream of that. These reactions aren’t just wrong—they’re a second injury. I carried not only the abuse itself but also a world that refused to name it. The shame that produced kept me silent for decades.

I write to break that silence. Not to diminish what female survivors have endured, but to insist that vulnerability is gender-neutral and that every survivor—regardless of gender—deserves acknowledgment, support, and a path toward healing.

What follows is told from the perspective of my sixteen-year-old self, including language and attitudes I no longer hold today. I’ve preserved them deliberately: they show how desperately I wanted to belong, and how precisely predators exploit that desperation.

September 1970

On that first day of my junior year—my first year living alone in high school—I walked into my second-period class. There she was, leaning provocatively—so I thought—against her desk: someone new to the school and my new history teacher. With many extracurricular activities, I knew every teacher and staff member—she was definitely new, and I would have noticed her before. After a quick assessment, I concluded she might be the most attractive woman in the entire school. She wasn’t what some would call an elegant beauty—not the tall, willowy type with chiseled features—but she was still stunning. By then, I had had more sexual encounters than other boys my age, even accounting for their boastful and comical lies, and I was no stranger to the female form. Before me, I had to admit, was the most perfect example I’d ever seen—clothed, at least. I spotted my best friend Wayne sitting in the front row and grabbed the desk beside him. He gave me that immature male, oh-my-god look. I tore off a corner of notebook paper and quickly scribbled an explicit observation about our new teacher. Leaning toward Wayne’s desk, I passed him the note. He read it and almost laughed. What I didn’t realize was that the new teacher had seen me pass the note. She walked toward Wayne and asked to see it. My heart stopped. Big trouble was looming if she read those words.

I wasn’t exactly a model student; the wild me had been trying out “trouble” as my middle name for a few years now, so Wayne needed to do what I would undoubtedly do for him—come up with anything possible to keep her from getting that note. Desperate, I telepathically bludgeoned Wayne with the instruction to eat the note when I heard him cowardly blurt out, “Okay,” and extend his hand to her with the note in it. After giving him a look that strongly suggested I’d later rearrange a few of his facial features, I glanced her way and noticed she seemed to be reading the note. She folded it up, and with no expression or show of emotion, she turned to me and asked my name. I managed to stutter, “Ke-Keith.”

Hmm… Keith? Well, Keith, would you stay after class?” Knowing I would face serious consequences, I relaxed. What was the point of worrying more? With almost foolish confidence, I replied, “Sure, happy to,” locking eyes with her directly and confidently with a half-smile, almost a smirk. She didn’t look away, and I noticed the slightest trace of a smile. But surely I was wrong, and I quickly pushed that thought out of my mind — there’s no way this would end well, and it was my stupid fault.

As I became comfortable in class, the thought of potential punishment preoccupied me. That note had been quite graphic. Suspension was likely in my near future, and I couldn’t imagine being allowed to stay in this class any longer. No student would get away with writing lewd comments about a teacher’s body. Until now, my only interactions with women older than me, besides my earlier sexual abuser, had been with the older sisters of a few short-term girlfriends. None was much older than me; the oldest was maybe 20. But this teacher was much older, an adult with authority in charge of me. I certainly wasn’t thinking of her as a sexual partner; she was more likely the person about to justifiably deal me another setback, pushing me closer to social services and a foster home.

Time passed in fits and starts. Finally, after remaining silent throughout her class, I looked at my watch and saw it would soon wrap up—then there it was: the bell. I stayed seated and watched my classmates file past me into the hallway. As the last few strolled by, my earlier confidence slipped away, replaced by a sudden wave of anxiety. Still seated, I prepared for my fate as best I could.

She was writing in a notebook, without raising her eyes or in my direction. Eventually, she set her pen down and glanced my way. Instead of asking me to come to her desk, she crossed the room and closed the door. Her next move caught me off guard—she walked over, grabbed the desk where Wayne had been sitting, and slid it closer to me.

As she moved the desk closer, my body responded reflexively: first, my throat seized, then my heart began racing. Old feelings of sensitivity and anxiety snuck in, echoing the past. Anxiety and a suppressed alertness mixed, the echoes of former times pushing against this moment.

Then she sat down, smiled, and asked, “You live alone, don’t you?”

That took me by surprise, but I regained my composure and replied, still surprised, “Where did you hear that?”

