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My skinny arms were like windmill blades, driving her from my room. I wish I could tell that stranger from the diner how different that was from before, when I couldn't even imagine driving her back: squirting from my room, from my body, from my (for lack of a better word) soul. I would say to him: If you could squirting have seen her face! In some ways, that act — hitting my mother back — made life harder. It destroyed the careful balance I was, with great effort, able to maintain. But it made life begin squirting to be my own. She never touched me again. Down on the scene As soon as I was able, I was having sex in cars, in parks, up against walls. I found SM. I'd been looking for it for a long time. I had a high tolerance for pain and a low tolerance for anyone touching me gently. I always wanted more, and rough felt closer to more.
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