Tag Archive: sex



Young Love

I first encountered him on the playground, on the domed top of the convoluted steel grid of monkey bars. This was back in the day when all playground equipment was steel, and the middle of the bars were polished like mirrors from so many hands over the years.

The sky was gray and overcast, it was late in the afternoon. It must have been near winter, for it was almost twilight but there was no snow. I remember a crescent moon rising in the gray skies – glimpsed between the clouds somewhere between fifteen and thirty degrees. I paid attention to things like that; my training had already begun, though I didn’t know it. Things, as always, seemed normal. As normal as they could be considering I was an abused country kid from the sticks come to live in West Germany – living the the military apartments – big buildings with thick bombproof walls, and narrow windows.

The playground sat adjacent to the airport. It was a military one – a small one, but so was the base we were on. A lot of the bases we were on were small – little installations given over to the properties of spying, like the planes and electronic gear that my dad worked on. Twin turbo-propped Mohawks took off, but they were rare; mostly it was the UH-1’s – the big Bell Huey helicopters with their distinctive “Whomp! Whomp!” sound.

We had been forbidden to go to any country in which the “Red Flag” was flying. That meant no Warsaw, Poland, no East German or Hungarian trips. That meant we often had to stay behind while our dad went on some “TDY” mission. Sometimes he would be gone for days, weeks at a time. If it wasn’t a NATO nation – we weren’t supposed to go in. We weren’t supposed to go to Berlin, though eventually we did. They said it was because we would have to cross East German soil, and there was some concern ‘the enemy’ might kidnap a child as leverage against my anyone who held a high security clearance, forcing them to become a spy against the US military or giving up all their electronics secrets – or against the US Government as a source of ransom and/or trade for their own spies. It was very ‘normal’ to ‘me’, the kid I was developing into, but in some ways I was still that sexually groomed kid from deep down South . . . trying to figure out things – where in the hell he was, who ‘we’ were, where we were living (it changed all the time – we moved more than a dozen times in a few years), and what we were doing there.

There were about seven or eight boys playing on the playground, and a half dozen of us were on the monkey bars. None of us knew the other; not really. None of us had been around long enough to know anyone, and chances are, no one did. Everyone was moving around too much – us kids just sliding past each other – a quick hello, some desperate attempts to form friendships, and then a few weeks later, goodbye – maybe.  Sometimes they just disappeared.  Sometimes we did.  We got to know this kind of life too well; so well it affected all our lives for the rest of our life. No “life long friends” – people who we are still friends with that you know from your early childhood.   I mean the good kind – the kind you see every few days or so – never a week goes by without one of them calling you. I don’t have that; we moved too much. Neither does my brother. Ditto my parents to a lesser degree – they lost touch with their families (and thus we with ours) by their late teens.  “Family” to me is just a weird joke, one I don’t get.   My mom once said she vowed to stop documenting moves after her fiftieth; we were still just babes when she stopped. I think it was during this particular trip overseas that broke that barrier. We moved so much! Even she can’t tell me where we were when. It was a kaleidoscope of landscapes; a blur of apartments and streets; German towns changing (but all the same) like drops of water sliding down a window pane. Fountains and fortresses, castles grand . . . castles in ruins, tanks in the woods. I don’t know as we settled down in one particular place for more than two, three months before the Army would uproot us and send us on to some other base where my dad’s skills were needed and we were not.

“Who will suck my dick?” one boy cried out. He was an older one, and I shot him a contemptuous glance.  I had experience, I missed my friend – my lover (or lovers) back home – but I wouldn’t do it. I wouldn’t do it so casually – I had to love (or at least like a lot) the person.  It didn’t matter if it was girl or boy – I was bisexual before I was four – and I found this type of sexual innuendo deeply disturbing. Scalding memories of what the teenager had done to me – his touch, then the ultimate betrayal – were still fresh in me and hurt. I didn’t trust anyone not to betray me the way he had done, so I hung back when it came to making relationships – especially sexual ones. I had been burnt – and burnt BAD – I wasn’t going to open myself to that flame again! And yet the phrase caught my attention (the boy was just coarsely joking around – half-serious, half not, as young boys sometimes do). I looked at him from beneath hooded eyebrows – I can still see him, my head dropped to some degree, looking up at him both cautiously and with anger, though he had not done anything to me; he was just a ‘normal’ kid, crude, but normal.

“I will!” I heard a small voice pipe up. It was a little kid on the opposite side of the monkey bars. We had a game where we were trying to throw each other down through the bars, hurting someone – but we weren’t playing aggressively. The big boys were too rough – they’d win (perhaps), though none had tried their tactics on me of grabbing a boy and holding him over one of the squared opening, punching him down and through – where he’d bounce and jolt through the steel bars – hopefully breaking a bone! – before landing on the tough turf where short sparse grass grew.