“Mr. Porter mentioned it during our meetings last week about our lesson plans. Since I’m new, I asked the teachers to review my class rolls and share anything about specific students that might be useful. Seems you have quite a reputation, Keith. More than a few told me you’re brilliant, and Ms. Gaff, the cheerleading coach, said you’d dated at least half the squad, even a few of the older ones. Mr. Porter said that despite being in and out of trouble, you were much more mature than your classmates, and he added that you now live alone.”

She cocked her head slightly. “How is that possible? You’re only 16, aren’t you?” Sam Porter was the only one at school I’d told about living alone. Two weeks ago, while heading to the locker room to suit up for preseason football practice, I ran into him in the parking lot. He’d been my sociology teacher the year before—a great teacher who genuinely cared about his students. It felt good to talk to someone, and I felt safe sharing my circumstances with him. Reluctant to share details and trying to absorb that she knew a lot about me, I answered in a measured, curt voice, “Yes, I’m living alone. My parents moved to New Jersey. I didn’t want to go, so here I am.” I’d asked Sam to keep that information private, but looking at her, I could easily imagine how she might have loosened him up. I wanted to ask her not to tell anyone else—that fact could get me shipped off to social services and a foster home—but I was on shaky ground and in no position to expect favors.

“You do seem more mature than your friends,” she said. “You didn’t flinch when I asked you to stay after class. You looked me directly in the eye and answered with a lot of confidence.”

I’d heard about maturity from older girls and adults before. When you’re the only adult in your home, you learn to gauge the atmosphere to prevent being beaten, take care of your younger siblings, manage all the household duties, and lie awake night after night, sorting through the confused remorse from sexual abuse… You grow up fast. The tragedy is that I hadn’t truly grown up. I wasn’t ready for adult experiences, no matter how mature I thought I was.

Her eyes brightened before I had a chance to process what was happening—why I wasn’t being reprimanded and sent to the office for disciplinary action. She lowered her voice, almost whispering, “Do you really think so?” Now I was even more confused, unsure what she meant. All I could manage was an incredulous, “What?”

“You know, what you wrote. Do you think so? You’re not in trouble. I’m actually very flattered.” The haze started to clear as I regained my composure and voice. I heard myself say something from my 16-year-old adolescence that forced open a Pandora’s Box, releasing demons that would plague me for years to come—something my inexperienced younger self couldn’t foresee—“My god, yes, you’re gorgeous.”

She blushed, then reached over and rested her hand on my thigh. Leaning in, she said, “That’s so sweet. Men never say things like that to me. I’ve always been self-conscious about my appearance.” And there it was— that vulnerable, self-doubting look that suggested emotional wounds. My instinct to comfort and fix her immediately overwhelmed my good sense. “I don’t believe that,” I hurriedly said. “You’re beautiful. Any man would recognize how attractive you are. Tell me, what do you see when you look in the mirror?” I had asked that same question of other girls wrestling with body image issues, even physically dragging some of them to a full-length mirror so I could point out, feature by feature, if necessary, that they needn’t worry about their looks.

Her response, however, caught me completely off guard. The vulnerability vanished as she replied in a suddenly firm, confident, almost sultry voice, “Dressed or naked?”

My expression must have shown my surprise because she quickly backpedaled. “Oh god, I didn’t mean to… I was just kidding, trying to help you relax. Halfway through class, I realized I’d probably terrified you. I’m sorry. Forget the note. As I said, it didn’t upset me at all.”

“I thought I was done,” I owned up after regaining my composure. “The note was stupid—I never should have written it. I’m sorry, but I’m relieved you’re not upset. That’s the last thing I’d want, Ms. Caster.”

“Karen,” she corrected. “My name’s Karen, and please call me that when we’re not in class or around other students.” I often sought out adults who could talk about world affairs and intellectual topics my peers neither understood nor cared about. The high school faculty, many of whom recognized my intelligence and maturity, had become my personal salon, where I could engage with educated, like-minded thinkers about my interests. However, with her, I sensed something entirely different was unfolding. Teachers often allow me to use their first names, but she was the first to offer the privilege without being prompted.

Attempting to disregard the nagging pull at the far reaches of my mind, I managed to say, “Okay, Karen, it’s nice to meet you, and thank you for giving me a pass on the note.” Something about this experience is acutely familiar. Once again, an attractive, adult woman, in a sexual context (the note), noticed me, this time noting that I live alone.

