It's very hard to tell a story like this and not know if anyone
is reading it or if anyone cares.  If you did and have feedback
or questions (about this or any of my other stories) you can
contact me at twylamarie @ ymail.com.

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There are a lot of things that become a problem when you are
homeless that you never think about until you're out there. 
There's the obvious things of course (Sleep, shit, eat) but there
are also lots of challenges that you don't even think about -
especially if you're a teenage girl living on the streets like I
was.

A lot of the time, your problems come down to money, which
probably isn't a surprise.  What could be a surprise it exactly
how a little money or just one more piece of clothing can make
such a big difference.

For instance, at one point in my life out there, I was down to
one pair of pants, two shirts and two pairs of underwear.  Try to
go into a laundromat and wash your clothes when you haven't got
another pair of pants to put on.  The only way to do it is go when other people aren't there, use your sleeping blankets to cover yourself and then go pantsless (and underwear free) for an hour and a half or so.

That's embarrassing at the best of times - but more than that it
can be very, very dangerous for a woman alone.  You become aware
fast that you're always vulnerable to rape or abuse when you're
anyplace alone by yourself though often you just don't have a
choice. The fear kicks up a few notches when you're full-on
commando and alone at an odd hour in a laundromat that isn't in
the best part of town.

Back then $3 would buy a second pair of pants at the thrift
store, but that $3 was also a meal or two. I was always hungry so
the choice made itself. When your clothes were so dirty they
wouldn't even let you in the store, though, you also had to spend
$2 or more on doing laundry.  For $3, or want of it, I opened up
myself to possible embarrassment, arrest or rape at least every
few weeks.

I lived in small town off the interstate in Iowa - not a big gang
crime area or anything- but the drunken farm boys and truckers
could be counted on back then to be horny and violent even with
the respectable women in town if they got a few beers in them. 
As it turns out, the laundromats were least likely to have anyone
in them during the evenings and weekends when the locals were
drinking their fill.

A trip to the laundry was terrifying.   I'd had some bad
confrontations in laundromats even during the day with people
around, so I had zero doubt that if I ever got stumbled upon
bottomless and defenseless, it could be bad.  Whenever I could
I'd try to do laundry at someone's house, but the longer you're
out there, the less friends you have.  Sometimes you just had to
do it.

It was a Friday night in early spring.  There was some event
going on in town and just about everyone local was as it.  I
figured it would be a good night to get the laundry out of the
way.  The laundromat was empty just like the streets when I got
there, so I scraped up enough soap from where it had spread on
tables and machines, put it into the wash along with every scrap
of clothes I had, and put in my quarters to fire it up.  I took
the shot of going naked for a minute so I could do it all quick.

I wasn't interrupted, so I got bold.  I took a sliver of soap I'd
stolen out of my pack and used the laundry sink to take a whores
shower.  It was cold water only but I still enjoyed it more than
I care to think about.  (A real shower was something I hadn't
enjoyed in a long while.)

I didn't have a towel at the time, and the blanket I slept on was
in the drier with my other clothes, so I stood for a few more
minutes in the warmth that had accumulated in the laundry during
the day.  It felt good.  So good I momentarily forgot to be aware
of my surroundings.

I turned around and he was there.

He wasn't a big man.  Obviously a field worker.  Even that many
years ago we had illegals who worked where they could on the
farms.   His look was blank. Not surprise. Not lust. He made no
attempt to either come towards me or leave.

I was less reserved, making a jump for my pack where I had a
knife large enough that it made an impression on most men when I
flashed it.  I had my hand in the pack and was groping for it
when the man reached into his own bundle and pulled out a small
blanket.  He reached out with it as if to offer it to me, and
when I didn't immediately accept it he put it on a washing
machine between us and backed away.

The effect of the gesture was obvious and I took the blanket and
wrapped it around myself.  He smiled and pointed to an empty
clothes washer.  I stepped back to give him room and he moved
forward and started stuffing his clothing inside.

I stood there with his blanket around me. It was not a large
blanket and barely covered my ass when I wrapped It around my
shoulders, but it was sufficient to cover myself and I was glad
for it.  Still, it was awkward to be standing here in his blanket
while we washed our clothing.

He obviously didn't speak English, and I didn't speak a word for
Spanish, so we sat quietly for a while and watched a dryer toss
around my few belongings.  Finally, he produced a small baggie
from his pocket.  Marijuana obviously.  He quickly rolled a small
joint and held it up as an offer.  A man after my own heart even
if I was bareassed - I never turned down a good high.

