Catharsis and Gratitude
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This is a true story, well more of a recounting, pieced together through memories re-found. Don’t leave comments, I doubt I’ll read them. This is just a way for me to get it out, to see it and let it be.
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1974, a strange place in time to be alive.
Stranger still for an eleven year old boy.
The hippies were getting older, getting married and settling in to the ways they had fought against and abandoned. Free love was no longer a movement, instead it had shifted and evolved into two severely disparate animals. There was the guise of it, the rampant porn, swinging and orgies, and the essence of it, the fantasy of romance, caring and passion.
Viet Nam was but a tragic memory, disco was testing the bounds of mainstream, Rock was getting heavy and hard, celebrating the loner and the survivor.
Suburban sprawls were becoming the mainstay, and malls were encroaching on whatever lands they could claim.
Having moved to this place when I was five, leaving all I knew from my Brooklyn life behind, friends, family just blocks away, a corner store that sold gummies by the pound, I was naive, shy, alone and unsure.
School did nothing to boost me out of these tendencies, in fact it had the opposite affect. Skinny little guy that I was, with asthma, allergies, brown, curly hair and olive skin, I stood out among the predominantly Irish, German and English kids, that filtered into that institutions double doors daily. The nicknames, pushing and bullying all seemed to escalate in the second grade, thanks to the mouth of a wonderful teacher of German decent. The name she gave me would stick for years and eventually cause me to, on more than a few occasions, take a lump or three while blackening someone else’s eye or busting their lip. I was scrawny but not weak, wirey I think the term is. I learned early on that I could take a few hits and later that I could give right back, harder and quicker than they could imagine.
But this is not about that, it’s about a thirteen year old girl that I met, that summer, who taught me, through the years, how to be and how to live and how to find myself.
The house I lived in, was one of the first five built on the road it sat back from. Three of these were built by varying members of my family as summer getaways, rentals and future retirement promises. They were what they call three quarter capes, the typical house a five year old would draw, just rectangles and roofs, small but cozy. It was funny, that I was considered the new kid in the neighborhood, considering my family owned the land and built those abodes years before anyone else even bought property or moved in and that I had spent some weekends each summer staying in the “country”.
There was a lake, in the backyard, and across the street were a couple ranch style houses and a decent parcel of woods, with trails for horses and bikes that were once old dirt roads and rails, used by an ice company to haul blocks of the frozen commodity to the train station back in the day.
School was a half mile up the hill. Man how I hated that walk after a while. The winter slosh, the potholes, the late May/June heat that rose off it, the two brothers, who had to show their superiority by chasing, intimidating or beating on the ones half their age and a third their size. I hate that street to this day.
I didn’t have many friends, being that I was four years younger, and more, than the other kids in the neighborhood, and that most of my classmates were bused in from totally different neighborhoods.
I was last picked for baseball, basketball, football and most other sports, purely because of my size. If I wanted to play hockey, with the kids on the lake, I had to play goal. They’d tape the Sunday times to my shins, hand me a first baseman’s mitt, a catchers chest protector and a two by six with straps for a blocker, then stand me in front of a chicken wire cage. I learned to love the position, even though many night I went home bruised and sore. Mostly I fished, took the rowboat out, or just walked through the woods alone, pretending to hunt and track, trekking the swampy areas or watching the big kids ride their dirt bikes up jumps and race each other around the horse trail.
It was late summer, school would start again in a few weeks, sixth grade was coming, the last year I would have to walk up that road, before being bused myself to middle school. It was a typical August day, hot and humid and wet and heavy.
I went for a walk, exploring a different part of the woods, got sucked in by a bog, almost losing a sneaker, and crawled out with rich, black, muck clinging to my clothes from my chest down into my socks and high-tops.
That’s when I saw the rickety “fort”, three walls, precariously standing, a half pitched roof, rotting plywood floor boards, a fourth wall splayed across the grass to it’s side, and four of the older boys, fifteen to seventeen years old, in various stages of undress, laughing and staring at magazines. They saw me and cheerfully called me over using my given first name. I didn’t even think they new it.
Two of the boys were naked except for tee shirts, one had his pants down to his knees, the last had his dick through his shorts. All of them with penises in a state I’d never seen before, erect and hard.
I asked what they were doing. “Sex education,” I think one said. They asked me to join them, so my naive little self did.
