(we post this simply due to it follows logical succession.  First “Marrying the Girl Next Door“, then then this.  It makes sense.  One follows another follows another.  I would recommend reading them in proper order – and DO NOT START WITH THIS ONE.  Read them in order or else you will miss this – and the point of all this.  You can skip over “Sex In the Hood” – but it will give you some background information. )

This Was Mikie's Home for Many Years

My Child Bride
(Tokoni 05/25/2009)

The fate of my child bride has been weighing a tad heavily on my mind here lately – the girl I was “married” to when I was six in an impromptu wedding held in her back yard, conducted by her teenage brother, and attended by a lot of the kids in the ‘hood. (See “Marrying The Girl Next Door”.) What happened here happened some years after my introduction into the darker side of some of the “games”, so you gotta kinda bear that in mind. (I do.) But even still, this took place when I was about eight and she maybe seven, perhaps a little earlier for her. And to this day it still bothers me. And I imagine what I’ll say here will cause some folks to condemn me; others to exonerate me, but it really makes no difference. The only thing that ever helped was what a shrink once told me. I’ll get to that later.

It was a fine summer Georgia afternoon – hot and humid, but us kids didn’t mind. Odd how kids back then (and even now) don’t seem to feel the temperature discomforts the way us grownups do. I reckon it’s because they have other things on their mind than us stuffy old adults.

Now this is in the sand hill area of Georgia, slightly south of Augusta, where the pines grow straight and thin, and the scrawny oak trees beg comparison to mere shrubs. Ferns grew in some parts of the woods; in others those pan-shaped cactus with their long spiny leaves; also weedy growth – it comes in all shades and colors when the summer grows long and dry. “Sage” I heard one old timer call it; in some other places it’s just more dried grass, all of it surrounded by this white sand – the remnants of primordial beaches that dried up millions of years ago. Dig down far enough and you hit the ancient sea bottom – red clay and white kaolin, naturally grown and harvested. Georgia is known for it’s kaolin deposits; it’s a favorite artist’s clay worldwide. It is also, I understand, used for making paper, comes in Kaopectate, and some of the women even further down south eat it to fill some strange dietary need (see “the clay eaters”).

This particular afternoon my best friend and I are somewhere beyond his back yard – out in the scrub pines (pine barrens to some folks), along with his little sister – my little bride. I don’t know if she just came rolling up on her bicycle, or walked up there with us, and for the purposes of this story it really makes no difference. She was there; that’s all I know.

Now she and I were friends, but not much more than that despite our “marriage”, which had happened a year or so before. She was a quiet girl – very quiet – and I recall her face was usually bland and devoid of emotion. So were her eyes. She was a little bit shorter than me, with shoulder length hair; a tawny brown, with sand colored highlights, and she was wearing her eternal cotton print dress, one that stopped at her knees. My friend and I were of course dressed in our normal wear – cutoff shorts and nothing else. Bare feet were the norm; everyone wore them everywhere, even most of the grownups. After all, you didn’t want to wear out your shoes for church or school; those things were precious – plus they hurt our feet, especially when you’d get sand in them, which was a constant thing. My mom still mentions the sand – how it seemed to have an affinity for house floors, especially the cheap linoleum tile that everybody had – making ‘keeping things clean’ an almost impossible task, especially when the wind would get to blowing, or us boys would come traipsing in at the end of the day, called by the clanging of the triangular dinner bell suspended on the house.

I see I am dawdling here. Time to move on, get to the meat of the matter. (If you will excuse the pun. And no, it’s not punny.) But you’ll have to forgive me if I ramble a little bit, remembering the other things. Because this one is not good.

Me and my buddy – here we are out in the woods, when my friend turns to me (his sister is tailing behind – right behind – my ‘child bride’) – and says:

“Hey! You wanna fuck my sister?”

Now I’m kinda rocked by this. I know what ‘fucking’ is – it’s been shown to me, hell, even done to me, though among us boys it’s usually called “corn-holing”. Fuck and suck — that’s all of us, and the teenager has been leading the way. “Training” us, I reckon you’d say, or ‘teaching us’, and we do it amongst ourselves all the time. It’s just a way of life, something to ‘do’, just like some kids go and play ball. But for us – no, it’s different in some ways. I know it’s ‘bad’, not something you want the grownups to find out about – but ALL us kids seem to be doing it in some way or another. And yes – there are darker sides to that, sides when the teenage boy was involved. But we’ll save those for another story. I can only handle one hard thing at a time.

But this “fucking” thing – it’s new to me, or at least with a girl. I know how to ‘do’ boys – but girls? This is something new, something different. So . . .

“Sure!,” I say, not really knowing what to expect.