The note—yes, I wrote it—was followed by an instant regret, a sinking feeling when I realized I had deceived myself. Not because I feared getting caught, but because those words weren’t me. I had been playing a part, trying to convince Wayne I could be just another guy who reduced women to bodies and crude jokes. These performances were exhausting, often centered on this and other topics, for my peers. No doubt, I was different, but being different can attract cruelty. I just wanted to be a regular kid. In reality, I valued the women in my life, listened to them, and treated them as equals, whole individuals. Anyone who knew me would have been shocked by that note—it was the impersonation of someone I thought I should be, not who I was.

Trying to brush these thoughts aside, I spoke again, addressing her as ‘Karen,’ as she’d asked. “The fact I live alone is not well known here at school, and that could land me in social services and, ultimately, a foster home. I’d be grateful if you kept that information to yourself, Karen.” When her name rolled off my tongue, I was sure I saw a subtle change in the look on her face, one I thought I recognized but couldn’t label. “Oh, God, I’d never want to get you into trouble; I won’t tell a soul, I promise. Now, for scaring you half to death, let me make it up to you. I’m guessing you don’t get many home-cooked meals. Have dinner with my husband and me tonight; we’ll get to know each other better. I’m sensing you’re very interesting, bearing a tale to share, and if you want someone to talk to…” The truth was, between my classmates’ moms and older sisters — I was a pretty good cook myself — I didn’t lack great meals. Still, I didn’t mind taking her up on the conversation. A red flag had gone up earlier, but she seemed pretty nice, and some adult conversation would be welcome. Anyway, her husband will be there.

“Okay, I’ll take you up on that. Any ideas what you’re serving? I’ll bring the wine.”

Inclining her head, her now obvious tell before she asks a question, she said, “Again, aren’t you 16? And what do you know about wine?”

“Well, my grandfather’s family is from France and Italy. When my great-grandfather immigrated here, he brought scions from their vineyards in northern Italy and planted them where they settled in the North Carolina mountains. A month ago, when I was visiting, I grabbed a few bottles from my grandfather’s cellar. I know it’s not legal for me to drink, but wine has been on the table at my grandparents’ since I was a little kid, and I was taught how to drink wine at a very early age. So I enjoy a glass now and then.”

“Wow! You’re full of surprises. I’m looking forward to getting to know you better. Yes, you may bring the wine, but I thought we’d grill a few steaks. Is that okay with you?”

“Absolutely. Write down your address and phone number for me, and I’ll see you at…”

“Let’s say 7.00.”

“Okay, it’s a date… I mean… uh, I’ll see you at 7.” She laughed, obviously entertained by my awkward reference to ‘date,’ and I turned to go.

Her place wasn’t hard to find; it was an apartment in the east end of the county, near where I’d played Legion ball the previous summer. It looked nice enough, and I found her unit and rang her doorbell. The door opened, and there she stood, her blouse completely open, holding something in her hand that looked like makeup. Her open top caught my attention first because she made no attempt to cover up, and second, where was her husband? It wasn’t too cool to greet your half-dressed teacher with her husband standing there.

“Come in, sit anywhere. I’ll be right back.” She dashed down a hallway, disappearing through one of the doors. Instead of finding a seat, I headed for the kitchen to put the wine away. Once I found it, I slipped the bottle into the fridge. It was a red, specifically a Pinot Nero (nero is the Italian word for noir), and, as my grandfather had taught me, it’s probably the only red best served slightly chilled, not cold. I checked my watch and decided to take it out in 20 minutes.

With the wine taken care of, I headed back to find a place to sit, opting for a single chair by the sliding glass door that led to a small terrace. Still no husband; maybe he was running late from work.

Just as I was about to get comfortable, Karen appeared at the end of the hall and entered the room. Looking more put together this time, she looked even better than I remembered from earlier that day. Weren’t we planning to grill something? She wore a clingy silk blouse, a tight short skirt, and four-inch black heels. She looked far better than I did in my old jeans and T-shirt.

“You should have said we’d be dressing up; you look great.” It’s not necessarily how I’d phrase my compliment if her husband weren’t there. I had religiously watched Cary Grant movies and thought I knew how to compliment a woman, but where was he? “I’m looking forward to meeting your husband.”

Her next words weren’t necessary; I could have gotten the gist from the look on her face: “Well, about that… he’s interning as a doctor, and I simply forgot he was on a 48-hour shift at Emory that started today.”

“I’ll go then. I’m not sure…” This didn’t feel right; the red flags were practically flapping in the breeze.

