I Need to Ask this: For Me and For You

If you want to understand more fully what I am doing here, what I want to express, what I want to communicate, what I am feeling and why I want to tell you about it – please scroll down, way down, to the earliest posts and start there. It will make more sense that way – the chronological sequence will be more understandable. Thank You!

Learning to Type

Chaver L.

Back at home in the city, around those years, my parents, who were both immigrants, belonged to a group which – I am not sure, but I think – was some sort of Labor Union for certain immigrants, to help them get a job, or otherwise to provide some type of financial and community support. 

Chaver L., an old man with very white skin and pink cheeks and floppy lips, a huge fat stomach and snow white hair was the ‘contact’ for our family.  One day I had been sent by my mother to the building that housed this organization, to get some paperwork.  It was only a few blocks away, but I had asked my friend, Lettie to walk there with me.  It was no secret that I had no sense of direction and was always getting lost – still a common event for me!

Lettie lived at the corner of my block on Belvedere Street. We went to elementary school together but she was not in my 6th grade class.  She had a mane of thick, flaming red hair, and very white alabaster skin.  Everyone said she was so beautiful.  She was, but most kids were rather afraid of her. Lettie was a domineering type and had no patience with anybody about anything!  She was very outspoken and quick to anger.  Yet she had taken an interest in me! She wanted to be my friend! Well, I was afraid of her too, since she was bossy, always aggressive and she’d snap at anyone in a heartbeat, while I was quite a wimp. She had made all sorts of overtures to me; I was puzzled that she ‘chose’ me, but I felt that once I was taken under her wing, if anyone tried to bother us (me actually!) – well, Lettie wouldn’t have it!  So I felt lucky, ‘safe’ with her.

When Lettie and I arrived at the building, Chaver L. took us into a room with a gigantic oak table and many oaken chairs.  There were several typewriters on that table and stacks of white envelopes and papers set up at various chairs.  I’d seen such machines, but never used one, and touched the keys gingerly.  I was quite interested, and Chaver L. noticed. He asked if I wanted to learn how to type on it.  I said ‘yes’ and he smiled. 

So he had me sit on his lap, his big belly pushing at my back. Then he positioned me between his legs and put my hands on the keyboard.  He put a fresh sheet of paper into the machine and rolled his chair forward – pinning me between the heavy oak table and his legs. He pulled me further onto his lap, locked both his arms around me and rolled even closer.  I did not say anything, but desperately glared at Lettie, hoping she’d ‘save’ me.  I figured she’d surely say something or call someone.  But no such luck; she didn’t even glance at me and did not seem to notice my predicament at all. Lettie was busily looking around at various several smaller cabinets and drawers and opening them all to explore.

Chaver L. smiled at me with his fat pink face, and I saw missing teeth and a wet tongue, brimming with saliva, as he started to show me how to type my name. He guided my hands onto the keys – and I started to type. I began putting my name on the paper, concentrating on that, and then I realized he started feeling for my panties and stuck his fat fingers into my vulva under the table.  I was nearly 12 years old and I did have some bit of hair on it and I was very sensitive to the touch.  I shifted and pulled back but he was behind me – so no way out. 

I turned my head and looked at him, incredulous that he would actually do such a thing, as Lettie was right there!  But she was not at all aware of the situation under the table.  I felt entirely trapped; yet I couldn’t help but look down at Chaver L.’s crotch and there was his penis, erect and quite red, looking back at me.  It was entirely revolting – and he was entirely revolting! I felt slightly sick and slightly alarmed, and I am sure my face showed it!

He actually cackled and wheezed and I could smell his sour odor. Oh, he was so utterly disgusting!   But I did not dare do anything hurtful to him, like hit him or scream. I only tried to get away from him by pulling myself from his grasp but I simply couldn’t do it.  He held one of my legs by crossing a leg around my knees somehow, and all I could do was call out, pitifully, “Lettie – look under the table! Quick!”

She turned to me, entirely surprised, but then she did bend down and look.  Of course she saw his silly penis sticking out and his hands under my panties.  So what did she do?  She burst out laughing!

“Lettie!! Help me!” I pleaded.  But she was still laughing loudly about it.  She thought it was just hilarious! She actually plopped right down of the floor, convulsed in laughter.  She didn’t do a thing to rescue me. I wailed, “Get someone to come in here! Please!”

But by then Chaver L. realized the jig – so to speak – was up; he let me go.  I escaped and Lettie and I left hurriedly, me saying how disgusting he was and her emphatically saying that ‘all men’ were despicable.

As to the incident with Chaver L., it was just one more of the many I’d experienced. And even though I was nearly 12, I would never have said a word, but Lettie insisted I tell my father about it, so in the end I actually did.  Oddly, she seemed to think he ought to know of that story, and she must have expected him to take action.  Or more likely, it was a ‘test’ to see whether he would protect me or not. She had such a low opinion of men, I think she wanted to see if my father measured up to any standard at all.

I very clearly remember going over to my parents who were on the sofa, after dinner.  I haltingly told my father that Chaver L. had touched me – and I pointed downward to the place on my body, not able to speak the words. Well, Lettie was right! My father was instantly enraged, jumped up and roared out of the house, straight to the offices where the Labor Union was.  There were people working there late into the evening.  I don’t know what actually happened, but knowing how furious he was and what a physical and intense man he was, it was quite a scene, I am sure.  Nonetheless, not much came of it since Chaver L. still worked there.  But I never went near the place again.

Back and So Forth

I will write a lot about myself – beginning with certain of my personal experiences from what I recall as a very young child, and moving through my earlier years to the present.  It’s essentially about my sexual world.  I need to tell this story, for myself and for anyone else who finds it relevant. It’s important to say this: Children are ‘alone’ in many ways. This makes them open to many types of abuse, from adults and from other children.

I say this, as a cautionary point: When I was a child, the people who loved me and whom I loved and trusted, and to whom I was so close – seemed to know pretty much nothing about what was really going on for me.  We may as well have been on separate planets.  Actually, it is almost as if we were different species! And it isn’t just me – it’s all kids – or surely most of them!  Looking back now, it’s rather startling how so few adults really connect to the children they care for, even though they might think they do!  Really, most adults have no idea what is happening with kids. Children have a very secret inner life; there are precious few adults who enter into it, ever.

To be clear, I am not doing a complete of everything about me, so this isn’t an autobiography, or any such thing.  It is a confession of sorts, a cathartic pouring out of many of my innermost  thoughts and feelings, opening my heart and soul about some very private places, very sensitive, often painful areas, which I have not dared to look at this closely before now.  It’s about things I thought were far from my present world, yet they have imposed themselves into my life at this time; there is no way to avoid them. 

So everything I write here will be a pure, simple, direct, intimate account of certain things I feel are important for me to re-visit.  It’s also, I guess, ‘an open book’, for any one of you, the readers, to look at and reflect upon, to recount and review your own experiences, and to consider and comment on anything at all, for whatever reasons may help any of us to understand any of it, for my sake or yours. I feel very strongly that there are memories of mine that others are going to be able to relate to.  Some of this journey is sure to be very painful and I can say that it already has been.  I have wept and agonized over much of it, and there will be many more tears; I know that for certain.

Patty McC.

When I was a kid in Canada, we went to stay in ‘the country’ every summer.  All the ‘dads’ stayed in the city and worked and all the ‘women and children’ went to the country so we could go swimming in lakes and pick wild berries and just have a great time.  We rented a place from a farmer, just a big old farm house – it was very cheap, and we stayed for two months.  And there were other families there of course and all the kids played together.  I had one friend who was about a year or so older than me.  She was Irish and had long red hair which she wore in two fat braids, light blue eyes and soft brown freckles everywhere.  Her name was Patty McC. Her dad was a cop.  A sergeant – a big heavy man!  She was only about a year older, but a lot bigger and stronger than me (I was a wimp!) and her dad was a cop, so I was scared of her anyway. (I guess I just said that her dad was a cop twice – but it was a big deal!)

Anyway, Patty liked me and we played together, going swimming and wandering around the farm and watching the cows, poking cow pies with sticks and watching out for the bulls, and whatever struck our fancy – or Patty’s fancy actually!