“I love sucking dick!” the little boy continued, drawing my attention. This was almost the exact phrase the teenager had used when he outed me: that I loved sucking dick – “He’ll suck anyone!” the teenager had told his friends, stinging me.  While true to a point (which makes a good point about the truth stings the worst, for it stings the heart, mind, and soul). But I had to love or at least like a kid real to have sex with him; this one didn’t. He apparently didn’t even demand they be a friend – though that might have been his way of making one. He was making offers to strangers, which seemed odd and dangerous to me. I can still feel that ‘dark turning’ I felt when looking at him, hearing him make his ‘offer’. It was the same sensation you get when seeing someone dart into a busy street without looking, knowing they might get run down – and wondering whether to shout and stop them or just look away before the disaster happens.  Especially if you know you are probably powerless to prevent it.

The other kids started laughing; ridiculing him and asking questions. Would he really do it? An older kid, one about fourteen, asked him, to which he eagerly agreed. “Yeah! I like it. I love sucking dick.” My eyes narrowed as I took him in and evaluated him.

He was young, a few years younger than me. A big eight, an average nine, or a underdeveloped ten. He was short with a broad beaming face and curly brown hair. My hair was regulation short – a crisp barrage of hair standing on end in a traditional crew cut, with the sides shaved nice and close – a “high and tight”.

But his face – something about his eyes I think it was. They were brown; as I type this I can ‘see’ more and more clearly (and now the next day editing, even clearer.) – and I felt something within me as he and they got to talking about it. A sadness or a sympathy or empathy or pity or feeling sorry for him – and wanting him to be my friend – and I was interested in accepting his offer – open sex night, no strings involved. But maybe it was something about his face and eyes. Yeah – I think it was the eyes. There’s a ‘look’, you know – that ‘thousand yard stare’ kinda thing soldiers are known to get – only in kids it may more hidden, way back in the eyes. Like ghosts or clouds underneath all those emotions they are expressing – happiness, excited joy, running and playing. It makes a kid’s eyes ‘timeless’, and can make them look old. In the eyes of course. Everywhere else they look normal. Except perhaps a few scars.  I had those.  And I had “that look” I suppose.  (I know I did; I can see it in the mirror.)

I could feel it – that he was like me. More than a bit; almost exactly. The sex is what tipped me off. I wanted to go off and have sex with him right then. Let him know I was the same way – and I wouldn’t use him or mock him for doing it or wanting to do it. The other kids would. I just knew that, could sense their attitudes in their behaviors, their play, and what some of them were saying. Something about him spoke to me. I suppose now, looking back, it would have said “I’ve been abused somewhat, shown sex; I’ve learned to love it too early, and now I will do it with anyone – anyone! – simply to recapture that feeling.” Of course, that may have just been me, projecting my feelings upon him.

So I spoke up. Of all those that were there – and the only ones left who were talking to him – I think there were about three – the others having gotten disgusted by him, or repulsed by what he had said – mocking him and deriding him as they climbed down – and one of them was a teenager who I could tell was quite cruel – he’d been sort of picking on us kids, mostly verbally, while the others ran around, and now he was trying to lure the little kid in using some kind of bait.

“Yeah, we can go over to my apartment,” he was saying – but he had been one of the cruelest mockers and deriders when this thing had first started, and the kid was saying no to him; shaking his head, and the teenager suddenly got fed up and disgusted and climbed down by himself while another couple of kids climbed on.

“I’ll let you do it,” I finally said, keeping my voice kinda low and hopeful and just between me and him. “I’ll do you, too, if you do it to me,” and then I think I said (even lower): “I like doing it, too.” I had missed that feeling – that feeling of someone ‘doing it’ to me, and me doing it to them – plus this little kid had such an open air about him – open and trusting, and yet guarded in some ways. Like I said – it was kinda like de ja vu’ I was feeling – thing is, it was not. It was merely seeing a kind of reflection of the kid I am/was. And you have to remember: I had been having sex for years, nearly on a daily basis during the summer of the last three of them. Not just with boys, but with girls. You gotta remember my cousin, with whom I had fell in love with.

Just then my momma called me.

“Dinnertime!” she said, calling from the communal door of the apartment building. There were two stairwells, one on each end, and we lived on the second floor; inside one, right hand. Up two turns and you’re in the middle kind of thing. They were four stories tall, in case you were wondering, with 8 to 16 room ‘attic’ apartments above. They called them ‘transits’ because that’s where all the ‘transitory people’ lived – people who were going someplace and the Army needed their apartments because someone new was coming in – or people who were going someplace – like back overseas. We lived in ‘transits’ once that I remember; maybe twice. It was really cool.