“No! Don’t go. I promised you dinner, and that’s what we’re going to do. I’ve already screwed up your day enough. Please, won’t you stay? Randall, my husband, said you should stay, and you could help yourself to his Scotch.” She seemed to be extending a hand to me now, and her speech was caring. What’s the harm, I figured. Besides, I had developed a taste for Scotch; a sometime bedmate regularly raided her father’s liquor cabinet, and I’d discovered I suffered no hangover from it. Perhaps Karen is a cool teacher who acknowledges that some of her students are more mature than others.

I decided to stay. Dinner with Karen proved more interesting than I had anticipated—her mind was as impressive as her looks. We moved from discussing whether the Allies should have apologized for WWII war crimes to the US as a hegemon after the Korean War. We then suddenly found ourselves debating whether the pill had modified America’s sexual landscape. The topic clearly fascinated Karen, though not for the reasons I might have guessed.

It was 1970. The birth control pill had been available for a decade, but we were witnessing a notable transformation. The first generation had revealed its dangers—estrogen levels so high that they put women at risk. Ortho Pharmaceutical, where my father worked, had released a new formulation with FDA approval that year: only 1.5 mg of estrogen, yet still 98% effective. When I mentioned this, Karen’s expression changed. She experienced leg swelling and even a blood clot after starting the pill. I asked about her prescription and dosage, and couldn’t hide my shock when she told me.

“Your doctor is either hopelessly outdated or dangerously negligent,” I said. “That pill could kill you. Have you stopped taking it?” She examined me, clearly wondering about the source of my “diagnosis.”

“I had to stop. The damn thing made me gain fifteen pounds, too. I couldn’t have that.” Her head tilted slightly. “How do you know so much about birth control?”

“My father works for Ortho,” I explained. “Five years now. The pharmaceutical reps get an entire medical library—everything from The Kinsey Report to Masters and Johnson’s complete works. The same reference library you’d find in any major OB/GYN practice.” I shrugged, downplaying it. “I’m a fast reader, so I’ve gone through all the medical research, product abstracts, clinical studies—everything.” I stalled, uncertain about whether to reveal the rest of it, how I’d been quietly “prescribing” the newer, safer 1.5mg pills to girls at school. Some had been taking the dangerous higher doses; others had mothers who refused to let them get protection. The cost was prohibitive—over a dollar per pill meant monthly prescriptions exceeding thirty dollars, a small fortune for teenagers in 1970 unless parents were footing the bill. My father’s garage had become an unintentional warehouse. Dozens of sample cases, each containing one hundred Ortho “DialPaks”—their innovative packaging designed to ensure women took the right pill on the right day. He never inventoried them, occasionally tossing a few in his trunk for sales calls. I’d begun liberating cases here and there and still had quite an inventory at home. A few hundred DialPaks stretched surprisingly far when passed along to just a dozen or so grateful girls.

Karen’s eyes widened slightly as she mulled over what I had just shared. “Most guys,” she said, “couldn’t even handle a conversation about us getting our periods without squirming, let alone discuss estrogen dosages in birth control formulations. You know, you’re not like most 16-year-olds,” she said, examining me with newly discovered curiosity. “Most guys your age are still giggling at the word ‘breast’ in health class.” I shrugged, though I couldn’t help feeling a little “grown-up” in a good way. It wasn’t the first time I had heard something like this. Teachers often mistook my vocabulary and knowledge for that of someone much older. Girls at school would seek me out with questions they were too embarrassed to ask anyone else, treating me like some combination of counselor and doctor. What started as dry conversations about their periods or contraception often evolved into deeper confidences— their insecurities, desires, and experiences. It wasn’t surprising that many of these relationships eventually turned physical. Once you’ve discussed someone’s most intimate bodily functions in matter-of-fact terms, the usual awkward barriers to sex seem almost trivial by comparison. They trusted me with their medical and emotional concerns; trusting me with their bodies seemed like a natural progression. “It’s just information,” I said, downplaying it. “I happened to have access to books that most people don’t see until medical school. The human body isn’t mysterious or embarrassing—it’s just biology.”

What I didn’t say is how this knowledge had placed me in an awkward middle ground. Adults would forget my age when I spoke about topics like reproductive health with medical accuracy, only to suddenly remember and grow uncomfortable. Meanwhile, my male peers found my knowledge intimidating, rarely seeing me as just another guy. I tried to hide this side of myself, but trying to be what I thought my friends wanted me to be was exhausting. In some ways, this premature expertise had robbed me of normal adolescent fumbling. While other boys were still decoding the enigmas of female anatomy through soft-spoken gossip and magazines hidden under their mattresses, I had textbook diagrams and clinical studies crowding my mind. Sometimes I wondered if knowing too much, too soon, had caused me to miss something essential about growing up.