“Why?” I’d ask myself years later. “Because this was the first time they accepted me or even showed any kind of friendliness towards me.” I’d fathom back.
Pages were turned, fingers were pointed and the non medical names of various body parts were thrown about. These weren’t the naked girls I had spied once in one of my dads Playboys, these were Swank, Hustler, and Private girls, and some guys, in various stages of fucking. The stash of magazines, hidden in a plastic shelled suitcase, had titles like Back Door Betty, Cum Dump, Stag Party Whore, you get the idea.
This wasn’t art, nor erotica, it was assholes, mouths and cunts being used, just a big glob of shit right in your face.
I listened while they explained the action, shown in the images, to me. They taught me about masturbation and told me to join them for practice. After a little prodding they had me as naked as they were and I got hard for the first time and followed their motions, stroking myself up and down.
Two of the boys let out moans and white stuff jettisoned from their dicks, into the dirt, as they grunted and groaned and expressed how much they needed that. Then they cleaned themselves off, pulled up their pants, said their goodbyes and left. The two brothers, fifteen and seventeen I think, they may have been a year younger, now took an interest in me. “Wanna see what a pussy looks like up close?” one asked.
“Sit down on this towel with your legs closed and tight.”
I sat down and closed my legs straight out in front of me.
”Now take your peepee and push it down between your legs.” he encouraged.
I did what he said and looked down, my penis was hidden between my legs, and a hairless mound, with a slight indentation was created by the scrunched up skin.
“That’s what a girls pussy looks like,” he said, “before they get hair there, take your shirt off and lie back so you don’t get dirty.” “That looks just like Deb’s,” the other added “before she got the boobs.” Deb was either their sister or the other girl up the block, but she was usually referred to as Debbie.
They watched me, smiling as they stroked their cocks, talking dirty to each other, staring at the illusory vagina between my legs. After a few grunts they came and got dressed to leave.
“We come back here all the time, if you want to practice or play some more.” I heard as they walked back to their houses.
I felt, nothing. I didn’t feel dirty, or aroused, used or excited, I just felt nothing. So I lay there, under the reddening sky, naked, enjoying the little bit of a breeze that signaled the beginning of the end of the day. I thumbed through a magazine, two guys were on opposing sides of a girl, one in her mouth, the other in her ass, both with faces that suggested hurting her rather than pleasing. I put it down. Then I stumbled on a tamer title, more of a missalette or pocket-book than a magazine. The girl on the cover was cute and sporty, so I looked inside. She was petite, with small breasts, really short hair, with little crops of blonde under her arms. She was dragging a big bag of sports equipment home up a dirt farm road. She made it as far as the pond, then stopped and took all her clothes off, revealing an athletic shape, a really nice frame, and another tuft of blonde hair right where her legs met her belly. Casually she went for a swim, stretching her arms and legs, then a couple pages later she laid out on a rock and started exploring herself. That’s when I heard her voice for the very first time, “Time to go.” I got up, looked around, saw no one, dressed and went home. Later that night I jerked off to my first orgasm, thinking of the cute girl, from that last magazine. I was surprised, I didn’t have the white stuff come out, but I figured I just did it wrong.
I didn’t go back to the fort for a while. I had more fun doing other things, like jumping my bike over the creek, or climbing trees looking for birds nests, or tracking deer to their bed downs. Besides I had my room where I could enjoy my stroking thinking of that imagery, without the cackling of horny teenagers. When I did go again there was five boys, at other times three or four, and they’d talk and joke and “teach” me about sex. None of them ever touched me, but two of them always asked me to lay down and push my dick back, when the others were gone. One night it was just me and one of the boys left, his brother was at baseball or some other event.
I was laying on my back, dick between my legs, and he was stroking himself, staring at the mound and imaginary slit, my skin made when my penis was in that position. He quickened his pace and started moaning and mumbling under his breath, then he reached out to run his finger through my crotch. “Time to go.” I heard that feminine voice urge, “NOW.” The loudness made me jump. I got up put my clothes on, looked around saw no one else except the jerking boy, who had a look of denied joy, and I left. And still I felt nothing. I never went there again. Not because I was scared, I just lost interest. It was more fun, in bed, in the dark and there was too much running and climbing and kids things to do.