And so ended the beginning of my very first friendship over there. The dinner bell was ringing and it was time to ‘go in’ – and eat dinner with my miserable family who never got along.

So I said “bye” to him regretfully and left him alone with two of the others. He had just started to go along with me – following me down the bars. I think he, like me, could sense something of himself in me; that’s why he wanted to be friends. So we parted there on good terms, almost beneath the monkey bars, with the helicopters thundering off and on . . . gray clouds . . . and I grew depressed . . . slogging in instead of at my usual run, head down, sad and thinking of him . . . this boy I had just met.

It was the next summer I met him. We had moved to a different base – to run across a kid you knew from before was very unusual. Unheard of for me. The rotisserie of kids and schools and bases were beginning to become familiar  – and yet not. It seems I kept changing – or something. That might explain some of these holes in my head and my memories from ‘over there’.

I’m not sure if it was at the pool (outdoors) or a playground, but I remember we took off where we had began – at the beginning, with him looking at me and me looking, puzzled at this kid, feeling the faint stirrings of memory.

“You’re him,” I think I said, or something very much like it. “We met at that other base . . .”

“Yeah,” he said, beaming and smiling. “You still want to do it?”

And simple as that, we became friends. Of course we had sex after our first encounter – nothing major, just the oral thing – him doing me, me encouraging him – ‘showing him how’ somewhat because he still needed some skills in his technique – and me ‘doing him’ just for the pleasure of making my new friend feel good, welcome, needed, and happy – which he was doing for me.

We wandered that base during those hot summer months – or at least they felt hot to me. I had acclimated to the German weather, so I felt the heat when they did, and not so much the cold as I had when we first arrived. I’d gotten used to the winter regime of clothing – and even more layers of clothing – and the summer felt so free! I could wander up to the pool in my swim shorts and a towel – flip flops flapping, though for the most part I ran around as I had in the  ‘hood back in the States – barefoot and almost . . . but not nearly enough – carefree. I wasn’t the child I am sometimes inside; I wasn’t ‘he’. I wasn’t the boy who’d left the States – though that part of me seemed to go into hiding sometimes, staring from my eyes in wonder at the castles and the land. In a way I was a jumble of ‘parts’ in me – and I could feel it. I didn’t think in terms of “I” and “me” so much as ‘us’ and ‘them’. I sometimes found myself interjecting the word “we” sometimes – and becoming confused because I meant just one: me. But it wasn’t ‘me’ all the time. There were ‘other parts’ forming – I could ‘feel’ them in my dreams, feel them taking over ‘parts’ of me: certain emotional states and emotions. I could feel myself ‘slipping away’ when one part would ‘take control’ – leading me into some kind of temptation (laughing).

And this boy and I . . .

We fell in love, we did. With him, even though he was a bit younger than me – he became more like a little brother. He shared his secrets with me and I with him – how our parents beat us (his were much worse some of the time, mine had quit the worst of the abuse – the beatings – when we had arrived in Germany – and those damned apartments where everyone would have to be so damned quiet – even if we WERE getting beaten. You couldn’t let the neighbors know those things – how ‘bad’ us kids had become; how ‘awful’ we are/were (for those were my thoughts in the day.) I knew what me and the boy were doing was ‘wrong’ by some crowd’s notice; but on the other hand – he was my ‘best friend’ at the time, and the only one I had.

I remember us going from here to there – stopping for sex once and awhile, either in the bushes or the PX bathroom one time. (I didn’t like going there; I felt cheap while I ‘did him’ with him standing on the toilet seat.) I treated him to some movies once and awhile – I was earning money from my first job.  And bought us both treats at the PX and club – ice cream perhaps, some chips to eat – nothing fancy, and he asked for nothing, ever. Just for the chance to ‘do me’ sometimes and make me feel good, be my friend.

I don’t recall ever going over to his apartment, nor him coming to mine, though he might of. I remember us mostly meeting in the parking lot by the playground, and then going together to do something. Sometimes that ‘something’ was walking the fence line – the fence that separated us from our outside neighbors, the Germans. We’d pause here and there sometimes – dropping into the grass or near some bushes – and ‘make love’ in our own kind of way, each encouraging the other. We’d hold hands, give hugs – cheek to cheek sometimes, just holding one another, eyes closed, breath coming softly in my ear while I hugged him – feeling that warm body under that skin and enjoying it. Often it would take me back to past times – times with the teenager and/or my friends back home. Then we would rise and dust ourselves off – pulling up our shorts if we needed to – and go wandering on, looking for something to do, something to keep our interests until ‘the next time’.

Like I said: we grew to be close friends, closer than even brothers in some ways. We each commiserated in each others misery and pain; we shared our loneliness by sharing in our ‘game’ – a shameful game to the world, perhaps, but not to us. To us it was a simple thing – a joy. We couldn’t understand why all the other kids and grownups seemed so dead hard set against this sort of thing, but we knew to keep it a secret between us.