We used to go into this huge barn-like building called ‘the ice house’ – it had giant blocks of ice in it all covered with heaps of sawdust.  Even though it was quite hot outside, it was much cooler in there.  Patty had a little game we played.  She was my doctor and I was the patient. She had some little jars of ointment and she would have me lie down and she’d examine me… and the way it always turned out was that I had to have her put ‘medicine’ on my vulva and in my butt – I was 10 going on 11 and I had not really started puberty, no period yet.  I had just the slightest swelling at my nipples.  Nothing else! And she would put her finger in this funny shaped ointment jar – it was very smelly like menthol – it was called Tiger Balm.  Then she’d touch my hairless little vulva and rub it between the folds …and oh, that stuff burned!  She’d put a very tiny dab of it on her middle finger and stick it into my butt and I would really squirm and scream and thought I would die of the burning feeling for a long time, but she had no problem with me suffering at all. In a very matter of fact voice, she would say, “It’s medicine; it’s gotta hurt to make you better.”

Well, I can fully attest that it did hurt a lot! It burned like fire, for about an hour afterwards, but that’s how that went!  I always tried to sit on the big hunks of ice to soothe my parts. That was one game we played that year.  Of course, nobody’s parents had a clue of what went on with all of us kids.  Nobody knew where we went or who we were with or what we did all day long, so Patty McC was in charge of me all summer. Whenever she came to our house and asked me to play, I always went, because I was really kind of afraid not to do what she wanted.  She was tough and got mad easily and would smack anyone in a second if she felt like it.  So I tried not to get her mad.

The other thing that I didn’t understand till I got older is this story:

The next summer, I was 11, and I did have a few tiny hairs on my pussy and my breasts were a little fuller but still no period. Patty was 12, nearly 13.  And we went right back to summer games, she was still the doctor, but this year she also had little jars of Vaseline or cold cream, and if she decided I needed ‘medicine’ she also had an extra ‘treatment: she had me open my legs and she had a little paintbrush with a short handle – kind of like a make-up brush. And she dipped the brush into the little jar and ‘painted’ my pussy parts, so they wouldn’t be so sore.  That part felt pretty nice….the soft brush bristles were caressing and soothing and made my parts feel tingly and quivering hot – in a good way… a way I came to like a whole lot…

One night she asked me to sleep over at her house.  Again – her dad was a COP, so there were no arguments with Patty- ever!  My mother had no problem with me sleeping there, as it was only two houses away.  So I got some clothes, and went to Patty’s house.  We all had dinner and it was light outside still, so we played in a big army hammock they had, and chased fireflies and just did whatever came into our heads till it got really dark and that was pretty late, maybe 10 pm, in the Northern part of the continent.

At night, we lay down on her bed together. We talked for awhile and then I fell asleep, lying on my right side with my back toward her.  Somehow, during the night I became vaguely aware of a hand softly touching my buttocks and slipping between my thighs from behind.  I was so sleepy, I felt I must be dreaming.

The hand moved further and I shifted a little and sank back into sleep, or tried to.  I was very groggy, but the feeling was so very pleasant – so I just let that delicate sensation spread over my pussy and thighs and I felt it inside my belly.  I relaxed into it, dreamy and allowing.  But suddenly I was startled and kind of woke up, and I felt my stomach tighten slightly … I realized something different was happening… I felt soft caresses on the outer lips of my vulva, back and forth…

Then, just very slowly, those exploring fingers began touching me inside, between the folds. I was still so sleepy, but I succumbed to how wonderful it felt. I let myself snuggle into the bedding and closed my eyes again, easing into that feeling. In my very relaxed sleepy state, it made me tingle all over and I didn’t care who or what was doing it – I loved it and I was going to let it happen.  I felt hot wet juices start up, inside me, which had not ever happened to me before like that. 

I had been touched by so many men (yes, molested) but I’d never felt this before – a delicious, hot, wet, slippery juicy sensation – I had been too young. Until now.

I really felt excited, intensely wanting it to continue, and I knew it was Patty, but I kept my eyes shut tight, and pretended to still be ‘sleeping’.   She kept caressing me and then rolled her fingers over the little hard bump that was my clitoris which actually made my body jerk.  She kept on doing it and I started to moan; I was definitely aroused.  I surely did not want it to stop.  I started moving back and forth to meet her touches. She clearly knew I was responding fully.  Suddenly my whole body convulsed in an explosion of pleasure. 

That was the first time I had an orgasm.  I did not know what it was at all but I knew I wanted more of it!  FYI, I never considered it a lesbian experience – it was ‘kids’ still — but looking back – oh yeah – whatever it was, it was a real thing. 

Lettie

Lettie hated boys and men, especially men. With a vengeance. She told me, “All men are disgusting.  We’re gonna smash them right in the balls.  It’s really easy, I’ll show you.”                                      

Lettie had a mission: she was going to grab and crushingly squeeze the balls of any man she should get close enough to do it to.  She told me that her father had touched her for years and she hated him and she knew without a doubt that all men were hateful.  She hated her mother too, for not stopping it, as she was sure her mother was aware.  So, we did go on ‘patrol’, Lettie and I, and as far as I know, she did not do this with any other friends – just me. This was the deal: we would get specially ‘dressed up’ in what we felt were sexy clothes and sashay around the street, going along Parklane Avenue, a main traffic road in the city.  We often put on some high-heeled shoes we got from our mother’s closets and stuffed Kleenex into the toes and we also stuffed Kleenex into our bras, to make our young titties look ‘bigger’.  We put on heavy red lipstick and a coat of shiny Vaseline on our lips.  For all I know, we looked like underage whores!

Feeling super-sexy, we’d walk along the business area, where many people were on the sidewalks, shopping, going to restaurants and stores.  Lettie and I would walk arm in arm, swaying our hips and laughing gaily.  If we saw a lone man coming opposite us on the sidewalk, we’d sort of split up and walk as if we’d go around on both sides of him.

The men seemed to like seeing two pretty young girls going ‘around’ them and usually smiled at us.  Then Lettie would make a fist and walk right into the man, smashing her fist into his crotch, grabbing his balls and squeezing as hard as she could!  This obviously was quite a terrible moment for any man!  Especially since we both were so young and both of us were pretty, and we had been walking so provocatively, which had made him look at us in the first place.  Lettie and I would then laugh our heads off about this victory of ‘justice’ over the ‘disgusting men’ of the world.

My friend Lettie had taken over all sorts of things in my life.   She was always highly critical of how I dressed, looked, moved and acted. She showed me how to put lipstick on and how, if I didn’t have any lipstick, to pinch my cheeks and bite my lips to make them pink so as to look prettier.  She had plans for me. Lettie really hated men, and I was going to be her pupil in finding ways to hurt any man who came close enough.

The whole and sole point was always to learn, practice and use ‘tricks’ in order to be more diabolical with boys and men so as to entice them, and to be able later to do something degrading, insulting or simply to punish them in any way possible, just for being male. The method was to excite them and then cause them pain, to torment them, by teasing and toying with them, but never really ‘falling in love’, never, ever being in their power.  I guess she had a kind of ‘Carmen’ syndrome, really.  Or, maybe a budding dominatrix? 

She tried her best. She really did, but in the end I just didn’t have the ‘balls’ for it.  Yes, I was indeed ‘naturally’ sexy, but I was still just me – who loved being female and who truly liked men and boys. You see, I was simply thrilled to be able to make men notice me. Oh, there was no question that I loved being a bit of a tease – I so much loved that bit of power and I enjoyed and craved the attention from males in every way! 

But I never, ever wanted to hurt them, like Lettie absolutely did.  No, no, no!  I was simply far too attracted to them and far too empathetic to what might hurt anyone else and I just could not ever see all males as bad or any such thing. However, I surely did want to make them desire me and I also really wanted them to do things to me; and I found I could easily learn and practice all those charming ways and wiles and accomplish that. 

Oh, yes! I loved being alluring – Lettie could see that I was a natural at it, and of course, I still am.  But she carefully instructed me anyway… so, some of Lettie’s methods stuck with me.  But there’s no doubt in my mind that my own yearnings and my own natural sensuality were always dominant in my behavior, as they still are.  Yet I also believe I learned quite a few tricks from her.

More About Those Early Times

Belvedere Street, where my family had moved when I about 10 years old, was a long street, full of dozens of immigrants. There were many flats, and some apartments in three story buildings, and at the end of certain blocks, there were ‘corner’ stores.

