wystswolf

Like dogs humping legs

Read Part 1 – Hard to Swallow
Read Part2 – Woman Zero
Read Part 3 – Playing Hot Dog
Read Part 4 – Lady 2.0
Read Part 5 – Trailer Park Incest
Read Part 6 – Table Turning

It is a strange thing that the places where we should find peace and safety are in fact, realms of danger. Children have no choice but to live those existences, there are simply no mother options.

Grandma’s Peace

I believe every child who has grandparents has one nice one and one mean one. My paternal grandma was the mean one. First husband dead of stomach cancer when my dad was 9, the second— who knows? I think I may have heard the story, but likely my Dad was pretty vague. He always has been about our family history.

He's much more forthcoming about the time Ricky rolled his brand new 61 Ford in the ditch along dead man's curve and the time he almost got stabbed at the local drive-in. But those stories aren't for right now.

My maternal grandmother got the moniker of 'nice' grandma. The irony is that because we loved her so much, we all wanted to spend time at her house. What made her so lovable? An easy-going nature that was essentially an enabling personality for my alcoholic grandfather and her tyrannical son, my uncle.

Most of my fond childhood recollections are from her home. She lived in a middle-class neighborhood that was mostly new families and would go on in the next 30 years to be populated with Air Force retirees. We would frequently spend weekends there with our three cousins building forts, running around the neighborhood and swimming in the canal.

A favorite pastime was jumping off of her roof.

Her back porch was covered with low flat roof. A few of us could climb up the post, grab hold of the edge of the eave and heave ourselves up on to the space. There was little to do on the porch roof that didn't get boring after a few minutes, so getting down was usually an unspoken part of the challenge.

Sometimes jumping off meant hopping off the edge and employing the 'parachute role' a friend of our uncles' taught us: feet > knees > hips > shoulder. It ensured the least likely injury, but it HURT like hell-o!

Those were the superman jumps, the heroic belief that we could fly.

Less enthusiastic for the pain of a standing jump, we usually would scoot out on our bottoms and extend our legs, then hop and land on our feet. Under most circumstances this worked fine. We reduced the jump from 8' to about 6'. But every once in a while, you would land and your feet would get this resounding shock. I think this only happened when it was cold. But our feet would feel like they had been electrocuted and you could barely walk. It was enough to keep us from wanting to jump off for weeks after the experience.

Or, we would engage the most difficult dismount: the climb down. If we tried to climb down, it meant scraped arms when lowering our bodies over the edge. Then, hanging from our fingertips, the drop was less than two feet.

Shockingly, none of us ever broke a bone jumping off.

I wonder when last I jumped off of her roof. I didn't know it then, but my life was changing. Like trees growing, we can see the changes as they happen, but the process is slow we only notice when large shifts have occurred. The effect that long years have on our bodies and minds.

Having sex with my cousins is like this. I can recall the first time it happened. I know it went on for a period of time and eventually, there was a last incident. But, I can't remember when it stopped.

My oldest cousin, Marian was always the instigator of these sessions and only 18 months older than I. She never told me where she got the idea to do the things we did or why. Just saying that she wanted to “get good at it for the boys”.

I was practice.

She called it 'playing hot dog'.

The 'Game'

The same porch that we used to jump off of was the first crime scene. Back then, in the late 70's, we didn't have the same woes that we do today. We frequently slept outside without a worry in the world. It wasn't quite never-lock-your-doors-times as in the olden days, but we didn't worry about much.

White vans offering candy or free dog petting maybe, but not much else.

With regularity, all the cousin's would end up at grandma's for the weekend and Saturday nights meant sleeping on the porch. Grandma would 'make us a pallet', which was a fancy way of saying 'spread out some blankets'. But, boy did the term pallet upgrade the situation.

No sleeping bags, just a big spread of every blanket and sheet she could muster to accommodate the six of us; my three cousins, my two sisters and me.

And one night, my oldest cousin rolled over and put her hand on my groin and started rubbing.

“Do you know what this is for?” she asked in a whisper. Everyone was starting to fall asleep and this felt very clandestine, secret. Dirty.

With a whispered laugh, I said, “Sure! I ain't no dummy.” And pushed her hand away.

“Tell me, then.” she insisted and put her hand back, this time pressing with force.

I didn't know what my little flaccid flap of flesh was for beyond peeing. I am sure I had some idea based on my experiences thus far. But at eight or nine, I was still operating in the dark. I had no idea what sex was or how it all worked.