There were "No smoking" signs all over the building -some also
saying "no fumar" as a message to my new friend.  We happily
ignored them in both languages as he lit up the small cigarette
and we passed it between us. By the time the joint was done we
were both smiling and he had a twinkle in his eye.

I had a bag of chips that I pulled out of my bag and we split a
coke from the machine. We were having a good time together.  Not
speaking a common language you'd think that might be hard, but
pot is a universal language and it's just like that.

There were only a few chairs in the laundry - all near the window
and not very comfortable - so I was sitting on one of the tables
meant for folding laundry right under the sign that asked
customers not to sit on the tables.   I glanced over to see how
my dryer was doing and when I glanced back I could see that my
new friends eyes had slid south on me, and I realized that the
short blanket had shifted and my crotch was exposed.  A wad of
blonde pubes wasn't all either - I was really wide open.  Given
that I was sitting cross legged, it must have been quite a show
for him.

I didn't want to embarrass him, but I still had at least a bit of
the sense of modesty that had steadily faded over time while I
lived on the streets.  I casually shifted the blanket, and in
doing so covered the cooch but in doing so I exposed a longer
line of cleavage than one might see in even the most low cut
blouse.

I attempted to shift the blanket around again, and then again,
and found that the effect was like a game of x-rated peek-a-boo.
My stoned friend appreciated the show and I think he found humor
in it. I found his lack of embarrassment that he was caught
looking to be a bit refreshing as I knew he would do it, and at
least he didn't hide it.  I thought his manner non-threatening
enough that I finally decided it didn't matter.  The guy had
already seen the full monty when he'd entered the laundromat in
the first place, and what he'd missed in the full view he'd seen
when I'd decided to sit indian style.  I remember thinking with
some amusement that from the angle he was at there, he'd probably
seen farther into my vagina than I ever had.

I had nothing to do and nowhere to go, so I sat there and quietly
felt his eyes checking out my vagina and I in turn did my best to
ignore it.  The more I tried to ignore it, the more obvious it
got for both of us.

I finally laughed out of sheer embarrassment and moved my hands
to cover myself and in doing so the blanket completely fell away
from my shoulders.  I must have looked adorable, because he
himself got a bit embarrassed for the first time.  (Not too
embarrassed though, as when he shifted his own body I realized he
had pinched a small tent in his well-worn denim pants.)

I wasn't sure where to go next with all this - there was no ideal
chit chat and I hate to sound racist, but the idea of any kind of
sex activity with this little latino was out of the question. I
was a product of the small little myopic town I lived in and
considered the border crossers just one small step up the chain
from the work horses that were still used in the fields to move
men and small equipment around.  I had seen him as a potential
rapist - but could never see him as a potential lover.

That point made, it was an odd feeling for me knowing that my
nakedness had inspired a hard-on for this little field hand.  It
should have been a red flag, but being stoned, I guess I looked
at it without thinking about the possible ramifications.

He was small both in length and width - and it struck me odd that
I could see the helmet of his cock so plainly even through the
denim.  (He had not put any white clothing in the laundry - I
don't think he was wearing underwear.)

When I looked up into his eyes, I saw something that spooked me a
bit that I hadn't seen before.  A kind of yearning.  He even
touched himself lightly in a tender way.  I felt like it was an
invitation, but one easy enough to ignore.  In the end he acted
like he was covering himself just as I had.

The awkwardness was about all I could handle when the buzzer for
my dryer finally buzzed.  I realized about that time that my
non-English speaking friend had never even started drying his
laundry load and realized he was probably til he could wash the
blanket he had loaned me.  That was just heart breakingly nice of
him.

I knew I had to get dressed and after everything he'd seen anyway
I felt like I would be better off just getting it over with.  I
unwrapped myself from the blanket and folded it over, doing my
best not to appear either shy nor especially slutty as I handed
the small cover to him.

He never stopped looking but somehow I never felt threatened or
violated by it.  I was high and I had stopped thinking in terms
of him as dangerous.  His little erection was still there and he
still covered it with his hand, but I'd been watching and knew
that his hand moved it around some whenever he thought I wasn't
watching.  Men are just like that and I tried to ignore it as I
padded over and opened the dryer.

You know that feeling you get when you handle clean laundry?  It
smells nice. It feels warm.  Now imagine it again but also
imagine that you've just lived through an Iowa winter, that you
hadn't been clean in a week, and that you had been standing naked
in a public laundromat for a spell while a little illegal
alternatively hid and showed off the tent pole he had going
behind his zipper.  (Oh, and also that you were a 17 year old
girl.)   The feeling of warmth, cleanliness and relative safety
increased as I slipped on each piece of clothing.