In one of the apartments lived a girl, several years older than me, whose family was from Hungary.  She was in high school and her given name was something else than what she was called.  I don’t know what the actual name was – but she used the name Piranni – and I knew her because she was supposed to help me with my mathematics.  I went to her apartment after school twice a week.  We did study – and afterwards we also played various board games to help me with math – a good idea, and always such fun! Yes, we did study and work on mathematics, but we also did something else. 

In her overall looks, Piranni was basically ordinary; I suppose some would say she was somewhat pretty – a bit heavy set especially around the middle and otherwise well formed, with large breasts and hips. She had beautiful long golden blonde hair, which was braided and rolled into a knot at the back of her neck. 

She had a heavy accent, like Zsa-Zsa Gabor, and it was fun to watch her do her make-up routine, as she explained it all in detail.  She had a mirror which she showed me, a sort of ‘magic mirror’- on a little silver stand, which magnified things.  From a drawer, she took out a box of all her ‘tools’ , set everything out on her dressing table, and turned on several bright lights.  Then she began the show… 

She carefully, painstakingly plucked out every hair that sprouted up of her own natural eyebrows, and used a fine pencil to draw a thin line instead.   She expertly outlined her blue eyes with the same light brown pencil and used a little brush to blend it into a smoky look.  She fluttered her eyelids and checked the effect several times.

She softly painted her curvy lips with a brush as well.  Then she put a deep red color on top of that with a tube of lipstick.  Her cheeks, she made pink with a powder pad she used to dab the color on, from some sort of rouge cream in a jar.  Then she used a powder puff to ‘set’ it all for the finishing touch, making clouds of fine white dust all around her face.  Spectacular!

She taught me where to put dabs of perfume – on the ‘pulse points’.  The perfume went on each side of her neck, on the inside of each wrist, between her breasts and on her ankles too.   Once she unbraided her amazing golden hair – she put little pins here and there with shiny things on them.  Quite a vision! I was in complete awe of all her skills!  She was kind to me and I looked up to her and developed a sort of ‘big sister crush’ for her. She was quite protective of me, and one day she said that soon I would soon grow up and be with boys.

“Deh boys vill do many special things weeth you, and den deh man vill come,” she explained, in her Zsa Zsa Gabor accent. “I theenk you haff to know about theese.” So she decided that she should show me how women are supposed to behave during sex.  She took me to her bed, and placed two big pillows on top of each other.

“You must lie down, like theese,” she demonstrated, and she lay on her back, with the middle part of her body thrust upward from the pillows. “You must cry out all de time ven de big strong man vill sqveeze your titties.  Oh, it hurts! So alvays you must scream: ‘Oooohhh!!’  And she tossed her head from side to side and crushed her own breasts very hard.  “Den dey gonna put it deep inside!”

She sat up and reached towards her dresser, took a solid wood hairbrush and slathered the handle with Pond’s cold cream. She lifted her skirt, pulled her panties off and spread her legs very wide. Then she took that wooden handle and jammed it into her vagina, while she screamed at the top of her lungs:  “Oooohhh! Oooohhh!!” and writhed around on her bed.  This was quite astonishing to see and I was quite amazed by all of it. My eyes as big as saucers, I watched silently but very intently, fully taking in every detail with profound clarity.  She never touched me.  She just showed me what she thought I needed to expect.

Daddy and the Girls

Close to the corner of our block, on the opposite end from where my friend Lettie lived, was a family of four –a father, a mother and two daughters.  I was friends with the girls, the older one was my age and her sister was a couple of years younger.  The father was a strikingly handsome German man, tall, blond, with well-chiseled features, robust complexion and a strongly built body.  In complete contrast, the mother was very plain: pale, sallow complexion, hollow-faced, mousey hair, and her body was thin and not well formed.  The older girl, Hanna, took after her dad; she was a female version of him – blonde, rosy cheeked, ruby lipped, beautiful.  The younger girl – Betty, except for her blonde hair, looked like the mother.  I often played at their place. We did games like ‘pick-up-stix’ and we listened to records of opera and classical music.  They had a television too – a big deal in those days!

One night I was at their flat for dinner and after the meal, we girls were still in the kitchen beginning to clear the table.  The father came and looked directly at Hanna. In German, he said: “Es ist jetzt Badezeit. Und jetzt alle Kinder in das Bad zu bekommen.“  (“It’s bath time. And now all the children will get into the bath.”)

When fathers gave commands like that, no child would dream of disobeying! So we all dutifully went to the bathroom and a tub was prepared. We all three got into it and were splashing about.  Hanna’s father suddenly came in.  I saw the mother watching glumly from the hallway.

The father knelt by the side of the tub and got a bar of soap.  Then he started washing Hanna.  She just sat quietly, rather resigned, as he slid the soap on her body.  He got her pretty sudsy and then began to softly run his hands over her budding breasts and along her back and her neck.

“Stand up, Hanna,” said Daddy. She stood up and held onto the towel rack that was screwed into the wall at the side of the tub. He slid his big hands around her thighs and buttocks, slipping his fingers between the cheeks, and then in front of her tummy and into her vulva, smiling and saying, in German, “You are growing, Hanna, very nice!” 

Betty and I watched in complete silence.  Hanna never resisted or showed any emotion.  She was not showing any marked distress, but she had that look of helpless acceptance which I had come to know very well myself.  I could not see Betty’s face as she was in the middle, between us, and her back was towards me.  We were completely mesmerized.  I have to say, this scene had a curious effect on me. 

He was so openly confident in what he was doing, as if there wasn’t a single thing wrong in a father washing and fondling his pubescent daughter.  That image – it was locked into my mind and also the image of the mother, with her sad and hopeless face, who never entered the bathroom but knew all too well what was going on in there. It shocked me, upset me. I knew that it was wrong, wrong in a number of ways; yet it also affected me very, very much. Empathizing, I felt my own pussy stirring hotly.  I had become intensely excited. Yes, you see, this is how children learn, how we are shaped….

Sweeter Stuff

The first year of ‘high school’ – well it was an awkward time.  I felt ugly, I was terribly near-sighted and I needed glasses.  I had these lumpy glasses to wear but I didn’t use them unless I was in class and had to read or see the board.  Otherwise I took them off, so as a consequence, I was usually wandering around in a complete daze.  I didn’t really even know how my face looked without those glasses, except for very close up, as I refused to wear them.  I had full breasts and hips though, and a very small waist – that hourglass thing… and everyone sure noticed me.

Now this: this could never happen nowadays, but I recall several of the male teachers standing in the hallway sometimes, talking to each other, and I saw them give me very obvious ‘looks’ when I walked past them.  Usually I was with one of my friends.  Once, when a couple of us girls saw that blatant look from one of those teachers, we looked at each other, smirking, and I remember saying aloud to my friend, “But he’s married!” 

He heard me – and actually answered, laughing: “But I still have eyes!”

Oh, I know that nowadays he would be sued in a heartbeat!  But then, no-one said or did a thing about incidents or comments like that.

Rudy B.

When I walked home in the afternoon, this guy, Rudy B, from the Catholic school across the street, one day just started walking with me. He was about a year or two older than me.  He was very sweet and I liked him.  He was polite and kind and he seemed to like me – a lot.  Rudy was from Trinidad, West Indies.  He was black and yes, he was very beautiful.  He was tall and strongly-built, with well defined muscles.  He had a voice like strong coffee with thick cream, husky rich, so sweet sounding, with a lilting, charming accent.  His skin was dark, a deep golden brown and so smooth, and his body was so fine, he moved with such grace and confidence. 

He just got into the habit of walking me all the way home, and usually there was no-one there in the afternoon.  We went inside the flat on Belvedere Street, and immediately he began kissing me.  It was wonderful, the way he kissed!  His mouth was so warm and he rubbed his lips on mine for so long and it was all so sweetly passionate and it literally made the juice pour down between my thighs.  It soaked my panties! 

He was gentle and so chivalrous.  He would say, “Can I kiss you again?”  Ahh! So sweet!  He never tried to take any of my clothes off, but he touched me all over and kissed me all over and I loved it. He always had a big hard-on and I wanted to touch it so much – but he was so proper – he never took it out of his pants at all.  At least not at first – he must have suffered with that! 

