Hugo and I had been dating for a year when I first cheated on him. It was more than just sex: I had fallen in love with this tall, mysterious boy who wrote me stories and shared my taste for dive bars and whiskey. I met Henry at a dinner party. He told dumb dirty jokes and I drank half my weight in Prosecco. Somehow, we both found each other charming.
The Amish Keep to Themselves. And They’re Hiding a Horrifying Secret
Sex Abuse Crisis in Amish Country
The memories come to her in fragments. The bed creaking late at night after one of her brothers snuck into her room and pulled her to the edge of her mattress. Her underwear shoved to the side as his body hovered over hers, one of his feet still on the floor. Her ripped dresses, the clothespins that bent apart on her apron as another brother grabbed her at dusk by the hogpen after they finished feeding the pigs.
For many, sex has become a hiding place—a behavior that presents the appearance of intimacy, but is really striving for self-protection. The rush of meeting someone new and connecting through physical touch made her feel wanted and important, but the idea of being tied down to someone made her nervous. She often found herself caught between hope and doubt, between the accelerator and the brake, between sex and the hope that he would want to leave her apartment afterward. Never again will I fall in love.