The Arrangement

This is a harsh story that talks about harsh subjects such as rape and pedophilia. Nothing in this story is conducted in scene, but nothing is held back. If you have PTSD over such subjects please, I ask you not to read this.

This is a complete work of fiction.

         I drum my fingers on the steering wheel. I knew the arrangement. It's been the same one for the past six years. Since I was ten. I come to his place on the weekend, swallow my pride and do what he likes. Whatever he likes. The fat old man can't even get it up anymore, so that's a blessing. Though he still wants to do disgusting stuff, which I hate.
The problem isn't what the fat old bastard wants to do with me. It's everything else. Yes, I was ten. I was desperate. We needed money. Dad was on just about every drug known to man, mom was working her butt off. And me? I was hungry. That was when he came over. Offering me a hot meal. Clean clothing. All I had to do was the one thing.

         Thing is, I was ten. I didn't have a sexuality then. I know what other people claim about that age, but I know what I was and what I wasn't. I wasn't concentrating on sex with anyone. Before that day I was concentrating on the new Avengers movie or the next Call of Duty game. After that day I was learning how to control a gag reflex.

         That's what the hardest part of this entire thing is. For the longest time I saw that sick bastard in my nightmares. You do what you must to survive, especially in this neighborhood. He gets his jolly's and I get to eat. That's the arrangement. His pleasure. My survival. It's doing what I had to just to get the things I needed to get by. So what if it's disgusting. Humiliating. Sometimes painful even.

         There was one time he went at me so hard I literally couldn't walk straight for a week. Fat old bastard thought it was funny. I'd walk around his house wearing those nasty booty shorts he loves so damn much and he'd swat me on the ass and laugh that half snort half braying laugh of his as I jumped. Think the fat old bastard was proud of what he did.
Dating's hard too. How can I date anyone? Had a football player come onto me a few weeks back. But he looked a bit too much like that fat old bastard in the light and I flinched. I just couldn't do it. Part of my mind froze and melted at the same time. You know how difficult it is to live with something like that? And forget the cheerleader who I had a crush on. I couldn't even go near her without my mind hearing that fat old bastard's braying laughter.

         For the longest time I thought I must be gay for doing all that with him. Then I figured I must be straight cause I hated it. Then I figured I must be bi cause I just didn't care anymore. Then I figured, what the hell does it matter, anyway? It's survival. That must be what my sexuality is - survival.

         I sit here in the drive in his 1967 Lime green Chevy Camaro with the black racing stripe. SS. His prized possession. I learned how to drive in this. Of course, he made me play with his stick shift at the same time if you know what I mean, but what the hell, I was fourteen and by then I was used to it. And I did learn how to drive this girl pretty good while keeping the seats clean.

         His lawn is overgrown. He's going to want me to mow wearing those disgusting booty shorts and nothing else. He'll be staring at me while I'm panting to death out there. House needs painting too, which means I'll be up on the ladder this weekend. He'll be staring at me the entire afternoon eyeballing me while he's holding that ladder. One hand over his fat gut playing with his balls while he's watching me, hoping and praying to finally feel something again.

         My hands are still drumming on this steering wheel. My grades are through the toilet. No one even cares if I show up to school. I had a teacher actually suggest that I don't go back. You believe that? Damn prissy bitch.

         I have two hundred fifty dollars. Get gas for the mower. Get groceries. Get 'supplies' cause he's got some friends coming over and he wants to watch. I'll get my cash when they leave. One hundred dollars. To survive the week. If dad doesn't find it again and spend it on drugs. If mom doesn't find it again and get that look in her eye as she takes it to pay rent or the electric bill, or to get dad drugs. That tearful look of hers always tears me apart. Like she knows what I'm going through but keeps her mouth shut cause it's just easier. Cause deep down, I think sometimes she's doing it too.

         That's the arrangement. He gets to treat my body like it's his own personal amusement park, and I get one hundred dollars. That's the price to enter this pleasure kingdom. One hundred bucks to ride all the rides you want. Don't worry about treating the rides too rough, cause they're built sturdy! Just ask the fat old bastard! He'll tell you. He's tried to break every ride in this amusement park cause he thinks it's his to do with as he pleases. He's even branded me. He's spanked me, whipped me. He almost broke my arm once and damn nearly gave me hemorrhoids. For one hundred dollars. For survival for another week.

         Fuck him. Fuck this piece of shit town. Fuck that piece of shit school. Fuck everyone. I look into the rear-view mirror. There's a wild look in my eyes that I don't recognize and this vicious snarl on my face, like some half-crazed wild animal is taking my place. A tear has run its way down my cheek from my eye. I have no idea when I started crying.

         I twist the key in the ignition. Rev the engine. It feels good to rev it. The fat old bastard doesn't like when I rev it. I do it once more. Hard. He'll make me pay for that later. He likes making me pay. I throw it in reverse and back out into the street.

         Fuck later. Fuck paying. There's no more later and I'm not paying. Not anymore. My foot's on the throttle. I'm not blasting it though. That would attract attention. I'm cruising. I'm going to travel down side streets over to the interstate. I have no destination in mind other than the beach. Out of this state. Away from here. Four hundred miles away I figure. Maybe a couple tanks of gas. Two hundred fifty bucks will be more than enough.

         I'm never coming back. That fat old bastard will never see this SS again. After everything I've gone through, every humiliation, every piece of shit thing that asshole made me do and has done to me for those hundred bucks a week, I deserve this car. I love this car. It's my pride. My joy.

         My freedom.