From the boys at school I had learned that the 'real guys' all get with the chicks and I had heard terms like 'lay pipe' and 'plough trenches' but vulgar phrases like that weren't something used at home. Neither were practical or moral explanations. Sex was—it wasn't even a black hole, or empty space. It just didn't exist topically. I had no idea what was coming, or what I had been through.

I was winging it.

Which is why my first erection scared me.

My body was reacting in ways I didn't understand. I certainly didn't know what an erection was or that it was normal for boys to have them. My cousin seemed pleased that I could.

I couldn't stop what was happening.

I only remember two specific things after this, her explanation of the game:

'Okay, you have the hot dog and you have to put in my bun.'

And her hovering over me and gyrating against my hips while my other cousins laughed.

“Shut up!” Marian would hiss at them, only inciting more giggles.

I didn't think it was funny. I was very embarrassed. But I also didn't know what to do to stop it. My body was reacting and as the oldest, Marian always got the privilege of command in our group.

I don't remember how it ended. It couldn't have been with climax. Prepubescent boys may be able to manage an erection, but that's about the extent of their functionality as far as I understand matters.

There is a feeling that she approved of my participation.

Subsequent 'games' weren't quite so public. The following night, she roused me from my pallet in the living room and said we were going to go for a walk. That resulted in us playing hot dog on the 14th green at the golf course that was adjacent to my grandparents neighborhood.

I have even less recollection of that other than her insisting I 'get on top' and my knees being very sore the next day.

I have a recurring fantasy of having sex at golf courses. I do not know if this is related to this early experience or something else I've seen in a movie or book. There is no obvious trauma accompanying these dreams.

I also don't know how long the practice went on. It couldn't have been years. By the time I hit puberty and learned that erections could result in ejaculation, the hot dog game was a distant memory. I had buried it.

But there were many times on the back porch, a few more golf course visits, a handful of times on the roof of the porch or the shed behind my grandmothers.

It was always there, at grandma's house.

Even though we sometimes spent the night at my cousin's, she never wanted to play hot dog at home. I never asked why. But I was glad it wasn't an expectation.

And, this can't be right, I don't remember my cousins ever spending a single night at my parent's house. I will have to investigate this with my parents and sister... why did I block those memories? Or, if they never did, why not?

The cousin's house seemed like a palace compared to the hovels the rest of us lived in. And I liked being there because they had great stuff. My favorite of their toys was the spirograph and the etch-a-sketch. They both seemed like magic. And kept me entertained for hours.

They had the game 'Operation' where you have to take out the bones and organs of a man on an operating table. If you make contact with the sensors on the board, you get buzzed. I was never very good at it. While I was fascinated with the look and parts of the game, I didn't have the patience to try to extract the parts.

When Marian and I would play, she would make crude remarks about me being the character on the board. But otherwise, time with the cousins was pretty normal stuff. Probably what I liked best was riding her minibike, a 20cc moped with fat tires for riding on dirt. The activity I liked least: shooting the gun.

My uncle had a gun collection. In hindsight, of course he did. If we were alone, my cousin would go upstairs and come back with a handgun. Then we'd go out back and shoot at stuff. It was loud and dangerous, I did not are for it.

Only twice did the hot dog game occur with Marian's younger sister. Both were failed starts. The first failure was a bowling ball falling on us when we were hiding out in a closet. No one got hurt, but there was a lot of commotion over why we were playing in the closet.

The last recall I have of hot dog was in the house dining room between my grandmother's sewing machine and the trash receptacle. It was a strange place for this. But, you'll no doubt recall we're talking about traumatized children. In that light, makes perfect sense.

I can still see my grandmother's angry face upon catching the two of us. That seemed to have been the catalyst to end the practice.

I won't say, “before this I was always a happy child and that I've never been the same”. In truth, I don't think I ever felt like I fit in. These events were the third in a long series of exposure to sex long before I was physically or emotionally mature enough to understand it. And I am confident that the shame and guilt I still carry shape me.

I started writing about transactional relationships and how a person with low self-esteem will give of the thing they find most precious in search of the love and fulfillment they never experienced. This practice with my cousins most certainly falls into that trade-for-approval category.

There are many problems with transactions of this nature. Not the least of which is that in this particular case, no amount of my cousin's approval would ever stop making me feel dirty and outcast for doing the things I did.

And insult to injury, while in the dark on the roof, or at the golf course, in the closet or wherever—I may have had my cousin's approval and blessing. But in the light of day, it made me weirder and more withdrawn as well as garnering some kind of dismissiveness and or disgust from them. The older we grew, the less they liked me as just another kid.