Now this part I’m a little sketchy on, not the details so much, but when it happened. This might have been the end of the next summer, but I can’t reconcile that with the timeline in my brain. Unless this guy waited a year for a chance or just heard a story a day before, from the year before, well it doesn’t lay out, but still something nags at me, pushing me to think it happened the next summer.
Anyway. There was only a couple of days of summer left before school started again. I was in my basement, building a crane, with an erector set, when my mother called downstairs. She was yelling at me that she had to go get my brother from his friends house, she wouldn’t be long, don’t set the house on fire. A few minutes later I heard a knock at the basement door and the kid from across the street was standing there. “Hey,” he said, “Your mom asked me to keep an eye on you for a few.” I was sometimes left alone for twenty or thirty minutes, any longer my great aunt next door would be propped on my porch keeping an ear out, I guess that she was busy or not around, didn’t matter to me either way. He came in and sat on the floor next to me. “Wanna have fun?” he asked.
He stood up and undid his pants, he stroked his dick and started to get hard, I did the same, cause I didn’t know any better, all the guys did it, I assumed. He was not one of the fort boys either, so this helped my belief that all guys did this together. After a while of touching myself I got hard. He asked me if I wanted to try something different and got down on his knees, put his face on his pants on the ground, grabbed his ass cheeks and said I could put it in his ass to learn the motions.
I got behind him and pointed my dick down. I saw hairy ass and toilet paper pieces and went soft. “That’s okay,” he said, “can you push your penis back and let me see?” I did and he stroked himself. After a few seconds he asked, “Can you turn around and bend over a little, I wanna see your butt.” His words came out rather gaspy, I knew he was gonna cum soon because of the tone. I did. He stood behind me, stroking himself, I felt his hand palm my ass and squeeze a little. Then I heard her again, and it was like she took me over, for just a minute, and gave me a calm. I turned around, pulled my pants up and heard myself say leave, but it came out not in my voice but in the same feminine voice I’d heard in the woods edging me home. He got dressed, finishing just as my mother came to the door up stairs. I don’t know if he was flustered or if my mother had an inkling, but she seemed pretty unnerved, even though I had gone back to building my crane and showed no signs of anything unseemly. She asked him to leave and
I never saw or heard from him again.
I saw his older brother a few times, but not him, they lived right across the street and he still had one year of high school. Yet his brother was in college and I saw him now and then. I never realized that until just now, I never saw that kid ever again. Hmm.
That night, and a few more times later, I dreamed of a girl, thirteen maybe fourteen years old. She was stoic, sweet, smart, stubborn and kind. In these dreams she’s skinny, nude, not shy, nor provocative, and she had the same mound I saw between my legs when I pushed myself back.
It wasn’t until years later, fifteen or so, that I understood the imagery and the reason those guys wanted me to play like that with them.
In my teens and early twenties I could sense her some times. She would pop in my head, trying to teach me right and steer me away from wrong, but you know hormones, they’re overpowering sometimes, and I’d just shut her out, and get my pride kicked or my heart broke.
Then, when I was around 26, the memories of that summer in the woods came back, as did others.
One of the fort brothers came home for a visit. I was working on my motorcycle, riding up and down the school road, tweaking the carburetor’s fuel to air mix, when he flagged me down. The nice ride, what’s goods? and how you beens? turned into “You remember that fort in the woods, wanna do that again? I need some guy fun.” I must have given him a look of “Are you nuts? Do what again?” Cause he just said “Oh well, never mind, good seeing you.” and left. I rode away just a bit confused.
That night it all came flooding back.
The woods, the fort, the cocks, the magazines, the very close to being molested or raped. The night, at 16, that in a drunken, high, and some other chemically headed disaster, I got naked, and sat next to my best friend on my bed, like he was one of the guys at the fort, and asked if he wanted to jerk off, while this little feminine voice was screaming “no don’t do it,” in my brain. He was just as fucked up as I was, but he left for home rather quick. I had no memory of any of these events until that night.
Later on, after these pieces of my life flooded back, I thanked her and told her I was ready to listen. I felt her infuse with me and from then on, when I felt a bit girly, I always listened and let her lead. She’s always been the smarter of the two, she’s always watched out for me, she’s always made me stronger and braver and kinder.
And the women she picked to let me bed, well they were always more sensual and fun. Turns out she’s a lesbian, with a thing for nice girls.
Over the years she’s taught me many things about myself.