I acted like I wasn't in a hurry though I really was.  I didn't
want to offend this little man who still hadn't put in the
quarters to begin drying his laundry  load.  Other than the
decision when I was pulling on my underwear of whether to face
him and let my tits swing or face away and show him my asshole
and maybe more (I chose to let them swing) it was not really that
bad.  I even put on my socks and shoes before my bra as was
having just a bit of fun cockteasing the little guy.

The event seemed almost over.  I just had to finish dressing and
pack my few other things in my pack and it would be done.  I
should have known it wouldn't have been as easy as that.

I had just hooked my bra and started to spin it around so I could
put the straps over my shoulders when I looked up and there was
another man entering the building.  He was calling out in Spanish
to what was obviously his friend.  He was probably asking his
buddy if the laundry was all done, but when he saw my there
topless the words dropped off with the surprise.

I was staring at him and hastened my movements to get my bra on
and I reached for my pack to find it gone.  I turned around to
find my little friend looking not quite so friendly and my pack
with all of my belongings including my knife was in there.  He
looked suddenly quite threatening as he reached in and pulled out
the knife for himself.

By now it was perhaps 930 at night.  Not an early hour or a late
one for a laundry open until midnight, but on weekend evening the
chance anyone else might come in that door soon were slim and I
knew it.  I was trapped and that was all there was too it.  I
knew that knife. It was sharp and I didn't want to find it
sliding across my throat.

The two latinos looked at each other like they had caught
something good and the newly arrived man puffed himself up a bit
to look threatening.  I felt my former friend come up behind me
and he reached over and undid the hooks on my bra with a panache
I didn't think he had in him.

 had been on the street for more than a year at this point. I had
been beaten up pretty good once by a man who was too drunk to be
anything but violent, and I had been chased by crazy townie boys
once or twice and if they had caught me my last hours before I
was planted forever in a cornfield would probably not have been
fun ones, but I had never been raped.

I started to cry simply because I didn't know what else to do.

My bra was off but still on my arms, and my old friend had the
point of the knife against the small of my back and a hand on my
shoulder.  He who was so cute but hard to communicate with was
making it painfully clear that his intent was to have me bend
over with my head in the big dryer which I had opened when I was
getting my stuff.

He pushed the knife into me so much that he did puncture me and I
could feel a little blood run, but he didn't seem to care. I know
he wanted me to get the message.

I didn't really have a choice so I put my upper body in the dryer
and bent over.  I couldn't see him or his asshole buddy, but I
could hear the clinking of their big belt buckles being opened. 
There was no doubt that the intent was that they were both
getting ready.  There was even a rehearsed quality that made me
believe this had been something they had done before.

I felt that erection he had been sporting throughout the evening
on my ass through my jeans and it didn't feel so small anymore.
He and his buddy were both talking as the lewd words they used I
didn't understand but they weren't hard to guess.  I screamed but
all that did was echo in the big dryer and hurt my ears.  I felt
his hand reaching around me, first to grab at my breast which he
did with a force that let me know he didn't care if it hurt and
hoped it did.  He whispered words in my ear that I didn't know,
but completely understood.  The little tramp bitch was in trouble
now.

After painful pulling on my nipples and squeezing hard on my tits
until I was grunting in pain, he reached down around and began
unbuttoning my pants.  When they were nice and loose (and they
were never that tight because I'd lost a lot of weight on the
streets) his hand dove down the back of my pants and his middle
finger went hard and straight into my pussy.

I'm embarrassed to say it was a little wet, not because I found
this exciting, but I had been sitting naked next to a man in an
erection all night and it had affected me just a little bit. That
made it so much worse.

I was humiliated, violated and petrified to the point of being
immobile.  This was really happening and I had always said I'd
die before I let it, but there and then I couldn't even move.

I let him jam his fingers in me and he did it with an intent to
hurt me.  He pulled on my pubic hair and tore out a clump, and
jammed as many fingers as he could get in without actually taking
my pants down - a move I felt like he was working up to.  He was
licking my ear and fucking me with his hand and all the while
that knife point was making small cuts in my back and he was
starting to move the knife blade in and out like an obscene
pantomime of a fuck.

