In which I hate the world
(OD X-post)
So. Long-time readers of mine will know the whole Smithy saga. Abridged version for newer readers: He was a tattoo artist I met while doing a story. Made friends-ish, because he was interesting. Went to his shop after work one night. Was hanging flash, whatever. One thing led to another, and I found myself in the back room doing very naughty things. I was lonely, and I think he picked up on and manipulated that.
He did say I could say stop whenever - and things were OK for awhile. He made good smoochies, and he was very good with his hands. But - well - let's just say penetration happened before I realized that was where he was going, and once he did that, I was in a place where I didn't feel like I could say no or tell him to stop.
By and large, I'd chalked that up to a learning experience. One of my least proud moments in my life, but ... yeah. Watch out for sketchy situations, and be a lot more careful. You know ... *shrugs* I thought maybe I was the exception, rather than the rule, in behavior for him.
And that's what I thought until yesterday. I was at this benefit my work was hosting for the hurricane victims. Met a friend of mine there that I hadn't seen in AGES. She's getting ready to be an apprentice for a tattoo artist in a town a bit away from me.
So we got to talking about that, and out of the blue, she asks me, "Do you know the guy at [Smithy's studio]?" I managed to mostly hide a wince and I nodded.
"He's a pig," she said.
"No arguments here," I was thinking.
She went on to tell me that she had spoken with him about potentially becoming an apprentice for him. One of her friends had been a "shop monkey" for Smithy - someone who would do odd jobs around the shop being paid by making money toward piercings or tattoos. Said friend had recommended my friend's work.
Apparently, he looked at her work and dubbed it "decent." He told her that tattooing was a "man's world."
I had fits there, since both of my tattoos were done by a woman.
"Just wait, it gets better," she said. Apparently he told her most artists would be like, "You want the job? Come in the back office and suck my cock. But I'm not like that. But if you did, you might get some better perks around the shop."
*violent shudder*
Comments from two friends about that latter part: "What sort of perks? She gets to suck his cock again?"
My immediate reaction was one of full-body revulsion. After that all happened, I was screened for STDs, including HIV/AIDS, and had a pregnancy test. All of them came back clean, but all I could think yesterday was I wanted to go to Wal-Mart and buy every damn douche on the shelf and clean myself for hours.
How many vaginas has his cock been in? *vague nausea, thinking about it even now*
Other thought that made me want to barf violently: Right now, according to my cousin, Smithy has a piercing apprentice who is a woman. Given what he said to my friend? *violent shudder again* Do the math. Ick. ICK.
Then later last night, I got to thinking. The "shop monkeys" - at least when I was there in November - were both cute little goth girls who were both underage. I know they were, because both mentioned they needed their respective mothers' permission for their next piercings.
And my GOD, the jokes this crass bastard used to tell around them. Things that made ME blush, and I'm a somewhat seasoned veteran of locker rooms and team trips.
The thing that began haunting me: What is he or could he be doing to them? I know and readily admit I'm reacting from my own background, but ... that scares me. Badly. If he's at all a sexual predator, he could be grooming them for future things, or hanging on until they're over 18. His size is such that he could easily physically intimidate them, too.
Logic says I'm probably overreacting. If he's got the apprentice in his shop, odds are he can't do anything to them. But ... gah. It makes me want to hurl.
I debated calling the police and just seeing if I could tell them to at least keep an eye on them. I ended up calling the RAINN hotline this afternoon to ask if there's anything I could/should do ... and the local hotline folks I talked to said the cops can't really investigate unless there's some charges. The hotline person said it would maybe involve being friends with the girls and seeing if they relay something, but the cops can't do anything off of worry.
That pisses me off. Maybe Smithy is just an asshole who thinks with his little head before his big head. (It's too bad cops can't file charges because of that.) But what if he IS a predator? The system seems to be set up so we just pick up the broken pieces of lives, rather than do anything proactive and head it off at the pass.
I know, "Minority Report" tackled the whole precognitive crime thing, and showed a lot of the flaws. But goddammit, why is it just set up so we have to wait until people are hurt before we can do anything? How many wives/girlfriends have been battered because they couldn't prove something was going on? And not that I'd want to change it, but how many childhoods are sacrificed on the altar of "innocent until proven guilty?" Why is it incarceration so often comes at the price of a life, the price of a soul, the loss of innocence?