“Come here,” he says, and then he talks to her – not a long talk, mostly about, “Hey, why don’t you fuck Mike? You haven’t fucked him. Why don’t you fuck him? Come on . . .”

So he wheedles away and talks to her, and soon enough – it doesn’t take but a minute – she is laying down there in the sand between the weeds. I can still see her laying there; the sun is shining down on us; the bicycle just a few feet away – and she pulls her dress up over her chest, exposing herself to me. And waits. There are no panties; are no shoes – like I said, clothes were precious, and not something for daily wear.

I look at this thing, thinking “Hey! What do I DO?” I mean I don’t know where things go, I only know she’s built a bit different than the boys I mess with – she’s “bare”, got nothing down there – except this thin slit surrounded by swelling lips. My friend, sensing my confusion I guess, turns to me and tells me (and all the while she’s watching, her eyes growing more distant by the second), “You put your dick in there. Right there. We do it all the time. So does (teenager’s name).” He smiles broadly like a used car salesman trying to sell me a ride. I look down at her – and she’s got this sorta glazed look, but still looking at me – so I drop my shorts, pull down my underwear, and step in front of her, pecker in hand.

“Do you really want to do it?” I ask her, looking down at her face. She’s . . . blank? Devoid of emotion? I don’t know, but it’s a look I know – but don’t know – and I guess I sort of knew it because I guess sometimes I must’ve had that look, or others of my kind.

“No,” she barely whispers, hiking up her dress some more. I look over at my friend. He’s scowling down at her. .

So I pull up my underwear and shorts. All I can think is he’s been doing it with her, this thing called “fuck” – and so has his older brother. The teenage one. I know because he just told me so. And . . . they do it all the time. My friend begins to berate her, asking her why she said no. It doesn’t matter to me anymore – she said no, and I’m not going to do it. No way. Not if she doesn’t want to – because if she doesn’t want to, neither do I. (Something that holds true to this day, which is why I could never be a rapist.)

She sits up; I help her; she pulls down her dress, I help her to her feet. My friend keeps on fussing at her – and now me, too, for not “doing it”. “It’s the best thing you can ever feel,” he promises – but I’m not interested. Not anymore. She doesn’t want to do it with me – and I’m fine with that. She gets on her bike and pedals away, leaving my friend and I to go play in the woods.

I really don’t remember much more than that.

For a long time, even into my adulthood — I used to wonder: should I of done it? She wouldn’t of minded; not really. She would of just lain there. She was my friend; all us friends were ‘doing it’ – and apparently she was deep into it too, courtesy of her teenage brother and my best friend. Apparently they’d been doing it for a long time. Would it of made that much of a difference in my life – or hers – if we had? I didn’t know.

Then one day I brought this up to my psychologist, who has been fighting to save me from cutting, fighting to keep me ‘happy’ – or at least ‘stable’ – without a whole lot of success. Mostly we just sit there staring at each other – she doesn’t realize she MUST ask the questions; MUST press – otherwise she won’t get any answers, any details. That’s one of the things about DID when it goes wild: other hands are holding you, restraining your voice and throat – even when you feel you must shout out the words twisting in your guts, you can’t. You just can’t get there. And it mucks with you. This is something my wife has discovered: she must ASK for me to tell; at best all I can do is say: “you should ask me about such-and-such.” But she’s gotten reluctant to ask; I am so way out of her league, and she has problems of her own in dealing with my problems – so I keep them hidden for the most part. All to myself. Just like so many of the ‘others’ want it to be.

But anyway, this shrink, she feeds me a bit of wisdom. She says:

“You were the one who said no. You were the one who didn’t. And for that little girl – it was a blessing. An empowerment. Something she probably never had.”

I suppose that is supposed to make me feel good, but it only makes me feel somewhat better. After all, I’ve carried the burden of knowing what was being done to her for all these years – her brothers screwing her, and perhaps some others, too – and there’s nothing I can do about it. It’s too late, now, and it was too late then – something which saddens me.

I just hope that shrink was right, and that by me NOT doing it – allowing her to say “no” – I helped her, if only in some small way. And that’s something I’ll never know for sure.

NOTE: WE had a piece of artwork for this: it shows the little girl, dress thrown up, pussy showing – and the empty vacous look on her face …. I’ll never forget that look.  When I saw a picture of her with all of us kids in “the Hood” – all of us standing there, frozen in black and white – staring back at US – she looked just as empty and vacant.  As if all of this – all of the above and more – had broken her mind.  Poor girl, poor child.  Oh, how I WISH I could go back in time and rescue her – though she would need more help I think than we could ever give.  A victim of incest, ya know.)