Eventually the game came to an end. The time came when I went out to the parking lot looking for him; on the playground, all our usual stomping spots, and then all our usual stopping spots – and then I went to his apartment, heart sinking, sick to heart from suspicion, thinking I knew what happened. Knocking on his door, I braced myself to prepare for his parents. I had heard they were quite mean.

The face that greeted me when the door opened was a younger woman – a short one, almost my height – and she said something that was to change my life.  Bring that sudden realization a little closer to my heart like the sharp knife it was.

“He isn’t here anymore. They moved on.”

And that’s when I began to realize: No one is permanent. Nothing remains the same. My friends would just keep on being yanked away – every time I made one it would happen as sure as night follows day. Time and time and time again – as soon as I would hold out my hands for love, they would get slapped away, or else the people I was craving would turn their backs and reject me. That little boy – he had no friends, none besides me. I think that was because of his sexual orientation and the way he advertised so honestly his willingness. I think now, looking back, that it was only in desperation that he would do those things – offering a blow job first, friendship later. I wasn’t like that – too shy, too self-inhibited, and demanding from my own self that I love them (or at least like them) first.  And even that – that had taken a hit, some damage, from what the teenager had done.  To this day, I find it hard to trust anyone with my love, especially the sexual kind.  They always hurt me.  Always.

But it saddened me – hit me hard, hurt me hard, to see that neighbor open the door and it wasn’t who I had expected. To find your friend – your lover – is gone, yanked right out from under you, and you hadn’t even had a chance to say goodbye. You never saw it coming. And so like a fist in the face, a blow to the head (and heart) . . . I stumbled away, thanking the girl, and trying to stop the tears from coming into my eyes . . .

Lonely again, wandering another base without a friend, I soon made another. He was mean and bullying, older than me – and he simply used me as I used him. Under buildings, behind bushes – it wasn’t even about being friends. It was about a part of me mourning and separating from ‘him’, trying to recapture that hidden feeling, which I never did. Not with him, anyway. And so slowly, a part of me went into hiding and died.

For a long long time afterwards.

And I think that part was ‘little Michael’ or ‘little Mikie’ . . . the boy ‘he’ wanted to be.


This is what working with ‘alters’ gets you . . . memories of things you knew and had never forgotten, just lost in the shuffle somewhere.  Since this one belongs to the small child, we have placed it here: in the Small’s journal, where such things belong . . .
and so we begin our tale.)

Elephant Ears

Whenever I’ve done my laundry, I’ve seen them sticking out – those pants with the inverted pockets, hanging white outside.

“Elephant ears.”

The phrase would whisper in my ears – my mental ones for inside; the ones tuned to those ‘voices’ that talk to me all the time.

“Elephant ears.”  And there would be a small child’s amusement; a lightening in my mind; a recognition of something for which I had no clue.  Just that phrase ‘elephant ears’.   And a sense of giggles.

A ‘good’ kind of thing; a good kind of feeling – not one I’d bothered probing into. After all: “who” cares? It was not bothering me.  Heck, I didn’t even know what ‘they’ were referring to. It was just some private joke to some of my insiders.  All I knew was that whenever I’d see a pair of pants or shorts with the pockets inverted, I’d think “elephant ears”.

Not a problem.  As a matter of fact, it felt rather good – kind of like when you see an old treasured toy from your childhood that you had forgotten that you had – that little sense of joy shared by the child in you.

But not anymore.  Now I know what “elephant ears” stands for.

Today as I was grabbing some jeans I noticed the pockets were hanging out.

“Elephant ears.” The giggling came to mind.  Now I’ve been busy working with my alters, trying to sort things out.  Trying to find the missing pieces, missing time, missing emotions, missing things.  And it’s real important to a DID person to know where those voices are coming from: who is talking, why, what they are referring to – and the emotions that you feel.

So hearing ‘elephant ears’ I began inquiring. I knew it was a childhood self; I could tell by the ‘feel’.  Perhaps it’s a particularly DID thing: that ability to “feel” like a small child – and I mean really ‘feel’ it, setting your adult parts aside – and experience that innocent laughter, that ‘feeling’. It is exactly the same feeling (or set of feelings) that one would have as a small child. Yeah, I can ‘dip’ into them, sampling of my ‘crew’ – and see and feel who is saying and feeling what, what’s up with this inner ‘you’.  And that’s one of the wonderful things about being DID: being able to ‘feel’ – and in some ways BE – that child mind.

And it came to me: this was from a joke – a childhood one. One that had been played on me.

And I remembered the punchline.