And that's my FJ speaking, not my TJ. I know that. But it makes me so angry I can't think logically. Part of me would cheerfully blow up the building and go to jail if I had any solid inkling he was doing anything to those girls.
Nobody else needs to be hurt like that.
To add to my dislike yesterday for the male gender as a whole, there was this older guy from Louisiana who was helping out at the benefit. He really is a decent guy, but I think he's the sort who gets touchy-feely-lovey when he's drunk. And as the day wore on, he got more and more drunk.
At one point, I was standing to the side of the building, kind of grooving to the music, and he's like, "I see you there, Gwen, wanting to dance. Come on."
"No, I don't dance," I said.
"Yeah, you can," he said, moving closer to me. "It comes from the ear. Hear it and just let it move your body and your hips." He started moving his hips kind of swanky all close to me, and it made me so uncomfortable.
Then later on, he had been up on stage playing harmonica during a blues jam (he's really good) and I complimented him on it when he came off stage. He gave me this big hug and planted this big kiss on my cheek.
I just wanted to hiss, "Don't touch me. OK?"
He was being friendly, but it just made me feel ick. Go away.
And what started my day off spiffy? After having to wear khakis and sneakers all week at work, I was in desperate need of wearing black. So for church, I wore my black boots, black dress pants with wide legs, my black and pink snug-fitting corset top and my bright orange bra that makes me all cleavagey. I knew the corset top was kind of pushing it, anyways, because it was tight, but I wore it anyhow.
I played piano for congregational music and had to pee after special music, so I went out to the bathroom. On my way out, I glanced in the mirror - to discover the back of my shirt is pretty much entirely see-through. It's black, but it's see-through, so the kids in Sunday School and pretty much the entire congregation had likely been staring at my back bulges and bright orange bra.
I turned absolutely scarlet in mortification and ran out to my car to see if I could find anything to put on beneath or change into. I found a black spaghetti-strap tank top, so I put that on underneath and skulked back into the service, feeling entirely like an ass.
So. Long-time readers of mine will know the whole Smithy saga. Abridged version for newer readers: He was a tattoo artist I met while doing a story. Made friends-ish, because he was interesting. Went to his shop after work one night. Was hanging flash, whatever. One thing led to another, and I found myself in the back room doing very naughty things. I was lonely, and I think he picked up on and manipulated that.
He did say I could say stop whenever - and things were OK for awhile. He made good smoochies, and he was very good with his hands. But - well - let's just say penetration happened before I realized that was where he was going, and once he did that, I was in a place where I didn't feel like I could say no or tell him to stop.
By and large, I'd chalked that up to a learning experience. One of my least proud moments in my life, but ... yeah. Watch out for sketchy situations, and be a lot more careful. You know ... *shrugs* I thought maybe I was the exception, rather than the rule, in behavior for him.
And that's what I thought until yesterday. I was at this benefit my work was hosting for the hurricane victims. Met a friend of mine there that I hadn't seen in AGES. She's getting ready to be an apprentice for a tattoo artist in a town a bit away from me.
So we got to talking about that, and out of the blue, she asks me, "Do you know the guy at [Smithy's studio]?" I managed to mostly hide a wince and I nodded.
"He's a pig," she said.
"No arguments here," I was thinking.
She went on to tell me that she had spoken with him about potentially becoming an apprentice for him. One of her friends had been a "shop monkey" for Smithy - someone who would do odd jobs around the shop being paid by making money toward piercings or tattoos. Said friend had recommended my friend's work.
Apparently, he looked at her work and dubbed it "decent." He told her that tattooing was a "man's world."
I had fits there, since both of my tattoos were done by a woman.
"Just wait, it gets better," she said. Apparently he told her most artists would be like, "You want the job? Come in the back office and suck my cock. But I'm not like that. But if you did, you might get some better perks around the shop."
*violent shudder*
Comments from two friends about that latter part: "What sort of perks? She gets to suck his cock again?"
