Monday, January 30, 2012


Warning- Strong Sexual Content

I am seven years old. It is Saturday and my mother is at a weekend conference. My brother is at my father's house. Lots of times he gets to go and I stay here.  My step father tells me I am his favorite, so I don't have to go there as much- I can stay at home, safe with him.

Spring is here and the sun is soothing the bleak, hardened sting of cold days gone by.  There are hundreds of newborn and irritable cluster flies bumbling on the picture window that overlooks the back yard. I am becoming familiar with the ritual that we observe in this new house. I help him make the bed he sleeps in with my mother. The flies are, at first, white noise.  Then they are the sound of hysteria. They are mimicking something deep inside of me as preparations are being made.

Since it is morning, I am already dressed in my nighty- a shear pale peach colored number that makes my mother hate me. She doesn't ever say those words, but she gives voice to them them with her eyes every time she finds it in the laundry or catches me running from the bathroom after a bath that he has lent a hand in.  Even though her cleaving gazes break me and I feel covered in the grime that I am, I wish she is here now. When she is here she is sometimes the screen to the storm door that is my step father. Right now, the door is unhinged. There are two days ahead, alone with him.

By the time I am back with a towel he is laying supine on his side of the bed. Usually he stands at the foot of the bed and I kneel on the towel.  He is smoking a cigarette. He is always smoking- a pepsi bottle forever occupying the rest of his grip. That is his smell- my perfume. He says I am a part of him when he smells my hair. That's how the show always begins.

He always removes his belt slowly. His pants surge with each deliberate move. He likes taking that belt off. He tells me it is exciting because he gets to share his body with me and I can show him how much I appreciate it. Today he seems especially lofty and he proposes we name his penis so we can be even closer, all three of us. He tells me that Buddy is a perfect name, isn't it? Yes, Daddy. Don't I want to touch him? Yes, Daddy.

This day is different and the same. I touch Buddy, I stroke Buddy. But today my step father's hand is on the back of my head, pulling my face to his underworld. I see a droplet of pee coming out of it and I tell him maybe he needs to go to the bathroom. I know I am not allowed to be in control. I know I could pay dearly for this, but I have taken my chances because I sense that he is in one of his more tolerant moods. His grin tells me that he is loose and he bears no malice. He wants to show me, to teach me- he is important when he is the expert. He is forgiving in his role of mentor. He tells me it isn't pee, it's honey. It is sweet and he and Buddy have made it just for me. He carefully applies it to his finger and puts it in his mouth. He says he likes it and I will too. The only way for me to get more is to put my mouth around Buddy.  Goodness knows there is not a kid alive who won't do anything for candy.

1 comment:

  1. "My step father tells me I am his favorite" It says it all really. Grooming is wrong. His behaviour is wrong. He had no right to treat you like this. Jo