For several weeks, all we ever did was kiss and caress each other for about an hour after school, at my place.  My parents never knew about him. Then, one day, he asked me to go downtown with him. Wow! A date!  I think I was thirteen.  I met him at the corner store on Saturday and we walked all the way downtown. We ate sandwiches at a coffeehouse, and then going home, we walked along Parklane Avenue and we decided to just hang around by the gazebo in the park.  It was Autumn and it was getting dark early.  We stood by the trees, full of gorgeous colors and we kissed luxuriously for a long time.  He told me he loved me.  He was so hard, and I was so wet!  At last, he let me touch his penis. He unbuttoned his pants and it poked its head out of his underwear. I looked. He was circumcised!  I knew the difference between penises which were and penises which weren’t – and I do recall that I was very surprised, since he was not Jewish!  

He was so sweet about everything we did – he never forced himself on me in any way.  We simply had a delicious, lovely time in the park.  But that day, he took me back right to my door, since it was already very dark.  When he took me home, my mother was upset.  You see, that year, I had started my period, and the issues with me and boys were at whole new level. So she paid attention! Neighbors had told her about Rudy and she was not pleased that I had never told her anything.  She said to him that my father would be back home soon and would be angry.  She told Rudy not to come to our house anymore. Poor Rudy! So polite, he simply nodded and said, “I am so very sorry, Madame, I won’t bother your family again.” 

When my father came home, my mother told him about Rudy.  Surprisingly, my father did not get furious.  He must have been especially tired that day.  But he also did not know that Rudy had shown me his penis!  However, he did say never to do anything with a boy without his permission.   And of course, I obeyed that rule.  Always. Ah, well – No!! Not for a second!

Ah, Rudy! Still I have this lovely memory of him, what a sweet guy… 

Billy L. from Point Charleston

This fellow, the way we met was all because of another prank phone call.  Oh, yes, I made these calls often – I would just dial random numbers or find various ones in the big old phone directory.  One day this young male voice answered and of course he was instantly engaged in the phone games!  His name was Billy L. and he lived in Point Charleston, a tougher area of town which – in my circle – was considered dangerous and forbidden and very ‘English’. So his clearly ‘English’ Canadian accent sounded ‘different’ and therefore it was appealing to me right off.  He also sounded ‘older’ but obviously he was a young guy. He told me he was 19 and asked my age; I said I was 17. I wasn’t.

He wanted to meet me, so I agreed to meet him downtown at a popular coffee house. He described what he ‘looked like’ and what he’d be wearing and I went.  When I saw him I was instantly intrigued!  He was at a table, smoking, wearing a leather jacket with an emblem of a skull on it!  He had on blue jeans and boots.  He had very straight jet black hair and very white, pallid skin.  He was short and wiry-skinny, with crude, hard, thin features and an expression of wary toughness. He seemed to know who I was the second he looked at me. He stood up and motioned me to his table with a swing of his head.  We had coffee and some pastries.  He said, “You ain’t 17, air ya?”

“I will be next month.”  Total lie.

He laughed. “Oh, ok – wanna ride on my cycle?”

We went outside and he had a motorcycle!  Wow!  I was thrilled and also very nervous!  But I got on behind him and we drove for quite a while, me clutching his body with all my might till my arms and hands hurt.  I kept my eyes totally shut tight the whole time.  I was utterly terrified at every turn and every tilt of that machine!

We went to an apartment that he said was his, but it was way far downtown someplace.  It was sparsely furnished and I have no idea where it was, or who it really belonged to, but it had a record player.  He put on some old classic records of Rock n Roll music – ‘Bee Bop a Lula’ and ‘Love letters in the Sand’ and ‘My Prayer’ – and others I really liked.  We slow-danced to the music and he started kissing me. We were embracing and he was kissing me pretty hard. He really smelled stale and smoky and his hair was all greasy – and suddenly I wanted to get away as fast as I could!   I got scared of him, and oddly he did not seem to make me feel ‘hot’ or anything close. Unlike my usual helpless behavior in such situations, I – amazingly – spoke up!  I was alarmed and actually said, “It’s getting late! I have to be back home!  Please, I have to go home!”   One of the rare times I actually asked someone to ‘stop’ – sort of!

He pulled away from me and said, “Yeah, you ain’t worth it.”  He took me back to the corner of Parklane Avenue and I walked back home from there.  But again, I marvel at how easily he COULD have done pretty much anything to me, and by the grace of God – he did nothing. 

The Parklane Gazebo and Guy F.

In the warm weather, my close friend Denise and I always went to the Parklane Gazebo to hang out.  We invariably met young men there, who were usually way older than us, and we all flirted and we pretty much always necked or even petted a bit with any of these guys who tried it.  Again – our parents had NO idea where we went or with whom.   We climbed on the huge bronze sculptures of various figures of history or myth and it was fun.   I met one young man there, named Guy F.  (pronounced like ‘Ghee’) He was French Canadian, very cute, very blond, very short.  He was not much taller than me!  He was really a sweet, charming fellow, so very lovable, so good-natured –and he told me he loved me and wanted to marry me!  Ha-ha!  He surely was so appealing, and oh, I really did like him – but as for marriage – oh no! Not yet! He had a photo of his mother, his beloved ‘Maman’ who had birthed 18 (yes 18!) children, and still looked trim and able. We met many times by the park and I always was very happy to be with him.  

One night, Guy took me behind some trees and spread a nice blanket on the ground.  We lay down on it and kissed and petted heavily for awhile.  Then he really got serious and took out his penis, which was both thick and long, all ready for me. I suppose I must have looked a bit scared, so he did not push himself on me.  He might have lost control, done bad things. But, no, he was chivalrous and treated me very kindly.

And I was excited, fascinated by his penis and I touched it. Guy was in pure ecstasy with my hand on it – he seemed to come almost immediately! I was somewhat surprised – but I truly was not afraid of him. Somehow, I felt more in control of these events than I was with anything else I can recall at that age.  But because I actually said I would not marry him, we ‘broke up’ after a few months of these secret sex-in-the-dark games.

A few thoughts on things...

I have to say this: I am sure I was being protected by a higher power.  I feel I was then and I feel I am now being watched over, since I had gotten into and been led into and pushed into and fallen into SO very many POSSIBLE risky situations. Yet I emerged relatively unharmed, and I find that quite incredible. 

And while I openly agree that I was mis-used and also surely ab-used by so many men, I also had some sweet as honey times with darling, kind, gentle, beautiful young guys and men. These experiences nurtured the ‘romance’ in my soul – they caused the deep and gentle implantation of the tender seeds of a beautiful wish for a ‘prince charming’, true love and the joy of sweetly dreaming of some real wonder of a man who would sweep me off my feet, ravish me ‘softly’ (ha-ha) and be loving and kind too! And thankfully, that has happened to me as well!  So I just love men, and I always will!

The Way it Works

As I am writing and reviewing and editing my very vivid and persistent memories, I already know, and it must likewise be fully evident to anyone reading this, how very quickly and how very deeply the twisted roots of ‘good’ and ‘bad’ become entwined in the psyche and the physical essence of a child. It’s easy to see. The physical sensations of sexual touching are so very irresistible and so delicious, that the body awakens to it fully and immediately: the response is intense. Yet the sense of emotional anxiety and forbidden activities that surrounds the experience is likewise overwhelming. It causes a strange effect – and in my view, the child feels several things: it’s scary, secretive, seductive and sensuous. This combination is so potent, that anyone who has been molested and/or abused in these ways can never really get past it entirely.   This is how I felt, and part of me is stuck forever in that place in some ways.

And if it only happens once or twice, and it’s a relatively minor incident, well – maybe it’s more possible to push the experience far into that cave which all of us have, of untouched memories.  But when it happens over and over and continues into youth and adulthood – well – all I can say is, it’s IN you.  It’s in you in every fiber of your emotional and physical being.  You can no more change anything than you can cut off your own head. 

