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TRAUMA, TITTIES & TBRs — The Drawer at Fourteen & Twenty-Two


The Drawer at Fourteen & Twenty-Two (Episode 1)

The Moments That Shattered Me—And the Books That Made Me Breathe Again



Pink text "Trauma, Titties & TBRs" over a dripping brown crown on black background. "Queen of Smut" text in the bottom right corner.


DEAR SINNERS of the Library of Sin,


There are drawers we all try to slam shut. Some are small. Others burst at the seams—overflowing with pain, silence, guilt, and regret. Mine?


Mine was The Drawer at Fourteen & Twenty-Two—one written in glittery gel pen, the other scribbled in eyeliner and heartbreak. I buried them deep.


But today, I’m cracking it open. Because that girl still deserves to be seen—even if my voice shakes.




The Girl at Fourteen


She just wanted to belong. She wanted to be seen—not in a spotlight, just in a hallway. To have a real friend. To feel wanted. To be kissed and not discarded. She wanted what most girls want when they’re 14: to matter.


It was the age of passing notes and awkward flirting. Of believing friends when they said, “That guy from a few towns over likes you. He invited you, not her.”


And for once, I felt… chosen. He was older. Eighteen.Charming. Excited to see me. Told me he’d liked me forever. We were surrounded by people I knew. I felt safe.


But I wasn’t.


We made out. Then his hands were down my pants. I said no. At least I think I did. My memory is smudged. But what I remember clearly—achingly—is what he said:


“It’s my birthday. You’re my present.”

He held his hand over my mouth. And when he was done? He left me in a little room, alone. Outside, the party was still going. People laughing. Music playing. My body feeling foreign. I wanted to go home. I ran.

I told a few schoolmates what happened. They laughed. Said I was overreacting.That I led him on.That I was fucked up for saying something like that. So I didn’t say anything else.


I was 18 before I told anyone. Fourteen didn't just suck. Fourteen f*cked me up.




The Girl at Twenty-Two


She was louder. Wilder. A little drunk, a little dangerous.But still aching for connection. So when someone paid attention, when someone drove four hours just to see her—she let herself believe maybe this time would be different.


Spoiler: it wasn’t.


He picked me up for the weekend. Said he had to work the next morning. I’d stay with his friend while he was gone. That “friend” locked me in the apartment. Wouldn’t answer his phone. I was scared. Alone. Desperate.


I called my mom. Called my friend. My mom said if no one showed up in an hour, she was calling the cops.


He showed up. He told me I could leave—if I gave him a blowjob. If I let him fuck me. I told him if I wasn’t at the train station and on the phone with my mom in 30 minutes, the police would be on their way.


Somehow, that worked. I got out.


But the guilt? It stayed. Because yes, I still blame myself. For wanting love. For chasing safety in unsafe places. For trusting the wrong people.


For existing in a world that told me what happened was my fault.




The Part That Still Hurts


The boy from fourteen? He still watches me online. Still stalks my socials like he didn’t destroy something sacred. I don’t know how he finds me. My name is different. My face has changed. But he always finds me.


I’ve been married for years. I don’t even post publicly. But every now and then… There he is. As if nothing ever happened. Like I was just another drawer he opened and closed.




Final Thoughts from the Throne


Writing this? It f*cking hurts. Tears are in my eyes. My heart feels like it’s carrying a weight I swore I’d buried.


But I’m also proud. Because for the first time—I’m not shoving it back into a drawer. I’m placing it here, on this velvet altar of my truth. And I’m lighting it with every spicy, smutty, survival-soaked book that reminded me I wasn’t alone.


Next time?


We’re getting personal in a whole new way.


Let’s talk PCOS, infertility, hirsutism, and the chaos that is living with AuDHD—because apparently, the universe looked at me and said, “Let’s give her the deluxe package.”


From hormonal hellscapes to chin hairs I could braid into battle flags—this next drawer is raw, real, and f*cking necessary.




With rage, reverence, and revenge-worthy glitter,

Elle, The Queen of Smut






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