This is the third of the “Groomed Child Rejected Part 1“, “Groomed Child Rejected II” of what you might call the “Groomed Child Betrayed series” in which our inner child, little Mikie … well, it’s a simple story.  And not even an ‘abusive’ one in a sense.  There’s no sex nor beatings going on.  Little Mikie isn’t set against some teenager.  This isn’t when he got buried.  This isn’t a lot of things.

But what it is is something that has affected my entire outcome in life.  It affected who “I” am; the ‘littles’, most definitely the teenager – and many other parts of my entire being.

We won’t go into all that now.  That remains in the future, when we start ‘analyizing’ the effects of Story 1, 2, and this, number 3.

Three hammer blows; each one a little different, each one much the same – and each perpetrated by one who I loved . . . in many sorts of ways.

This story opens up in the late afternoon; it is the summer, and all us kids are dressed much the same.  I’m about ten; barefoot and in cutoffs – everyone wears them, but not this afternoon, not the teenager and some of his friends.

All my friends and his are gathered around together, ‘shooting the shit’ in the front yard.  We’re ALL boys – dusty and dirty some of us (especially me sometimes) from a hard day’s play.  But this is still early enough in the afternoon that I can see the white puffy clouds over us, set against an azure sky.  The pines – huge pines – reach up like giant green needles with fluffy spines, pointing at that azure sky.  The road is ‘dirt’ – meaning sand, of course, and when it rains you can sink up to your knees.  Scrub oak, scrub pines, and endless tracts of Southern forest high on the sandhill lots.

And we are talking.  They are talking.  And all my friends are standing around; and here his is, this teenage friend of mine . . .

“Yeah, little Mikie!” I hear him saying.  I don’t know how the conversation rolled around to this; or let’s just say I think I do but don’t – it’s just fuzzy around the edges; must’ve had something to do with cornholin’ – “He’s the best cocksucker around.  He’ll suck anyone’s dick,” and then looking at one of his friends (F., who I sorely disliked, but didn’t hate as much as the S’s.)  “He’d even suck yours!”

And then they burst out laughing.  Maybe even pointing at me.

I can’t even figure out the emotion right then.  Betrayal and rage?  Shame, most definitely. Super hot flush to the tops of my ears.  And I scream at them, fists knotted (can even feel the hot tears of rage and shame that instantly sprung to my eyes) … and yet I am (as you can tell) – totally dissociated with this emotion.  Reaching down and touching it . . . is like touching fire; only this one is worse.  This kinda ‘burning’ goes on forever.*

“NO I DON’T!!  NO I WOULDN’T!!” I remember screaming at them – because it was true.  Some of them I would have never done ‘that thing’ for – because I didn’t love them.  Others, however . . . in a heartbeat; two heartbeats pressed together – that’s what I wanted!  That’s all any of us have ever wanted; I’m hearing in the back of my mind (and feeling a great big deal of damn sadness).

And I ran.  I ran through the yard (it was ‘my’ and ‘our’ yard, anyway!) – to the carport or something …

and sorta black.

I don’t remember crying it out though I know I did or must have – somewhere there – perhaps in the laundry rooms (where it was tight and dark and smelling of dust and laundry detergent and there was nowhere to sit only someplace to stand – bent over and crying on the ‘hood’ of the washing machine) … that, or went to my room – but I kinda doubt that one; it was kind of forbidden to ‘be in’ in the day unless you were called specifically for something.

But I do know that it had an affect on my and our teenager’s relationships; no longer would we ‘make love’ with him once and awhile.  He’d hurt us bad two times – and now (and then!) – this thing . . . this betrayal, “outing” me in front of all my friends (though many of us ‘little kids’ in that group of teens were being molested by him during ‘parties’ and things – and some, I’m certain, one-on-one like me sometimes . . .

Which just reminded me.  Of something he’d said.  LOL, thinking “just a few days ago” but NO it wasn’t – it was a ‘few hundred years ago’, LOL!

He said to me, (my friend and very best friend BW back then) he said:

“I thought it was going to be ME next” (in line) for the ‘abusing’ – the ‘telling’ and the ‘outing’ – and he was then about my age which was then about ten I guess back then.

So he’s telling me about it a few days later . . . after I’d gotten in trouble for doing something else ‘to my friend’; meaning me and the teenager (B was his young brother whom he’d been doing these things with for awhile) . . .

writing “fuck” on the house’s end wall – over and over again. . . on the side facing my “friend’s” house . . . right there where he can see it . . . but only I can, for it’s in pencil, and the house is soft sided in redwood, making the surface hard to write on – but don’t you know?  I can still SEE those damned little scrawls – “child’s hand” square and blocky letters … fat little (but not so little by now; tanned and brown) hands.

Our parents found out about that thing.  We tried to blame it on the teenager.  We failed again.

We got our asses beat and then we had to go and try to erase it out (never did: we had bore so hard down that the pencil marks stayed in; the eraser leaving gleaming surface; it just ‘highlighted’ the words, LO bitter soft L’ing and crying … Mikie going on.  sad kid.

His love was betrayed by that time; I think he’s / he’d realized its time had come. . .

and there was no one else to love him; not like that.

Not for a long time.

Our Island Paradise: Me and Little Mikie

  (* though we ARE working on getting over, through, and ‘beyond’ this thing . . . because it HURTS inside; you gettin’ the picture? <-LOL’ing THAT’s Matt, my friends; always helping us out by ‘stabilizing things’ . . . even when we know (talking at him) – we’ve ALL got to go through it)  LOL, good time to continue: (LOL again . . . see where the ‘*’ left off . . . symbolic of Matt’s feelings on this one!!!  (aw, come on … we’re about to roll on the floor and he’s smirking at us – still not ‘feeling a thing’ . . . though we know he is somewhere deep inside ….
… until later …
Jeff and friends.