It goes like this:

“Hey? Wanna see an elephant?” (the guy says. And we can ‘see’ him in our memory; he is quite tall; our nose comes even with his navel; he is standing in the sunshine on – perhaps those are overalls he is wearing – he is either an older teenager than *the One* (who molested me all the time) – or some other adult – we get the feeling almost that this is some guy in his 20’s.)

“Yeah!” we all say (are there more of these kids? I get the feeling this happened more than one time. But I think it was only one of us.  Meaning ‘me’ – meaning broken Michael with his broken mind at such a young age.)

“Okay!” he says, pulling his pockets out – inverting them as I had seen in the laundry so many times.  We lean forward, eager-er.  “Here’s his ears!”

And then pulling down his zipper his whips out his penis and holds it in his fork of fingers, says:

“And here’s the trunk!”

Uproarious laughter – yeah ‘we’ think it’s a funny; what a joke: Elephant ears and then the ‘trunk’ comes out . . .  except

something darker occurs.  Or occurred.

We’re pretty sure we went on to suck that elephant’s trunk. We’re pretty sure this was a MAN – (he was … ’21’ rings in our mind, meaning 20-something, since that is the age we associate with persons in their early twenties) – who molested us.

It was in the forest by the way … (we’re ‘remembering on the run’ here – just impressions in our mind) . . . and yes, there WAS some running, but it was just in play – perhaps part of the molestation ‘game’ (where he’d chase us or us chase him – either way the game of tag ended with the same thing: us “doing” him (orally not sodomity in the behind).

A funny thing happened on the way to the park, because

It was while we were on the way to the wife to show her this thing, this joke (yeah, we’re kinda inappropriate that way – but not in public) – that I remembered what was going on: this joke – I was going to see if she wanted to “see the Elephant” (for that’s what it was called: “seeing the Elephant” meant you went to suck the old man) – but I had forgotten the end of the story; where the sex comes in . . .

And that’s what comes with working with alters.
Sometimes such troubling friends.

But I love them anyway (small child – BIG hugs for him; brave child for reminding me; no, 13 ‘whispered’ in his ear telling him to remind ‘me‘ – since this was on my mind:

“Elephant Ears”.

A phrase from across the years; a phrase caught in time: and now I know the source of the thing. (But not who did it; not yet . . . his body: yes – but like a cutoff photo, it ends at his neck. Barefoot and all, though, which tells me something . . . we’ll see.)

This is called ‘progress’ for a DID mind.

Kissing Cousins


Kissin’ Cousins

We rarely got to see our relatives; they all lived over a thousand miles away. As a result I never became close to many of them, most were strangers to me, people I’d see maybe once a year for a few days during my childhood, less as time went on. The last time I visited any of them was twenty-five years ago. And people change over time, you know.

 

But there were a few relatives I came like a great deal, fewer still I came to love and treasure. One of those was my cousin.

 

I remember how filled with joy and excitement I would be when we’d pull up to their house. I’d be bouncing up and down in my seat, looking out the window, knowing that I would be seeing her again. She had long black hair which ran all the way her waist, straight and shimmering in the Western sun,, and her skin was a dusky tan, almost an earthy color. Her eyes were brown as coal, almost black, with long thick lashes set above a cute upturned nose. How she got those looks when both her parents were pale whites is beyond me – and it didn’t matter. I loved her. I remember us pulling up in their white span of concrete driveway one hot summer afternoon, the first visit of the season, and hearing the screeching howl of a poorly played violin emanating from the house. “She’s taking violin lessons,” my mother explained as we got out of the hot, stuffy car. I took off running, and before I’d even reached the house, the sounds had stopped and she’d raced out, smiling from ear to ear, her violin in one hand, the bow in the other, and her dark eyes dancing with happiness and affection. For she loved me every bit as much as I loved her. I don’t know why we were so precious to one another – I just know that we were. As close as coattails, a snug fitting comfort when we were together.

 

We’d spend hours exploring in the basement of her house – playing pool on the crowded pool table, digging through the toys. I remember one: the original clapping monkey who held the cymbals in his hands. And then after awhile we’d get bored with the toys and we would start kissing and hugging and doing all those things kissing cousins do, and a few proper cousins would not dream of. This was not just experimentation, not just kids at play – we were passionate about each other, telling each other all our secrets, our troubles, our sorrows and concerns. Sometimes we kissed open mouthed, and how well I remember her body pressed against mine – both of us young and eager and her soft lips embracing mine. She knew I was having sex with the boys back home, but that didn’t bother her; indeed, being children, neither of us understood that was bad, nor the possible consequences to come of it. All we wanted was each other to be happy; the other one was our biggest concern – concern about each other, being with each other, and sharing the world between us, being in each another’s company – and knowing, knowing deep down in our secret hearts, even hidden to us, that it was not going to be so. She would have to stay; I would have to go. No matter what we did, the destiny of our parting was always so, so clear – we always knew: this cannot be forever, and it never will.