That’s how I feel, and that’s why I am so vulnerable.  That is why it is so easy for me to be victimized and why – I have to be honest – I don’t refuse it and somehow I kind of ‘want’ it.  I do get genuinely excited by men’s desire for me – and so I let myself ‘in’ for what they seem to like to do to me.   I want men to want me and to do what they want with me.  I guess it seems kind of like an addiction?   But I do not feel like a ‘sex addict’.  I do not go seeking all this stuff – it just sort of ‘happens‘. Yes – there’s something about me…

Yet, I do however have a dream of romance!   I do want that magical ‘fairy tale’ world too!  I want a guy to be all charming and chivalrous, and treat me like a queen … but I want him to ravish me too!  So I am really good at teasing and luring men to want me, and I am terrific at being a temptress, being adorably appealing in a way that has that essence of a child-woman creature.  I am so naturally good at it by now!  I have all sorts of games to play, combinations of innocence and sauciness, softness and brattiness, come-on’s and stop-it’s!   I do not ever think about any move I make or word I say for even one second –I think it’s all well-programmed in me. Well – it also may well have been ‘hard-wired’ in me – ah! you see, that’s the 1,000,000 dollar question!  Which came first? Ah, which indeed!  I am fully aware of being incredibly lucky in that no-one really did anything unbelievably cruel, like beat or torture me, or God forbid, kill me … I guess I ought to be so grateful that they wanted me to be no more than a sexual toy.  They were just using my intrinsic compliance for their own needs.  And so I am what I am.

One Summer Day

In the summer, we went out to the country again.  I was still only ten or so that year, but I used to wander off alone on some days for whatever reason, even when other kids were around.  My mother never seemed to ask or mind that I was gone for hours and I do believe it was somewhat of a miracle that I ever found my way home, as I was hopeless about directions.  But one day, towards the late afternoon, I had walked to the farmer’s house, which was only a short way down the dirt road, no more than a half mile. Past the family’s large main house, I continued on the gravel path and saw one of the sons working in the barn, milking a cow.

I knew him pretty well, and he had often waved to me and said, “B’jou!” (“bonjour”) when he was on a tractor or checking on some cattle in the meadow.  He was always smiling and friendly. He had even taught me a few words in French, saying I could speak well, and patting my shoulder or popping his finger on my nose.  His name was Orion, pronounced ‘Oh Ree OWN’ and his family rolled the ‘R’, rather than pronouncing it in the classic French style.  And of course the name was spoken with the accent on the last part, and the ‘n’ sound ending up in the nostrils of a French ‘nose’.

He was about 16 or 17, lean, rather tall and very strong, his hard muscles all tanned and golden.  He had longish, unkempt blond hair and squinty blue eyes.  He wore nothing but overalls – no shirt. I stood silently by the barn door watching. He twisted the cow’s teat and squirted some of the milk at me, grinning broadly.  It hit my cheek – I jumped back and he laughed.  When he was done milking the cow, he stood up and emptied the bucket of frothy milk into a large metal milk can which was already quite full.  He then sat down on a bale of hay, pulled a large sack of raw sunflower seeds next to him and motioned me over.

Viens, petite, assieds-toi, ici!”  (Come on, little one, sit right down here!)   I went and sat by him and we ate seeds for a while.  The barn was old, the scene tranquil, except for a few birds flying about by the rafters.  All was very quiet, full of rich, pungent smells of hay, manure, animal bodies.

Orion relaxed, stretched, his legs spread apart as he sat back, and I noticed that his overalls had a pretty big hole near his crotch.  I now think it was so he could pee easily if he had to, while he was out in the fields… but anyway, I could see some curly hair behind that hole and I guess he saw me looking at it.  He reached over and took my hand. 

“Eh bien, petite, tu vois quelque chose la?” he said. (Hey, little one, do you see something there?)

I understood and my eyes got wide in embarrassment.

“Non, non, je vois rien,” I meekly replied, shaking my head back and forth quickly. (No, no, I see nothing.)  Yet I couldn’t help but look again. 

He smirked and tilted his head to one side and as I watched, I saw his penis rising towards that hole and out it came.  He held it with his right hand and put his other hand on my neck.  He pulled my head toward him and near to his penis.  He rubbed the head of it on my cheek and he held my face close to it, and kept pulling on his penis, faster and faster till suddenly he moaned and grunted ‘Ahh!” and the thick white semen came spurting out.  It had only been a few moments.  It got all over me and I immediately burst into tears, sobbing loudly.

“Eh, hé, ma petite chérie, ne fais pas ça, ce n’est pas grave, ce n’est pas grave, c’est pas mal, pas mal!” (Hey, little darling, don’t do that – it’s nothing bad, nothing bad.)

My hair and face and neck were covered with his semen.  I was so shocked!  I had the taste of it in my mouth – salty and funky sweet.  He grabbed a ragged towel hanging on a nail on the wall and then led me out of the barn. He washed my face and rinsed off my hair at the water hand-pump near the fenced vegetable garden.  He worked the big lever and water spat out, and then he got another rag, wiped me off and helped me clean up.  I was still crying. That was the first time I had semen in my mouth.

He watched me as I ran off.  I went right back to the main dirt road and started trudging back home.  It was so hot and I was pretty shaken and the way back seemed very far away. Then I saw a bakery truck coming along the road.  In those days, as there were no stores close to where all the families rented houses, and none of the wives had a car or knew how to drive anyway, there were vendors that came to us, selling all sorts of fruits, vegetables and other general goods out of their trucks.  The name of the bakery was ‘Bonnie Breads’ and we all loved the goodies they sold.

I would eagerly await the ‘Bonnie Bread man’ at least three times a week. I had several favorite pastries and cakes, so I knew this truck and I knew the driver.  He was French Canadian, a big man, slightly overweight, but still well built, with darkish blond hair and a pleasant, smiling face.  He knew me, too, and stopped the truck.

“Hello, you want a ride?” he spoke English comfortably, with a slight accent. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”

I happily got into his truck, relieved that I didn’t have to trudge along that stretch of hot dusty road.  He drove up the road, and kept on going – I saw that he had gone quite a ways past the turn where I lived.   I said nothing for a bit and then as he kept driving and seemed oblivious, I spoke up:

“M’sieur, you went past where my house is.”

“Ah, oui, sorry, I will go back,” he said.  He pulled off the narrow road a bit, as if to turn around – but then he stopped the engine and looked at me. 

“You like to take some cake to your house for your mama? You can take it.”

That seemed very nice of him and I immediately nodded, “Yes, thank you!”

He stood up and opened a panel behind the driver’s section.  There were shelves of cakes and cookies.

“You pick something you like,” he encouraged.  There wasn’t much on the lower shelves and I could not see up to the top shelves, even when I tried standing on my tiptoes.   He said, “Wait, I show you.”

Then of all things, he put his right hand between my legs, exactly under my crotch.  He actually lifted me up that way, with only one arm, to the level of the upper shelves.  He was strong! There I was; I felt his big fingers opening and closing, squeezing my hairless pussy over my panties and I had absolutely no idea what to do.  So all I did do was let it happen.   I quickly chose a marble cake – half chocolate and half vanilla – and turned my face towards him.  “I got one,” I whispered.

He set me down and then as I stood there, he took out his penis.  My eyes got wide and I stared at it – it looked immense to me – and I was absolutely frozen to the spot.  He took the cake out of my hands and set it aside.  Then he took my left hand in his right hand and pressed it on top of his cock. I became completely passive, did nothing at all to resist as he placed his own large hand under the shaft, closing his hand tightly so it covered mine and began moving it slowly up and down. I remember how the skin seemed kind of loose on his cock, but it was so very hard underneath.  He kept sliding my hand on it, up and down, up and down.  I began to cry, big tears spilling down my cheeks. I was so confused, so lost in the situation – I felt completely helpless, but did nothing.  “Don’t cry, don’t cry, I don’t hurt you,” he said in a low soft voice.

But I kept sobbing as he kept making me do it.  He moved my hand faster and faster and he was breathing hard.  Then suddenly he ejaculated, and it spurted several feet – right out the open side door of the truck, behind me!  And at that moment – to both our surprise, another car had just driven past us on that lonely road.  With the front of the truck turned away from the road, I am sure they saw nothing but a bakery truck parked off to the side, among the choke-cherry trees.

He quickly put his cock back into his pants.  Then he turned the truck around and drove me home.  My mother came to the door and he nodded and waved to her, smiling as if nothing had happened at all.

 “You are here today?” my mother asked, as it was not his usual day. 

“Bien, non, madame.  I just give a ride home for your girl, votre fille.  She was going home from M. Turcotte.”

I jumped down with my marble cake and went inside.  Never was asked a question and never said a word. That was a big day that summer.

Back in the City

Gerald B. 

