I was 16, hanging out in the basement of my friend’s boyfriend’s McMansion when he pulled out a handgun and started waving it around wildly. We didn’t know if it was loaded or not and I remember thinking, “I’m not dying tonight.” It was 2003 and this kid was hellbent on emulating the persona of his hero Marshall Mathers, right down to the bleached hair and baggy jeans. He loved abusing us girls like this, either with his gun collection or by exposing himself to us when we were drinking. Later that night, I was calling my mom to come pick me up when he stuck my hand down his boxers and forced his tongue down my throat. As an awkward half-Iranian teenage girl with cystic acne who never saw much action, my biggest fear was that our braces would interlock…
Read the rest HERE