While my thoughts scrambled, Karen sat in silence, clearly processing something. The ball was in my court to maintain the dialogue, but I was at a loss for something insightful to say. “More wine?” I offered lamely. “About a glass and a half left—I’ll split it with you.”

She paused briefly. “If I have more wine, I may do something I’ll regret.” Then she smiled. “But what the hell—yeah, let’s finish the bottle.” I briefly considered cutting her off, then dismissed the idea. She’s an adult. She can make her own decisions. After a few more sips, Karen suggested moving to the living room. I took the same chair as before, but she indicated the direction of the sofa, where she was already settled. I sat down as far away as possible, practically pressed against the armrest. Once comfortable, she turned to me. “Let’s get back to this birth control pill thing. Are you sure I’m on the wrong one? And do you know which one I should be taking?”

“Well, after hearing what your doctor prescribed and your problems…” I spoke with unexpected confidence, perhaps powered by the wine or her attentiveness. “I might be more qualified than your doctor to help with this. I have a few DialPaks in my car—would you like some?” Was I really suggesting I knew better than her physician? Was I about to become her “dealer”? “Look, let me run out to the car. I’ll grab you three—you’ll be set for the next three months.”

I retrieved them in less than five minutes. Returning to my spot on the sofa, I said, “I’m sure you know how to take them and when to start the cycle.”

She cocked her head slightly. “I thought I did, but apparently I’ve been told a lot of wrong things. Why don’t you explain it to me?”

Here was my opportunity to excuse myself—to suggest she talk to a doctor, thank her for dinner, and leave. Instead, I stayed, reasoning it was for her health. Her quack doctor could have told her anything.

“The cool thing about Ortho’s DialPak is that you know exactly where you are, day-wise,” I began, sounding like a hip Ortho commercial. “As you already know, there are 28 pills…”

“No,” she interrupted, “my prescription was for 21 pills. Then I’d have to remember when I started and take one every day. Some days, I couldn’t remember whether I’d taken them, so I might have skipped them or taken them twice. I hate keeping track.”

I’d heard this countless times from girls I’d helped—this was familiar territory. “With the DialPak, there are 21 active, hormone-containing pills, then seven inactive ones that help maintain a regular cycle. Here, let me show you.” I opened one packet and unconsciously slid closer to demonstrate. “See, there’s even a day of the week by each pill slot. You rotate the dial and remove that day’s pill. The danger of losing count, which is easy with the old packaging, is that skipping days might turn the pills into a fertility drug. And doubling up gives you an estrogen overdose, which could be dangerous.” I paused. “Do you smoke?” Recent studies have suggested that smoking while on the pill could be a problem for some women.

“No, never— it’s nasty, don’t you think?”

I nodded. Cigarettes were perhaps my only vice-free zone. My mother had smoked two packs a day, trapping me in cars with the windows rolled up (fresh air caused pneumonia, she said). Air conditioning was equally risky in her mind, so heat stroke and smoke inhalation became just more of the fun aspects of my childhood.

“I’m glad to hear you don’t smoke,” I replied, thinking of my mother. “I agree. It’s a disgusting habit.” I refocused. “Back to the pills. Are you still on the others?”

“No,” she said. “I felt I had to stop.” She anticipated my next question. “And no, I did not tell my doctor.”

“Actually, I was going to ask whether your period started right after you stopped and whether it was normal.” God, now I’m discussing my teacher’s menstrual cycle with her.

Karen didn’t seem bothered at all. “Yes, and it was a light one. It ended about a week ago. I’d been wondering just today what I was going to do next. And look, you showed up!”

I experienced a little dizziness, and it wasn’t the wine. This situation seemed simultaneously familiar and foreign. I had to decide what to think or feel about it. I needed to pull myself together; I didn’t want Karen to notice the trembling that used to happen when…

Her speech snapped me back. “So you’re saying I need to start these pills tonight or tomorrow morning at the latest, right?”

“Yes, that’s exactly right, but…” I paused briefly, looking for the appropriate words for her and her husband’s sake.

“But what?” She pushed the ball firmly back into my court, and I decided to keep going.