Back home on Dexxxxx Street, there was a high-school boy named Gerald B, who lived a few doors down from our flat.  He was at least 15 and he was often home alone in the afternoon, as I guess his parents worked.  One day, he saw me through his window and called my name, inviting me into his place, and I just walked right in. He brought me to the kitchen and gave me some hard candy which was in a fancy little glass jar with a lid.  The candies were red and white, striped peppermint, and I dislike those kinds of candies to this day. He took me to his room and motioned me to sit on his bed.  He looked straight at me and bluntly told me to take my panties off, which I did, without a moment’s hesitation. 

He laid me back on the bed, opened a drawer in the mahogany desk next to it, and got a flashlight.  He spread my legs and looked closely at my vulva and vagina.  He carefully opened the labia and inspected everything.  Then he put his index finger a little way into the vaginal opening, which was uncomfortable but not very painful and he did his best to look inside my tiny vagina, pushing it open as much as he could and trying to shine the flashlight in there. The whole time, I lay there like a dummy and said nothing.  I made no complaints, no protests, nor showed the slightest resistance at all. 

Then he pulled his pants down and lay on top of me. He pushed his rather large penis against me – not inside me by any means – just against my genitals. He began to move back and forth, starting off a bit slowly and then, of course, he became more excited and moved very quickly until he ejaculated, which was almost instantly. Though he had a small towel ready and wiped it up immediately, there was still a tiny puddle of sticky white semen on my belly, which was messy but certainly did not hurt. It was a curious thing to me and I put one finger in it.  He got some tissues and cleaned it off, telling me to get up and go home.

This went on for weeks.  I didn’t much like it but neither did I really mind it and I believe I was about eight or nine years old.  Now Gerald was much older than I, and certainly he was not one of my small group of friends, but he did make sure that none of the other kids on our street bothered me, which was helpful, since I was easily pushed around by some of them. So I guess I was ‘buying’ protection! One day, for no reason that I can think of, I actually did tell my mother about what was happening to me.  It’s possible she realized that I was taking a long time to get home after school and asked me about it, but I don’t recall her initiating any inquiries.  More likely, I felt a need to say something to someone.  I clearly remember that we were standing on the little balcony that faced the street as I told her that Gerald was looking at me and touching me and doing some ‘things’.  Oddly, she didn’t seem particularly concerned, nor did she ask for any details. She simply said, “Don’t do it anymore.”  No other action was taken by her. I doubt she ever dared to tell my father who I am convinced would have surely done something. But in any case, I did not listen to my mother.  And, since she showed little emotion and no worry about what I had told her, I did not feel upset either.  Children have their ways of ‘hearing’ what adults say and not necessarily internalizing it as the actual words are spoken, but rather by the emotional message, as it were.

So I continued going to Gerald’s house after school, since he was always home alone and called me in whenever he happened to see me. He surely knew the usual time I was returning home and he had learned to give me English toffee candy which I loved, so we had these visits often.  Yes, these games continued for many months or perhaps even a year – I am not really sure at all. In any case, if my mother actually noticed that I was still coming home late most days – she never asked why, nor did I ever tell again.

Shulim K.

One of my first encounters with a grown man who touched me ‘in a bad way’ that actually felt good, while it also felt wrong, was when I was at least 10 years old.  It was one of my father’s employees.  He was young, probably twenty-five or so.  We had just moved to a new house on a nicer street, and my father had a business, where he hired guys to do work for clients. Almost all of them were immigrants or French Canadians, and they all had heavy accents when they tried to speak English.  This young man had come to our house, where he was waiting for my father to come home, either to get paid for a job done or to find out about a new job. He was in the living room sitting on an upholstered chair that was a pinkish color.  He had thick black hair, large, heavy-lidded eyes and very full lips, and he was dressed in work clothes.  My mother was in the basement, busy with laundry. I dreaded that dark cavern, so I was not about to go down there, since there was a person upstairs with whom I could visit. I had seen this young man before and he had always been cheerful and said a few words to me.  He smiled at me as he took a package of gum from a jacket pocket.

“Chewin’ gom?” he offered me a piece and I reached for it.  He grinned and quickly pulled his hand back behind his ear.  As I was off balance, with my arm outstretched, I sort of fell towards him – my body went forward, landing against and between his widespread thighs. He then ‘caught’ me between his legs and held me there, laughing, but gave me the gum. I stayed there, unwrapped the gum – Dentyne I think – and started chewing it.  

Suddenly, his hands went all over me. He quickly slipped his fingers under my panties and felt the hairless vulva.  He softly moved his fingers along the outer labia and then tickled the inner lips.  I definitely had a jolting realization that he shouldn’t have touched me, not there for sure – but it also felt hot and very tingly and definitely nice.  I remember seeing his full lips coming closer and he kissed me.  Oh, I didn’t like it at all! His mouth felt so slimy and repulsive to me, yet I did not even try to get away. But the whole time, he kept stroking my labia ever so softly and that sensation was powerfully pleasant, yet strongly mixed with the clear awareness that what he was doing to me was ‘wrong’. But I felt warm all over, with his fingers between my legs and somehow I could not budge.

He was wearing very loose trousers and he pulled my hand and pressed it among all those folds of cloth, onto the hardness in his crotch.  He kept a tight hold on my fingers – squeezing them around his cock under his pants.  He firmly held my body between his strong thighs, and I just stayed there, allowing him to do whatever he was doing, since I simply did not know what else to do. It just never occurred to me to try to get away! He kept grinning at me with those reddish slimy lips. I knew I was trapped, yet I did not cry out or struggle at all.  I just kind of froze and stayed put.

Suddenly, we heard my father’s voice as he entered the front door. Whoosh! All hands away and all hardness gone!  I was quickly released. Just the chewing gum remained.  Never a single word was said about any of that other stuff – ever.  

Still Very Young

I have been remembering so much about my childhood and girlhood.  So I will continue to tell about that. Later, I will talk about my life as a young adult, even though I never have truly felt like an full-fledged ‘adult’ – and even now, I still don’t quite feel convinced that I am ‘all grown up’! 

Oh, I know my body is – for sure; but my emotions and my ways of thinking – those are not essentially much different than when I was very young. I know we say there is a ‘child’ within us, and all that – yes, yes, that’s true for everyone I guess.  And most people do behave like adults! But I really am still a child in so many ways. I am silly, highly emotional, I just blurt out comments in an impulsive and spontaneous way, I laugh at the oddest things, I break rules, I do stuff like a kid! 

I cannot recount every single thing that ever happened in the areas of sexual encounters, and no-one needs or wants to hear everything in every detail – that would become idiotic.  And most people have had their own experiences – from assorted and ordinary ‘surprises’ like exhibitionists, or someone’s pants being undone, or seeing someone by accident in the toilet, or watching a sex movie when they were not supposed to, or coming upon someone making love – parents or whomever!  Some of that – I think – happens to pretty much everyone.  So much for that. 

And I surely do realize that many people have had some ghastly and horrific experiences of abuse in many ways, both as children and also as adults.  And most have survived as sane and good people.  People who have done this are without doubt paragons of courage and perseverance.  They are heroes and she-roes – I salute them!  I honor their struggles and I admire their triumphs – with all my heart. 

I am humbled by what others have accomplished and I make no claims of such grandeur.  I also recognize that my own writing is purely about various events that I feel were, and still are, relevant for me.  The simple fact that these individual incidents and periods of my life are so easily recalled in so much detail (even though all through my life I have essentially tried to keep them away from surfacing and though I have relegated them to the farthest, darkest closets of my soul) speaks to their personal importance for me, as well as to my belief that these things have shaped who I am, and further still, to the premise that I have somehow contributed to making them happen, or at least to having made them possible – by certain inherent traits and elements of my own being.  

So – is it my ‘fault’?  In some ways, maybe …

But there were so many men – from boys to adolescents, to full grown young men, and old men – males of all shapes and sizes and colors and ethnicities, of various national origins, and a few girls and several women… who seemed to be particularly interested in me from the time I was four or five and onward – to this very day.

When I was at school and going to other houses of people we knew, or old enough to be going to the store or a walk by myself, it was often enough when something happened that involved sexual activity.  Nowadays, of course, no-one typically allows children so young to be ‘on their own’ on an errand or just off to some play area alone.  But when I was a child, no one worried much or at all about the many possible dangers as we do today. 