 

I remember once we visited some relatives who I didn’t know. I think I was eight. It was a big party, probably a family reunion, and as is so often typical with such events, the children went off to play on their own while the grownups stood around and talked, ignoring them. During this reunion a group of girls went down into a dark basement, and after awhile, invited us boys to come in.

 

The lights were off and the girls were all lined up against a damp brick wall, their pants dresses either pulled up or their pants pulled down. There were about a half dozen of them. They had us boys seeking around in the dark, ‘feeling’ them, touching their private parts, but there was only one I was seeking, only one I was looking for. My heart was crying out for her. Because at these events so often the “boys will be boys” and “girls will be girls” philosophy reigned, and each gender would stick with their own – meaning the boys played the boy games with the boys, and the girls played with theirs. I didn’t like this. I only wanted to be with one. My kissing cousin, my confidant, my lover and true friend. Going from one to another, I touched them all as they bid us – them giggling and laughing as we do – until I found her in the darkness. Touching her wet softness ‘down there’, she embraced me like a lover, and I embraced her – hugging her tight until the girls, all giggling, hiked up their panties and pulled up their pants, shooing us boys away. I don’t know why they did that; but then again, there was only one who held my interest, the one who had captured my heart. My summertime friend and summertime girl. The one I wanted to marry from then on.

 

Her family came down to visit us one summer when I was ten; her mother complaining about the heat, humidity, dirt and bugs, until they found us, me and her, in bed. I can’t remember much – I was on top of her, we were two kids clumsily attempting to make love for the first time; neither of us knew how, we only knew we wanted to do it, and do it with each other. It wasn’t about sex; our hearts were filled with love for one another. We could see nothing wrong about it – after all, we both knew we loved each other, and loved each other dearly – beyond words, like I said. I guess her mom and mine came in, interrupting us before we’d even got properly started – we hadn’t even gotten our clothes off yet, I think – and I vaguely recalled shocked yelling and being roughly snatched from the bed, our confusion at their outrage and anger at us and our expression of love. There must have been some kind of bad punishment where everything turns black. I know what that means – nothing good, and I suspect I was beaten. They never came to visit again, though we continued making those long trips west. It breaks my heart sometime – even now.

 

I remember one hot summer day when I was eleven her and I were sitting in her parent’s metal storage shed. The doors were shut, the heat stifling, and my brother was running around outside. I wanted to make love with her. She knew how and by now I knew, too – or at least a little bit about it. But my brother kept jumping up, trying to peep in the windows, she decided that we should wait – perhaps the next summer. To this day I sometimes curse my brother and his meddlesome nosy ways, for I’m sure if we had, it would have been a moment I’d cherish and treasure, even if she was my cousin, despite what society says is wrong. That didn’t matter to me, for this was a girl I loved with all my heart and soul — more than anyone else of the opposite sex that I had ever loved before. It had always been that way, my love for her. And she knew I had been having sex – being molested, if you will – for years, but with her my desire was different. It was more pure, based on a deep long abiding love instead of purely sex. If ever there was a soul mate, she was my first one. But then again, I believe a person can have several soul mates, for there are many souls and we have probably lived and died a thousand lifetimes. But your chance of meeting them on this earth is a rare event, and sadly, only happens a few times in one’s life – if you are lucky.

 

Time passed, we moved overseas, and I didn’t see her again for years. I’d hear stories about her from my mother – how she got married, then divorced a few months later (her husband deciding he was gay) – and that nearly broke my heart: both her marriage and her unfortunate fate. She had problems with drugs early on, and hanging out with all the wrong friends. She got married a couple other times, and began putting on weight. She bore children but never held a job, or if she did, it was never long. She fell from the list of ‘favored’ relatives in my mom’s opinion, and onto my mom’s ‘shit list’ where she has stayed ever since (in her, my mom’s, opinion).

 

I went out west once when I was in my early twenties, just to go and see her more than anyone else (though I’d gone to see them as well). She’d gotten married again, and I met her new husband Mitch – a nice guy, but they were already having problems – most of them caused by her. But once we were together it was as if we’d never been apart. Oh, we refrained from kissing the way we had, but we hugged and by the sparkle in her eyes and mine, we knew. She opened up her heart to me, and me to her, discussing the old times and the new. I remember us sitting in a park, her huge and voluminous, but her hair and eyes just the way I remembered them, beautiful to me. Strange – I have troubles emotionally bonding with obese people, but with her it never made a difference. I was sad to see her young and beautiful body was gone, swallowed by fat and a nervous and trouble driven appetite. I guess I just loved her too much for that. (My emotional troubles stem from other causes; personally I know what it is like to be overweight, having been there myself for some years. Not so much now.)