My immediate reaction was one of full-body revulsion. After that all happened, I was screened for STDs, including HIV/AIDS, and had a pregnancy test. All of them came back clean, but all I could think yesterday was I wanted to go to Wal-Mart and buy every damn douche on the shelf and clean myself for hours.
How many vaginas has his cock been in? *vague nausea, thinking about it even now*
Other thought that made me want to barf violently: Right now, according to my cousin, Smithy has a piercing apprentice who is a woman. Given what he said to my friend? *violent shudder again* Do the math. Ick. ICK.
Then later last night, I got to thinking. The "shop monkeys" - at least when I was there in November - were both cute little goth girls who were both underage. I know they were, because both mentioned they needed their respective mothers' permission for their next piercings.
And my GOD, the jokes this crass bastard used to tell around them. Things that made ME blush, and I'm a somewhat seasoned veteran of locker rooms and team trips.
The thing that began haunting me: What is he or could he be doing to them? I know and readily admit I'm reacting from my own background, but ... that scares me. Badly. If he's at all a sexual predator, he could be grooming them for future things, or hanging on until they're over 18. His size is such that he could easily physically intimidate them, too.
Logic says I'm probably overreacting. If he's got the apprentice in his shop, odds are he can't do anything to them. But ... gah. It makes me want to hurl.
I debated calling the police and just seeing if I could tell them to at least keep an eye on them. I ended up calling the RAINN hotline this afternoon to ask if there's anything I could/should do ... and the local hotline folks I talked to said the cops can't really investigate unless there's some charges. The hotline person said it would maybe involve being friends with the girls and seeing if they relay something, but the cops can't do anything off of worry.
That pisses me off. Maybe Smithy is just an asshole who thinks with his little head before his big head. (It's too bad cops can't file charges because of that.) But what if he IS a predator? The system seems to be set up so we just pick up the broken pieces of lives, rather than do anything proactive and head it off at the pass.
I know, "Minority Report" tackled the whole precognitive crime thing, and showed a lot of the flaws. But goddammit, why is it just set up so we have to wait until people are hurt before we can do anything? How many wives/girlfriends have been battered because they couldn't prove something was going on? And not that I'd want to change it, but how many childhoods are sacrificed on the altar of "innocent until proven guilty?" Why is it incarceration so often comes at the price of a life, the price of a soul, the loss of innocence?
And that's my FJ speaking, not my TJ. I know that. But it makes me so angry I can't think logically. Part of me would cheerfully blow up the building and go to jail if I had any solid inkling he was doing anything to those girls.
Nobody else needs to be hurt like that.
To add to my dislike yesterday for the male gender as a whole, there was this older guy from Louisiana who was helping out at the benefit. He really is a decent guy, but I think he's the sort who gets touchy-feely-lovey when he's drunk. And as the day wore on, he got more and more drunk.
At one point, I was standing to the side of the building, kind of grooving to the music, and he's like, "I see you there, Gwen, wanting to dance. Come on."
"No, I don't dance," I said.
"Yeah, you can," he said, moving closer to me. "It comes from the ear. Hear it and just let it move your body and your hips." He started moving his hips kind of swanky all close to me, and it made me so uncomfortable.
Then later on, he had been up on stage playing harmonica during a blues jam (he's really good) and I complimented him on it when he came off stage. He gave me this big hug and planted this big kiss on my cheek.
I just wanted to hiss, "Don't touch me. OK?"
He was being friendly, but it just made me feel ick. Go away.
And what started my day off spiffy? After having to wear khakis and sneakers all week at work, I was in desperate need of wearing black. So for church, I wore my black boots, black dress pants with wide legs, my black and pink snug-fitting corset top and my bright orange bra that makes me all cleavagey. I knew the corset top was kind of pushing it, anyways, because it was tight, but I wore it anyhow.
I played piano for congregational music and had to pee after special music, so I went out to the bathroom. On my way out, I glanced in the mirror - to discover the back of my shirt is pretty much entirely see-through. It's black, but it's see-through, so the kids in Sunday School and pretty much the entire congregation had likely been staring at my back bulges and bright orange bra.
I turned absolutely scarlet in mortification and ran out to my car to see if I could find anything to put on beneath or change into. I found a black spaghetti-strap tank top, so I put that on underneath and skulked back into the service, feeling entirely like an ass.