Living Next Door to Heaven 2Introduction to Part IX Heaven s Gate
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Living Next Door To Heaven 3: What Were They Thinking?Chapter 38: Single Parent free porn video
Part VII: Dinita Kimes’s Story
DINITA:
“Love and loss and love again,” Maria sighed. “May we all experience the last.”
“Amen,” John said as he nodded.
“Grandma, Grandma, Grandma, Grandpa!” a voice chirped from the doorway. A twelve-year-old blonde bundle of happy bounced into the room.
“Anna Marie! What brings my little girl bouncing in so happily?” Rex asked.
“I have to find a place to play,” his granddaughter said.
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“Papa came running through the house followed by Mama Dani, Mama Sam, and La Madrina,” Anna Marie laughed. “La Madrina stopped just long enough to catch Mommy by the hand and stare at me. She looked like she was about to burst and just snapped, ‘Go play in traffic!’ I left!” Saul started howling with laughter and Evelyn blushed brightly.
“Well, we can assume comfort and healing are being administered,” Saul said, wiping a tear from his eye.
“Sweetheart, the old folks are telling stories,” Rex said. “I understand you have a new horse. Why don’t you show her to me?”
“Oh, good!” Anna Marie answered. “You won’t believe how beautiful my palomino mare is. I named her Punto Luminoso. Of course, we just call her Punto. Come on, Grandpa. You’ll love her!”
That quickly, Brian and Rose’s daughter had her grandfather out the door and left us laughing at the raw energy she’d brought into the room.
“You know,” I said, “after I heard Janet’s story I was beginning to think the group would never have started if it weren’t for single moms. Maybe that’s why so many of our daughters were willing to accept less than a one-to-one relationship with a man.”
“There are a lot of us,” Anna said. “Janet, you, me, Doris Hamm, Cecille Carver, Doris Trane...”
“Let’s not forget the single dads. Don Whitaker and Jack Raymond,” John said. “I remember sitting with the two of them at Josh’s bedside after Denise was killed. They both had a really rough time raising their kids.”
“Poor Jack,” Saul said, shaking his head. “I wasn’t here to help. I’m glad you were, John.”
“And without naming names, parents who might as well have been single by the way they got along with their spouses,” Marilyn sighed. “Some who divorced and some who simply abandoned their children on our doorstep.” We could all name at least five who fit that description. Some have remarried and some have never surfaced again.
“Tell us, Dinita, why did you never remarry?” Janet asked. I think she was totally guileless. She had no idea. Marilyn and Anna knew, of course, but I’d never felt comfortable sharing before. Today, though. Today was necessary for all of us.
“There was never a marriage to ‘re’. I was raped.”
I lived in a big university town, not unlike Bloomington. It was a little more integrated than Bloomington. The population here is still mostly rural Indiana white. Monroe County is nearly eighty-five percent white and less than four percent black. There are slightly more Asians than African Americans and slightly fewer Hispanic or Latin American. Our community had a sufficiently high black population that we had our own ghetto. And that’s where I lived.
We weren’t the poor unemployed rioting blacks of big cities in the late sixties and early seventies. Partly because of the University and partly because of the region, we had a fairly low unemployment rate. I lived in a pleasant house with a mother and father, two sisters, and a little brother. Pretty typical except that for a radius of six blocks, there wasn’t a white family resident. It had been that way since the fifties or longer.
I was sixteen in 1970 and was proud that I’d managed to get a part time job at a neighborhood grocery store near the campus. A few students frequented the store but the clientele were mostly faculty, staff, and others who lived nearby. There was one guy who came in about once a month to buy up a lot of snack food and soft drinks. He said they were for a party and eventually he asked if I’d like to come to one. This was near the end of the semester at the University and I was flattered that this college guy—an athlete, I learned—was interested in me. I told him I’d like to go and he agreed to pick me up. I was going on a date!
My parents weren’t too enthused about me going out with an older guy, but when they found out who it was, they approved. I didn’t understand how well-known this guy was. He excelled in two sports and there was a lot of speculation already regarding what pro teams would recruit him. My father was a fan.
The party wasn’t what I expected. I’d worn a nice party dress that I bought out of my own earnings. I felt so grown-up. The frat house where it was held looked nice from outside, but inside it was kind of disgusting. It smelled a little funky. The girls there wore miniskirts and crop tops at most. The guys were in ripped jeans or sport shorts.
My date asked me if I wanted a drink. I asked for a Coke. He came back with a paper cup filled to the brim. Even with ice. I almost choked on it. I don’t know to this day what combination of alcohol was in the drink. It never occurred to me that athletes would be drinking. I’d seen him buy soft drinks but found out too late that they were just for mixers.
“Don’t be a baby,” he teased. “This is college life. Drink up and have some fun. Let’s dance.”