They didn't let me play games with them, when doing things in the neighborhood, I was usually excluded. Dumb kid stuff. Like playing ding-dong ditch (for which we used a more derogatory term), or stealing Christmas light bulbs from houses and in the summer shooting fireworks or swimming in the canal. Things we used to do together, I suddenly found I'd be at grandmas making toys from paper towel tubes or watching MASH with the grandparents, having no idea that my sisters and my cousins were all out being kids. That may have been because I was a boy and except for my youngest cousin, the only one.

The timeline and my janky emotional state knows it was because I had become something different in everyone's eyes.

Even less valuable. More unlovable.

I don't know who broke my cousin, but she was and continues to be broken goods. I am thankful to have found solace in the Bible. But not everyone takes that opportunity.

When her step-father died, she took a hit. Maybe it was an upgrade. I don't know that my uncle was molesting my cousin. But if history is any guide, it was either him or friends of his. I was so young when he died, i have no recollection other than he was there one day, gone the next.

But, when a few years later, my Aunt went to jail for robbing pharmacies, I definitely remember a shift. My whole family was in upheaval and my cousins, Marian and her little sister and brother went to my grandmother to be raised. Not ideal considering the passive nature of my grandmother, my grandfather's alcoholism and my uncle's aggressive and mean nature. They never thrived there. Though the middle sister has gone on to a relatively normal life, the youngest of the three went into truck driving and died in his late 20's from a failed heart.

No surprise.

Marian, I don't think, has ever had a stable life. Aside from the sexual abuse that she had clearly endured, she was always angry. We all were. That seemed to be a family trait. Our first reaction to any stress was to lash out verbally and often physically. White trash at it's finest.

The last time I saw my cousin Marian as any form of innocent, she was possibly 13. I was sitting at the dining table at my grandmothers, coloring with my grandma, an activity she loved doing and where I developed a love for crayons. She always had the 64 color set with a crayon sharpener.

The back door opened from the tiny garage which had been converted to storage and in traipsed Marian. She was by then a die-hard fan of Guns-n-Roses and did her level best to emulate Axel's attire. Flowing bandana and hard rock through and through.

She announced, 'I'm goin' ta' The Texas Jam!' then explained to my grandmother, to which she only replied, 'okay, sweetie'.

I knew the girl Marian was going with and she was definitely trouble. I'd been to her house a few times and can still see the rock posters everywhere: GNR, Whitesnake, Ozzy, Grim Reaper, Deep Purple. She wasn't much of a personality. Sort of detached and despondent. If I had to guess now, I'd say she and my cousin Marian bonded over a similar experience.

After that, I only ever recall fighting and arguing with my cousin. She was and would continue to be deeply unhappy.

Eventually, Marian would meet Todd and they would have a first child, marry, a second and a third. Their life was never easy. By this time, I had completely lost contact with her. But, through my grandmother and my own mother I heard how Todd and Marian had gotten in to cooking and selling their own drugs. He would go to jail several times. Then Marian's mother got out of prison, contracted cancer and died. All within a few short years.

Less than a decade into their marriage, Todd would crash and die riding his motorcycle under the influence and without a helmet.

Marian and Todd's children turned out much the same as they had been, eventually being raised by their great-grandmother. As adults, Marian's children have 1- disappeared, 2-committed suicide and 3-gotten involved in a drug altercation which lift one crippled.

Of her three children, only the last one is still in her life. He lives with her and from all reports, is a terrible human being.

I point all of that out simply to help paint the picture of the long tail of untreated sexual abuse.

I, for my part, am largely untreated as well. And it's born it's own foul weather. But, thanks to a lifelong attempted adherence to God's law , I have mostly sidestepped the worst of what comes.

Mostly.

I've certainly got my own baggage.

I do pray that my cousin can find peace. I've extended the Godly olive branch, but she simply can't see any other life than the miserable one she has.

It's terribly sad.

But wait! There's MORE!

My next encounter was also with a relative. Another aunt.

This is part 3 in an ongoing series exploring how I was made and how sex shaped me for better and for worse.

Read Part 1 – Hard to Swallow
Read Part2 – Woman Zero
Read Part 3 – Playing Hot Dog
Read Part 4 – Lady 2.0
Read Part 5 – Trailer Park Incest
Read Part 6 – Table Turning

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Thank you for coming here and walking through the garden of my mind. No day is as brilliant in its moment as it is gilded in memory. Embrace your experience and relish gorgeous recollection.

Into every life a little light will shine. Thank you for being my luminance in whatever capacity you may. Shine on, you brilliant souls!

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