I was 12. The whole neighborhood was playing hide and seek. The little kids, the big kids, even the kids like me who rarely came out to play. I was hiding behind a bush on the side of a corner house when Michael showed up. He sat next to me and we hid together while we listened to the sounds of feet hitting pavement, laughter and the yells of people almost being caught. Michael was close to me, so close I could smell his breath, feel his arm brush up against mine. He was four years older than me and the object of affection of almost every girl on the block, including me. We sat a few minutes in silence and without warning he leaned in and kissed me. Within seconds he was pushing my head down. I resisted, scared and confused. I tried to get up and run. “If you don’t I will tell everyone you did. They’ll believe me, too.” He grabbed a handful of my hair. I cried, he called me a little baby, but he didn’t let go, not until he was done. I threw up in those bushes after he left and felt an awful awakening that I had done something very bad. It wasn’t my first experience with self loathing, but it was, at the time, my most acute. It never occured to me to loathe Michael instead. I didn’t tell anyone.

I was 13. His name was something Italian — Vinny, Guido, Tony — I’ve long forgotten it. My parents were out for the evening and he came over. I wasn’t used to guys paying attention to me. I’d spent most of my childhood as an outcast; the misfit, the ugly duckling, the loner. So when he said he wanted to come over, I opened my door to him. Not ten minutes after he was there he had me pinned down on the bed, his hands all over me while his…