Actually, throughout my childhood and youth and early adulthood – I feel like I was pretty much living in a sort of dream world most of the time.  Things happened; but almost always, I was entirely surprised by the actions of others and, frankly, also of myself.  I don’t recall ever making ‘plans’ or ever feeling in control of anything.  What is also true is that I STILL feel that I am living in a dream world.  And I am!

First school experience

I was put into Kindergarten very early – I was only four years old… I guess they thought I was precocious.  I had been read to in at least two or three languages, and I had been sung to in several languages.  I was always spoken to in conversations rich with gestures and descriptive and expressive vocabulary, and I was always encouraged to respond in like fashion, so I knew quite a lot of words ‘above my age level’.  While – as a child – I had a slight speech impediment (I repeated syllables of some words) I still spoke impressively well and was easily able to recite long poems and ballads by heart; and so the principal of the parochial school was impressed. 

However, I ended up spending two years in Kindergarten as I apparently was not ‘emotionally mature’ enough, and therefore not ready to go to the first grade … But that first year, where all of the children did nothing but get ‘socialized’ and paint pictures, build with blocks, and do puzzles, sing songs and play outdoors, I was once sent to the principal’s office (yes, at that young age!) for slightly raising my hand – which looked to the teacher as if I was somehow being aggressive or pushing a boy. The fact is that he had just spit on my hair.  Of course she did not see the spitting, but she saw me raise my hand towards him, so I was the ‘guilty party’ and I was told I had to go to the principal’s office.  Needless to say, I never even attempted to say even a single word in my own defense.  (I am still struggling with that problem!!)  And looking back, all I did, since all I could do at the time, was stare at the teacher – wide-eyed and in complete dumb shock. 

Now, I know that what the teacher had decided really was a severe consequence for no good reason, but that’s what happened.  And when I was so little, I did not have a clue as to her reasons, but now, being ‘grown up’ – well, I am quite sure I know why!  She knew that I was a favorite of the other teacher!

There were two teachers for the Kindergarten class and the one I loved, Teacher Lola, the pretty, sweet and kind one, had left the room for a few moments, or else I am sure she would have stopped the ‘punishment’.  There was the one who was mean, Miss Bindah, and she was simply jealous (I now realize) of the younger teacher, Miss Lola, who liked me so much. 

So, when Bindah had a chance to get back at Lola, just ‘because’ it was possible, she did so, and I became the scapegoat. She did not dare to do something openly to Lola. Therefore when Lola was not around to ‘protect’ me, the nasty teacher, Bindah, saw a way that she could get ‘even’ with her by being mean to me.  Yes, in retrospect, that’s something I am quite certain of; but it didn’t help me back then!

Going to the ‘office’ seemed to any child in those days to be tantamount to a death sentence!  But we were all very obedient to the higher authority of any adult and would never think to question or resist!  So, though it made no sense to send me – a four year old – off alone in the maze of doors and halls at the school, I had no choice, as I just been ordered to find the dreaded principal’s office on my own. 

So I wandered along, having no notion of where to go.  There was a boy walking in the hall, and I just started following him.  He was in a much higher grade, so he was perhaps 10 or so.  He kept walking and looked back at me once or twice.  Suddenly he stopped and pulled me near a door that was shut, and pinched my nipples and put his hand on my hand and clutched it hard, pressing it against his penis!  He rubbed my little hand on his penis, which was under his trousers, for a few rushed moments.  It seemed like a bunch of lumpy stuff in his pants to me. Then he let me go and I just stood there, as he walked away, quickly disappearing down the hallway. 

I was simply confused at that incident – but what could I do?  Not a thing.  I began to wander along again and turned a corner and suddenly, I saw a vision of joy – it was Teacher Lola, right in front of me. There she was, like a sweet angel to my rescue! 

I was so incredibly happy to see her, I clearly remember running to her, dramatically falling on my knees and clasping her legs.  I never said a word about the boy in the hallway, but I was in tears, sobbing hysterically, begging her not to make me go to the dreaded ‘office’.  Of course, she put her arms around me, comforted me, and took me back to the Kindergarten room and of course she somehow made it all right.  The hallway boy was never mentioned at all.

The next thing that comes to mind: 

Another series of incidents, which really were consensual, happened when I was perhaps seven or eight years old.   This was in what we all called the ‘country’, the beautiful Northeastern countryside, where each summer the farmers rented houses to the city folks. 

Those were some of the sweetest times I remember as a child. The wild beauty of the Laurentian countryside, the pastoral places – the lush lovely woods, the tranquil ponds, the rushing streams, the rivers, the rolling hills and meadows full of glorious wildflowers, alive with the buzzing of bees, the profusion of butterflies, birds and the infinite abundance of wild raspberries, blackberries, gooseberries and blueberries – the farms, all the animals, the dusty country roads… the huge bonfires and groups of people singing songs together in the evenings on weekends when all the men came out from the city … it was a wonderful time in my memory. 

There were lots of other children of various ages and backgrounds and we all played together.  It was really wonderful, because there were families from several countries, who spoke different languages, and all the parents were immigrants, who spoke heavily accented English, they also naturally spoke one or more of their native land languages: Russian, Polish, Ukrainian, Romanian, French, German, Italian, Lithuanian … there were even some families from East India and the West Indies!  It was a genuine taste of diversity, and we integrated into it and became somewhat familiar and accepting and often quite comfortable with other traditions and beliefs of different cultures.  I do not recall any of our parents condemning or disrespecting any of the traditions or practices of others, ever.

Some of us kids got to be very ‘good friends’, so we chose to go off on adventures just with a select few.  I was only eight that year.  There were two male cousins, ten and twelve years old, David N. and Jonah G.  They lived in one house that their parents had rented, as their mothers were sisters and the boys were always together.  They both liked me and I liked them and we all went off every day, just following streams down to the rivers, wandering through the meadows and woods, picking wild berries, gathering wildflowers, and once in a great while, in a hidden spot, finding the deliciously sweet tiny wild strawberries, a rare treat! 

The cousins were very close.  They had their secrets and they had their silly private little games and jokes – a kind of comedy team!  It seemed they did things in unison, almost like twins – they would talk and whisper to each other and kind of giggle and then they’d ask me to do something.  Always, I was supposed to pull down my panties and they would show me what was inside  theirs…  these games were kind of fun – just natural activity, curious children exploring each other’s bodies and so on.  We did this anywhere and everywhere – just never in the house where any adults were around!  We went to any farmer’s barn, a meadow, the woods, waterfalls, ponds and streams and riversides.  I do recall that we all wanted to see each other pee. They would bend down and watch closely when I peed. They always turned toward each other and grinned and giggled.  Then they pulled their pants down and peed but they never would touch their penises. They always clasped their hands behind their backs!!  Funny!  I was baffled by that. 

They did touch my labia though and opened up the folds – just exploring… I was always fascinated by their little erections, which happened quite easily when we touched each other.  None of us ever told our parents – never ever.  That sort of thing went on for a couple of years. The next summers they weren’t around.  When I was ten, I made a new friend – Patty McC– I will say more – oh, very much more, about Patty later…. 

First Secrets

First Secrets

Be yourself; Everyone else is already taken.

— Oscar Wilde.

BLOG 1 ~ 11-2019  “Early Times – About the First Secrets…”

I am going to get naked here.  Emotionally!  It’s starting to get light – and I have not slept… just can’t sleep.  There are two kinds of things I need to talk about – my deepest secrets and my fantasy dream world.

Thinking about how I seem to have quite a lot of men in my life – men who really like me, men who want to ‘know me’ – ha-ha! Yes, in various ways.  Trying to sort out what makes it happen so often and so easily.  It makes me think deeply about the kind of person I am, the things I do in my present life now, and why I did some of those things I did in my past.

I promise to be entirely honest.  No sense in being anything else – is there?!

For starters, I will probe my earliest secrets, although really, I do not want to return to those places from many years back.  It’s so long ago and I think ‘what’s the point’… yet my head is full of things – actually mostly things that were done TO me. Yet I let it be, I let it all happen.  And – here’s the rub: I feel like I kind of MADE it happen.  So, I’m trying to figure that stuff out.  Actually, I do see it as a kind of power and a kind of vulnerability at one and the same time.  Or maybe I do not understand what it is at all.  Ok, actually, I don’t. 