 

She ended up getting divorced again, became a classic welfare mom, bearing more and more children, until she had a pack of them. Then she went to jail for dealing drugs – again and again and again. She has lived the latter part of her life more behind bars than out of them, and she currently resides in a half-way house near the last prison where she was stationed. She does not do well on her own; she loves her kids (now all grown up) with a fiery passion, but she cannot shake her habits or live in an unstructured setting. I talked to her some years ago – about twenty – when my own marriage was facing stormy times due to my eldest stepdaughter. She advised me wisely, us falling into our old pattern on the phone, able to talk about our hearts and desires.

 

I still hear about her, mostly through the prejudiced eyes of my disapproving mother. According to my mom, my cousin was also deeply in love with her father, so much so that she wanted him in all the ways a woman can want a man, even as a young girl, despite it’s incestuous implications. Though I don’t know if he ever gave in (my mom says no, as if she could know), it apparently caused a lot of friction between her and her mother, both competing for the same man. Perhaps that is why she went through so many husbands – she was looking for a man just like the man she loved, her own father. Right or wrong, I don’t know. But I do know this: the heart knows no moral bounds. When it comes to love, and the love is strong enough, there is no wrong, there is only that bitter-sweet longing, that purity that knows no bounds. Such I think is the love between soulmates, no matter who or what they are. A love that transcends the laws of man.

 

If you can’t tell by now, I still love her. I often think about making that long, long drive out West, just to see her again, despite our circumstances, despite the amount of time which has passed. If we were to meet again, I know that we’d be able to talk openly about our hearts and loves, our trials and troubles, just like we always did. I don’t know why that is so; what it is about each other that brings this quality out in us, only that it has always been there, ever since the beginning. Sometimes I think perhaps in a previous life we weren’t just cousins. That we were made for each other in some magical, mystical way, but time, distance, and circumstances prevented what should have been from happening. I don’t know.

 

I just know that no matter the passing of time, the events in our lives, the changing of our ways and bodies, there is one thing that still endures.

 

And that is our love.

 

(Julie died October 2, 2011 – just before our father’s birthday. And we’re gonna miss her… forever sad – until we meet her on angel’s wings – that will make us glad ….and we will be in heaven with her, meeting once again . . . and I miss her.)


CAUTION: TRIGGERS!!

Preamble:  Day 2 of “this stuff”.  LO bitter L’ing.  Got interrupted during processing; just like the old psychologist’s office.  The Shrink’s office.  The counseler’s office.  And a few other ones.  You know the deal:  One hour session – get you ‘ramped up’ – and then ‘ding!’ (alarm goes off) – “It’s time to go!  I have another client coming in!”  And there you are all F’d up within yourself (and out, too) – stumbling out the door in a haze, zoned to the max, and switching all over the place while the attendant says, “Same time tomorrow?” meaning “This same time next week or so?” and here you are needing immediate treatment and finding none (really, really could use that old bottle – used to keep one of Everclear in my own car – for use after those afternoon sessions, LO bitter L’ing again by me and my own alters.  Note how many times I didn’t use “I” up above; that’s because we are preferring it that way; easier to ‘hide’ them alters of mine and their and ours … lying not through admission; but omission instead.)

Here’s another thing that grieves me before we go into this thing: The Rape of A Child; my own, my inner child, the one we are calling Mikie (which, BTW, IS his real name in many senses of the word!)

Can’t tell no one.  Not about what happened yesterday, Confronting Father.  Not that I don’t WANT to – this is something we’ve been burning to tell the wifie thing ever since we first met her tomorrow (meaning yesterday?) afternoon.  Yeah; things are a kinda bit crazy; time-slipping a little bit here and there between us old alters; crazy ain’t the word??

WE didn’t intend on telling “no one”; that is, we never intended on confronting the Father one yesterday; that was totally unplanned!  He just came over at a bad time for us (when we were trying to processing and make peace within ourselves about this thing called Mikie and the things that happened to him

Damn.  Suddenly very sad; we called him a “thing”, and that’s hurting the little one called Mikie: WE ARE SORRY SON!  (crap crap crap; things going wild.  LO soft but not so bitter L’ing again.  We are sorry little one; we didn’t mean to hurt you with them words; really son.)

BUT what this means is that we are not done processing the events below.  That said, we are done ‘for the day’ (not meaning for the day; just putting aside this particular issue for a tad in time.)

And the reason we can’t tell the wifie thing is this plain and simple: she doesn’t have time for us.  Not right now.  And by the time she does …. crap.  We’re hoping we don’t cut ourself; that something doesn’t go wrong.  And get this: it’s gonna be maybe Tuesday?  Perhaps sooner?  Depending upon her schedule . . . maybe she’ll have some time for us.  I don’t know.