“This is very important— if you and your husband have sex tomorrow, you should take five of these pills no later than the next morning. I have no idea how you were taking those other pills, and stopping abruptly creates a transition period that may make you more likely to get pregnant.”

“And why would I take five at once?” Her speech and expression made it clear she’d never heard of this before. I wasn’t surprised. A few years earlier, an Ortho scientist had discovered that an excessive dose of estrogen, taken within 24 hours of intercourse, could act as a single-dose contraceptive for that specific encounter. Ortho had never published this information, and it would be years before this became common “street” knowledge—essentially an early morning-after pill.

“Because taking a handful, five is sufficient, is like a one-dose contraceptive. Just save the Dialpak you took the five from; save it for the same thing again, as needed. I’ll get you another one so you’ll have a full three-month supply. And if you’re wondering, you can’t just take five when you have sex instead of taking the pills as prescribed. That’s dangerous if you’re having sex frequently, anyway.”

Before I knew it, she had moved closer to me, leaning against me as I spoke. When I finished, she looked at me with those wide eyes that appeared to take in everything.

“There’s something about you,” she spoke gently. “In the very short time we’ve been talking, I feel like I could tell you anything. Has anyone else ever said that to you?” She gauged my expression and quickly added, “Of course they have; it’s written all over your face.” I noticed a smile at the corner of her lips.

“Remember when I said Ms. Gaff mentioned you’d gone through half the cheerleaders? I didn’t give it much thought then, but I’m getting it now. You’ve got them on the pill, don’t you? My god, that’s the most clever thing I’ve ever heard to get a woman into bed—the pill as party favors! You’re their OB/GYN, aren’t you, with a dash of ‘best friend’ thrown in?”

Those remarks didn’t seem inappropriate, even though they were, but rather insulting. I never intentionally tried to lure any girl into having sex with me. Yes, I’d had sex with more than a few girls at my school and some at other schools, but it was never the result of some clever scheme I devised to get someone into bed.

I spat my words out angrily, “No, it’s not like that. I’d never do that. You know, it’s time to go. I’ll find my way out.”

But before I was able to completely rise from the sofa, she pulled me back down, her hands securely grasping my arm and shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice softening to a hushed tone. “I didn’t realize— you think you’re helping. And yes, you are helping. I’m just stupid, and I’m sure it’s the wine talking.” She didn’t let go of my arm. Instead, her hold softened, and her thumb circled small circles on my sleeve.

“It’s just that… I’ve heard things about you. Good things. That you listen. That you understand.” Her eyes met mine, holding my gaze. “I shouldn’t have put it like that. It was crude, but I’m curious about you and a little nervous, and sometimes, when I’m nervous, I say the wrong things.”

I felt myself relax slightly, though I remained wary. “What exactly have you heard?”

“That you’re safe. That you care.” She smiled, a vulnerable expression of sadness and resignation passing over her face. “And right now, I could use someone who cares.” She shifted, her knee touching mine.

“Could we start over? Pretend I didn’t just make a complete fool of myself? Maybe enjoy the rest of our wine?”

The vulnerability in her soft voice seemed genuine, prompting me to doubt my reaction. Maybe I had misunderstood. “I don’t need wine to talk with you,” I said, keeping some emotional distance.

“No,” she agreed, “but it might help me be less nervous.” She extended her hand toward her glass, drinking deeply. “Besides, I think we both need to unwind a little. Today’s been… intense.” As she handed me my glass, her fingers rested against mine. “I don’t usually let people see me like this. Messy. Uncertain. You should feel special.” The sincerity of her apology, her unguarded vulnerability, and the tender pressure of her slender digits against my arm started to fade my tension. I felt my wariness fading away, though some instinct still warned me from the far reaches of my memories. As I set my glass on the table and turned toward her, she leaned in to close the distance between us, her lips finding mine in a hesitant kiss. I neither pulled away nor responded, and I sensed her sharply draw a breath before she pulled back slightly, her eyes studying mine.

“Please, I need you… to take me to bed. Now.”

With the cautious reflection of someone embarking on a decisive journey, I stood, looked down at her, and surprised myself by extending my hand to hers. I slowly helped her up and pulled her close, kissing her first tenderly and then more passionately. I may have briefly wondered what I was getting into. Still, the wounded child within me, desperate for any form of validation and connection, surrendered to both my ego and what I would only understand years later as her calculated exploitation of my weaknesses.

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