I had already worked through it all in my mind.  First him, then
his buddy and if I were very lucky they would leave me alive if I
behaved, so I gritted my teeth and opened my legs and even pushed
back a bit so that his fingers would go in and not tear at me so
hard.  I had no choice but to endure it as I wanted to live even
if that knife he was using told me that I didn't really stand a
chance once the seed was spent and they were done with me.

His next move, though, was the one that brought me back out of my
daze.  It was so painful and obscene. His fingers pulled out of
my cunt and he pushed them first into my mouth, and then back
into my pants.  I thought he was going back into me, but instead
with his index and middle finger he drove hard straight into my
asshole.

It hurt so bad I screamed and kicked and even the point of the
knife didn't stop me.  As the knife cut a slice out of my lower
back I kicked and screamed and pushed.  He had me literally by
the seat of my pants at one point, and if he was attempting to
stab me hard but I was moving quick and the knife kept glancing
off me after making small nicks in my skin.  I was rolling around
to avoid the knife edge and thrashing around as my rectum
screamed with pain.  I did everything possible to get turned
around so my face wasn't buried in the dry clothes and must have
hit my head a dozen times hard enough to leave bumps and bruises.

And suddenly I was free.

I looked around and he was on his ass, his feet caught up in his
pants which were pooled around the top of his cowboy boots.  I
glanced up to find his partner similarly attired, his pants down
and his cock in his hand.  The man was so intent on what he was
flogging that it took him a moment to even realize what was
happening.

The man on the ground took a swipe at me with my own knife but he
was too far away to make it stick.  I had a clear shot for the
door and I took it, bleeding as I was from the cuts and naked
from the waist up.  I ran like hell, hit the street and kept
going.  I ran down the center of the street screaming for blocks
until a cop car basically forced me to stop and I was put inside.

The cops in my small town were no friends of mine and the last
time I had been in this car I had been wearing handcuffs, but
this time they took me straight to an emergency center.  I guess
they called ahead, because there was a nurse with a sheet waiting
for us to at least cover me as I made my way through the ER to an
exam room.  I know I bled all over their back seat, but for once
they didn't take an opportunity to harass me.

I was given 39 stitches (17 for the longest cut, and a few each
for small stab wounds that were maybe a ¼ inch deep.)  I then got
a tetanus shot, the tops to a set of scrubs so that I wasn't half
naked, and finally the third degree by the officers when the
patch up was over.

I told them a version of the truth.  (I omitted the pot, my naked
stint, etc. but spared no details on where the latino man had put
his fingers or how he managed to spur me to fight.)   They pushed
for more, asking me if I had been forced to orally copulate with
either or both of the attackers and about rape and sodomy.  No
answer but the one they wanted seemed to satisfy.

When I refused a rape kit, they called in a social worker who
tried to get me to admit that I had been gang raped as well. 
After basically repeating the same interrogation the cops had
given me,  I finally took her behind the curtain and dropped my
pants to try to convince her that all was well. A mistake really
because I guess my asshole was bleeding.  (Probably a cut from
the fuckers unkept finger nails.)

She kept trying - insisting that my identity would be protected,
that I wouldn't have to testify in open court, etc.  but I wasn't
buying, and finally she insisted on calling my mom (who promptly
hung up) and then took me to an abused woman's shelter for the
rest of the night.

The men were long gone from the laundromat by the time any cops
got there.  My few belongings were still in the dryer and they
retrieved them for me, but they confiscated the knife for
evidence and also the pack (which was pretty much empty) because
it smelled of marijuana so I had to tell them it didn't belong to
me.

As I've said, it was a small town.  Word spread quick.  This was
Iowa in the 90's and the influx of illegals hadn't really started
yet, but the few that were in town either left quick or were made
to leave. (A drunken cop in a bar a few years later actually used
the word "disposed of" which I don't care to think about, but he
was a blowhard and wasn't serious. At least I hope not.)

Needless to say, no one in town believed me when I said that I
hadn't been raped.  Men looked at me different, some with pity,
but more than a few with a disgusting lust. Women in town tended
to avoid me anyway, but now they looked from afar and whispered
and clucked their poison at each other. Even a supposed friend
told me he would have fought to the death rather than have some
beaners butt fuck  her.  (I guess the rumors from the cops
included the news about the blood coming out of my ass. What a
fun thing for the whole fucking town to know.).

The story really doesn't end there.  when you've been through
something like that it never really does - but I never saw those
little bastards again, and that helps I guess.  I just hope the
are laying under a cornfield somewhere, and if they are I hope
they were hurt bad but still alive with the cops or cowboys who
beat them started filling in the hole on top of them.