Well, but is there anyone who doesn’t have a problem at times with sex? Not that I know of!  So, going back to early memories, since they keep popping into my mind, I may as well accept the situation and look it in the eye, so to speak.

Since I was about three years old, I knew I liked men. A lot. I just noticed them in a way that was not the same as how I noticed females. There was an entirely different sensation that I felt about men and boys; it was just part of how I always was.  And I have had some feelings at times, over the years, with attractions to women, but very rarely.  I can indeed appreciate the beauty of females, and I admit I like it if a woman seems attracted to me, but I do not really want anything beyond that.  A few times though, some things did indeed go beyond – more than merely a look or a touch…  But so very many more things took place with boys and men.  I still remember the sensations, the good parts and the – other parts.

I guess I just like being desired, and anyone that shows that to me, well, I feel something inside me stirring somehow…  But there’s another aspect about me that I’m very aware of and no two ways about it. I feel it’s something important for me to comprehend; yet I do NOT.   

And – I am sorry, because I know some people reading this will immediately be offended or feel defensive… but I have to say this:  there are kids who really do have something ‘special’ in them or ‘about’ them somehow and it IS a quality that attracts people in a sexual way.

Please understand me:  I am surely not saying that they have this trait on purpose – clearly, it’s not their fault at all.  It is just that way.   So I think I have this characteristic about me, because of all the many things that have occurred over the span of my life. 

And as for those of us who have that “quality” or “curse” or “gift” — well, when we grow up, if we are honest and really think about it, we know it; and we do acknowledge it. We have to. Yet that does not mean we ever understand it.  But when we’re little – well – we do not know what it is or why we are ‘like that’.  We simply ‘have it’ and we live with it all our lives.  To me, it is still always a mystery in many ways, and that is the truth.  As far as I can remember, I have always had a sort of vague ‘unconscious’ sense, and later a more ‘aware and conscious’ sense, of my own sexuality.  But I surely do not ‘cultivate’ it!  I just accept it about myself now.  You see, it never, ever seemed devious, just purely inherent and totally natural. 

Yes; at three years old, I actually remember having what I now believe – and what I intuitively know – were budding sexual feelings for a fully grown man, someone who was a friend of my parents.  G. was dark-haired, dark olive skin and he had very handsome features.  Always very sweet to me, he never did anything like try to look at me or touch me in any inappropriate way. Nothing at all like that.  Always, he smiled and was kind, patted my head, greeted me cheerfully, as any nice grown-up treats a child.  Yet it was I – the CHILD – who seemed to want more – how or why I don’t understand – not in the least!

How do I know I was only three?  Because I was home in mid-day and I started Kindergarten at age 4, so I was younger than that.  It’s my best guess anyway. 

But one day, when G. was at our house, I recall looking at him and just beckoning him with my plump little hand to come with me.  He seemed amused and got up from the sofa where he was waiting for my mother to bring him some tea and cake, as she had just offered him some.  My mother was in the tiny kitchen and from where she was she did not see us.  

I easily got this man to get up and follow me to my room a few yards away and out of sight.  He was entirely clueless.  I was a little child after all!  He had never, ever given me any signals of any sort, so what was independently stirring in my little girl mind was none of his doing.  I am sure he thought I had some silly toy to show him, or some other childish thing, I suppose.  Anyway, when he came into my room I pointed to my mouth with my fat little finger, and lifted my face for a kiss!  I was entirely silent, spoke no words – just looked up at him, expectantly.  He was so surprised!  His eyes grew big in shock and his cheeks actually flushed, his face fell and he just stared at me.  Then he shook his head firmly ‘No!’ in utter disbelief.  He was clearly confused, embarrassed and truly at a loss as to how to react.  He turned away quickly and went back to the sofa.  

But I sulked in my room for an hour.  I was genuinely hurt, as I couldn’t understand why he did not kiss me.   I too, had NO ulterior motive or intent – I just knew that I liked him and I wanted his mouth to touch me.  It was just a desire and an impulse – and never for one tiny moment had I thought or planned or contemplated anything else. 

What was odd – and it still does strike me as odd – is that it was I, the little child, who felt the attraction and followed my impulse!  Yet I acted purely naturally and entirely honestly.  And I clearly had at least a vague sense of doing something naughty, because of this detail:

It was I, yes, as little as I was, who ‘lured’ this man into a ‘secret’ place where we would not be seen – that amazes me!  So – there really was some thought in my little head about it!  It was obviously unconscious, yet it seems intuitive at least!  I have always been so open to sensory things and also to sensuous things.  I just feel all of it so easily.  I guess it is all truly innate and essentially ‘how I am’ so it is therefore innocent.  But I realize, as I am reviewing this, that if I was really so totally blameless, why then wouldn’t I have done all of that right there in the living room? 

Exactly!

Anyway, when I was called by my mother to say goodbye to him, I did so, but he tried to avert his eyes and just mumbled ‘goodbye’.  He never spoke to me directly again!

Well– if you are reading this – are you incredulous?  Shocked? Disgusted? Upset?  Or are you perhaps intrigued?  Well, I myself surely do have many mixed feelings – but I am trying to be as fully honest as I possibly can about all I am saying here.  It’s a bit painful, no doubt, but I guess I am hoping for some kind of acceptance or advice or understanding at least.  I know I want to accept myself – this aspect of my own character – and I am looking for support, because I hope to understand it; but I don’t think I ever will.

I have to be real – I cannot be otherwise, and though I freely admit that I am often misguided, I am always fully and purely forthcoming in all that I have said and done.  I tell what I feel, but I do keep struggling with what I need to confront.

I want to do this for myself and for anyone else who finds it relevant.  If I don’t do it now, I never will.  But please – do not judge me for my individual ways of being and responding and behaving.  Remember that song?  ‘I’m just a gal who can’t say ‘no’?  Well, I am often very much that girl.

Memories hide yet we seek, and sometimes we do not seek but they find us!  Mine are now confronting me very brazenly, and they are persistent and insistent. Whether I like it or not, I cannot seem to get away from them – neither in my waking hours nor in my dreams. They keep popping up at all kinds of times. They used to be far from the front of my thoughts, but now they sit stubbornly inside my head and keep expanding with more specific details. So, at first there might be some inconsistencies, which I shall do my best to correct, because many details do not emerge immediately, or are not always fully in my mind as I am doing this.  Much of the content of these memories seems dream-like, in that some points are very vivid, and then I later suddenly remember more particular points.  I will do my best to add and amend the accounts as needed.  That’s the nature of memory, so bear with me, if you will!

It seems to me that it’s ‘time’ for me to face this stuff.  It’s been squished away for so long and it will not be ‘silenced’ any longer.  So – here I am.  Well, a close friend who knows a lot about such things says she is very certain that somehow, something did actually happen, that some man did things which triggered that behavior in me, that I never could have gotten that notion to want to kiss G. on the mouth on my own!  Not at that age of 3 years!  Hmmm. 

Ok, but I truly do not recall a single thing that anyone did.  She says I repressed it totally.

Our personal stories are the building blocks of our lives. They shape us. The new path I am on is a thrilling and also sometimes painful discovery, and yet it is sometimes very charmingly comical, despite the intensity.  Yes, I am on this journey, confronting and exploring aspects of my own personality which are perplexing, a bit frightening, yet so compelling, that they draw me ever forward, to what end I do not know.   But I cannot turn away.

And that’s what I want to share.  I feel a pressing need to express what I feel, in order to figure myself out.  I know that I need all the help I can get!  I am coping with the sweetness and the savagery of my new world.  I admit that this is the biggest risk I ever took.  And yes, it’s scary!  So I don’t want to do it alone – that’s why I want to write about it.  I have to tell anyone who is willing to know.  I guess I need some virtual ‘hand-holding’…

Because of a book I wrote, about my current stage of life, I was contacted by a number of people, and I have made really special friends this way.  This is a big thing for me.  The book is ‘out there’ yet highly private – really intimate, and the men and women who have read it know much more about me than most of my family does!  Yeah, I talk to them and I feel close to them – which is quite odd, as I have not ever met most of them in person!

Well, that’s it for now.  I wrote a lot of stuff which I will have trouble explaining and maybe I said a lot I shouldn’t have.  Maybe someone can put their finger on what this is all about?