I certainly didn’t want to be a baby. I drank the concoction and took his hand as he dragged me to the dancefloor.
It’s funny the details I remember and the things I blocked out. They played a lot of Motown and Southern Rock and I soon figured out why everyone was dressed so skimpy in the middle of December. We were packed on the dancefloor and sweating. That was part of the funky smell.
“I need something to drink,” I said.
“Just keep dancing. I’ll get you one,” he answered. No more had he left to get me a drink than I was surrounded by other guys. They didn’t assault me, exactly. They just pulled me toward themselves as we danced and spun me around. I was relieved when my date got back with a drink and the other guys backed off. I didn’t know any of them. When it came down to it, I only knew my date from his trips to the grocery store and my father’s calm acceptance. I practically threw myself into his arms. He held the paper cup for me and I gulped down the drink. I hardly noticed the alcohol taste this time, I was so thirsty.
He pulled me into his arms as Diana Ross sang ‘Ain’t No Mountain High Enough’ and I breathed a sigh of relief. Right in the middle of that song, he kissed me. I was pretty drunk by then. I knew I should fight off such a forward move, but he’d just rescued me and I let him kiss me. When we broke the kiss—at least that’s what it seemed like—we were in a dark hallway and he pulled me through a door into his room.
This time, when he pushed me down on the bed and started to grope my breasts, I knew enough to struggle against him. I didn’t come here to lose my virginity. I took a breath and opened my mouth to scream. He slapped a hand over it.
“Do you know what will happen if you scream?” he whispered to me. “If you scream, five brothers will come charging through that door. They won’t be here to rescue you. They’ll be here to join the party. You don’t want to have five or six brothers take turns with you. Your sweet little pussy would get all torn up.”
“Don’t! Don’t rape me,” I pled.
“Wouldn’t dream of raping you! We’re gonna make love. You’re gonna help me get a nice big hard-on and put it in your pussy. Oh, we’ll kiss a lot and the less you struggle the better it will feel. Believe me, you’ll want it to feel good once my cock is stretching you out.”
I whimpered and cried and begged, but I didn’t dare scream. He tore my dress getting it off of me. He bit my nipples and I cried. He jammed himself up inside me and a few minutes later I felt his semen gushing in my previously unused pussy.
I got out. I don’t remember how. He left the room and said he’d bring something to drink and maybe a buddy. I know that I was outside pulling on my torn dress before he got back. I hid in bushes and tried to make my way home but I was lost. I saw a police car and flagged him down.
Oh, the police were very nice. They got the information that I’d been raped and started investigating right away. I didn’t know the name of the frat. I barely knew my date’s name and when I gave it to them one of the police threw a pen all the way across the room.
“You’re drunk,” he said. “That’s underage drinking. And now you’re making false accusations. Did you go out there to try and trap a particular guy or were you just out to party with anyone who came along?”
They stopped asking questions and called my parents. Daddy was angry but I couldn’t tell if it was at my date or at me. Mom continued to go on and on about how disappointed she was in me.
The next morning, when I was sober, I complained again to my parents about having been raped at the party. My dad finally took action and called the University. The questions went on again for a week. The police were called again and the only reason they acknowledged that they knew anything about it was because they’d called my parents to come and get me. No one had filed my rape report.
My date was called in and a couple of coaches entered the room with him. I was horrified by what was said.
“Yeah, I took her to the party. I thought she was a student here. Had no idea she wasn’t eighteen. The stupid cunt kept pounding down drinks and practically stripped on the dance floor. She kept offering herself to any swinging dick who’d have her. Hell, look at her. She’s a sweet piece. I know five guys who took her up on the offer.”
“That’s not true!” I screamed. “You did it. You took me to a room and told me if I screamed I’d be gang raped. You hurt me. I was a virgin.”
“Hell, not when I got hold of you. You were already sloppy.”
I was so humiliated and no one would believe me.
“It’s not unusual for a little tramp to think she can get paid by a successful athlete if she lets him boff her,” the coach said. “This is obviously a case like that.”
I was humiliated. I quit my job. In school I heard whispers everywhere. ‘Slut’ and ‘whore’ were thrown at me. I got offers from dozens of high school boys and a couple of girls wanting to know what they had to pay to get a piece.
It was February before I realized I must be pregnant. That did it. Something inside me snapped.
I started waiting outside the grocery store every Friday, the day he always came for party supplies. It took four weeks before I saw him. I accosted him as he left the store with his arms full. I didn’t want him to be able to use his hands.
“You raped me!” I screamed.
“You again? You should be a nice little cunt and just accept that you’re a slut. The guys would love another shot at you.”
“I’m pregnant!” I guess I expected him to be shocked. He just shrugged it off.
“That’s what you get for spreading your legs.”
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