Like I’m not attracted to men, don’t like their smell, their shapes, their cocks, their lips, their neediness and their conniving. They’re actually a turn off. I’ve had guys hit on me, some where cute, but the thought of kissing them, no, not happening. And yes kissing is a priority, without it it’s just fucking but I’ll get to that later. Now, here’s the kicker, in some weird way, I’m attracted to tomboys and handsome women. I like petite, small breasted, women, who have a bit of muscle tone and an athletic appetite. They turn me on, the shape, the curves, the scent. God that sounds so cliche and it shouldn’t because there IS something about the scent of a woman, for me anyway. That olfactory sphagnum-like, mix of incenses and spice and earthiness that literally fucks with my brain’s chemical make up and makes my mouth water. I like girls with, sliding into second hard scars, blocked a slapshot bruises, more y shaped frames, with small firm butts and long strong legs and necks. Natural girls with tufts of hair here and there, no make up, but clean and gritty.
Which is probably why some of my best friends have been lesbians. Ones that I had hit on, then just got to know.
But the most important thing she taught me is this,
There is a morality to sex, as there is in all things.
Now I’m not talking about one guys interpretation, of some dudes translation, of some other dudes writings, of what he said god told him, type of morality, I’m talking the don’t be a selfish dick morality, commonly referred to as “Do Unto Others”. Do you want to be raped and broken and become a whimpering mass of sobbing shit? No? Then don’t rape. Look, there’s Fucking and there’s fucking, one is using someone like your hand, then leaving, basically Fucking them over, and the other one is being with them because you want them to enjoy it too and fucking them good. There really is no grayscale though. It’s more different shades of good and bad, but there is a definite line between the two.
You want to make a life, sacrificing your time and fun to raise and care for another being, well that’s pretty good. You want to make as many kids as you can to spread the disease, that’s your genetic material, out into the world, without caring if they even survived, just so you can have the numbers win, well then, you’re a piece of shit.
Making love, two people wanting to please each other, caring and giving, there’s nothing wrong with that.
Having sex, wanting to please and be pleased, liking someone, sharing in an intimacy, not a bad use of karma.
Fucking, using someone for your own pleasure, especially if you know they like you but you don’t like them, then leaving without even a thanks, well that’s pretty shitty.
Molesting or manipulating someone for your benefit, or raping them, well you get the idea.
Karma is just the fuel and the clay, it’s how you use it, shape it, and put it back into the world that makes you good or bad and opens the pathway to what you’ll get returned. And it will get returned, I’ve seen it time and time again.
If I wasn’t there to see it I’d hear about it or read about it later.
That’s enough of my drivel, I just needed to put this out there for some stupid reason. There’s no bitterness from me towards those guys, or the bullies, or even the teacher who gave me a nickname I had to fight off until high school. They were the heat that helped me forge the materials that I wanted to become.
This is mostly my way of thanking my Angelus Custos, I call her Serena, for being the hammer and the anvil that helped me to take shape and, more importantly, for being the beautiful sentinel who watches over my stupidity and recklessness.
Over the years, that I’ve actually been paying attention, she’s taught me the difference between selfish desires and shared pleasures, she’s protected me from toxic people, hurtful people and taught me how to be the person I am and want to be. She’s jumped out of planes with me, rode up and down the east coast on my Harley with me, skid across the black top with me. She’s kept me serene, with guns in my face, calm, in the midst of car accidents, bar fights and bike crashes and professional when coming to someones aide in a crisis. Hell, she even dove headlong into an overturned Jeep Grand Cherokee with me, pulling out the driver before the fire could start.
She’s a tough ass bitch and a fearless being.
To this day when I dream of her, she’s still that strong, hands on hips, sassy, cute, thirteen year old tomboy, with white hair, below the ears, purple eyes that pierce through me, and tufts of white between her legs and under her arms, who radiates more intelligence than my fifty five years could even begin to know.
Thank you Serena, I don’t know why you chose me to watch over, but I hope you get a rest and a heaping of manna when my story is finally fated.
Like I said, don’t leave comments, I’ll probably never read them, If you got something from this that’s helps you cope, or see a different perspective, great, if I disappointed you because there’s no hardcore sex, fuck off. Don’t critique my storytelling or criticize my grammar, I don’t give a fuck about that. I just needed to write this and let it out there.