F’ing wifie thing.  It ain’t her fault; she doesn’t know what’s going on and she’s unwilling to make time to find out.  You know: life and things.  Husband falls to the way behind; trailing along behind her like some kinda dog that needs to take a crap on the floor – and she won’t let him.  (LO somewhat bitter L’ing; that is like SOOO freakin’ appropriate an expression; the dog and kind of thing.)

Okay, lets get going; what you’ve been waiting for.

The Rape of Mikie, my Inner Child and Most Precious One (okay, maybe not most precious?  For in and of ourselves, all of us are precious?  But he is a Special One, if you are getting my meaning here ….)

_________________________________________________________________________________

He is my best friend

He is in my house

He has come over to do some watching for me

He is supposed to be watching over us

He is doing something wrong with the dog

and my brother is crying (in me? Near me.)

Here’s the deal; we are not in a good place right now okay and so don’t expect no fucking forgiveness.

He came over at the insistence of my mother and my father

He has come over while them are going to the movie

It is dark in the house but not some; it is light; there is a light in there some of the lights are on

We begin running around

okay, here’s the deal

He’s come over he’s not my best friend but hes’ my best friends only brother. He is older than him; we are thinking I am 6 and he is 13

My parents said “Watch over them he (mikie) is the bad one you gotta watch over him closely” now they are turning to me and my brother and they are saying

“You’d better do the things he does (tells me?) to do.” We aren’t given the opportunity to say yes mum no mum just be doing what we are told; you are supposed to be doing what you are told no matter what happens do as you are told no matter if he’s killin him do as you’re fucking told now ou damned little kid.

And we were never never NEVER fucking allowed no; no to anything at all ever again in our lives; we gotta do as we’ve been told.

Not doing what you are told is a BAD thing; doing what you are told keeps them outta trouble

No “no’s” allowed in here; in this thing; not never not to no one

Especially and authority figure who has been placed over us this being this teenaged kid

this friend of ours

and he is in there babysitting

and we are funning around (I wanted to type running ardound but it keesp on coming ‘funning’ LL not such a funning thing)

We are running around and around iin the household when he starts doing this thing

and it starts with Charlie our friend and this dog.

Charlies our firend and he’s my/our doggie sometimes tho’ he belongs to momma most times and we aer sad for him cuz he went and died without us bein around

how hard is that to die somewhere becauz you family hasn’t been around

He got died running after some truck someone else was taking care of him and he was our dog and my dog.

He was a big dog and too he was black and furry with this kinda long and short curly hair he was a nice dog and a good dog and he follered us around sometime and he played football with us kds and he would steal the ball and then go running and we love our poor and lost lonely dog

But thats not what happened then and this time.

This time he got it for real

The teenager is bending over him and they are doing something to him this teenager friend and my dog; he is doiong it TO him, doing something to my own dog

and it is in the hall way and (pause …. long pause …. Mikie is reluctant to go on go on Mikie you can do this things we are all here and we are feeling sorry for you all but the religious man even Matthew is feeling sick and sorry for you not sick at you but what at this teenagers done)

okay

so I go on?

(yes mikied my friend my son my dear and loving son go on we are standing right here behind you recording this as this goes on; go on my friend talk to me.)

fucking shit (little mikie is saying he has the own words in and outta my head. This is making Matthew angry that Mikie can do this sort of thing; get into his own head: perhaps that is why Matthew sealed him off so long time ago? Back in the 84’s? Yup I reckon so he is saying turning to me and the crowd and things and he is firm but hard and sorry he’s done this sort of thing but he had to to seal off this kind of pain and embarrassment)

Okay mikie go on. The dog. The teenager is doing something outta(?) him?

Okay (mikie goes on; he and I and us are taking in a deep breath on this ugly fucking thing)

Go on.

Mikie go on. (he is standing head down staring at the thing we know and we could tell but HE must tell this thing otherwise its gonna be no good.)

“He is fucking the dog.” he is saying but that’s not quite right; the teenager is masturbating on the dog meaning he is jacking the fucking dog off; there, I said it for you Mikie, you can go on now can’t you?

Yeah sure (he says hard and firm; he’s a tough kid looking up at me with firm and angry sorta eyes but they are tearfilled in his own way instead)

He has us go down on the dog; meaning this:

my brother is in the corner crying. He is crying real bad. And then this thing he has happens

The doggies laying on his back and the teenager is sorta jacking him; doing something with his penis; he is stroking it back and forth and this big pink thing comes outta him with two red balls attached to him and then he has me go donw on him

and it tastes yuck yuck kinda nasty firm but yielding and there’s some shit shooting out of him into my mouth and things and it tastes yuckfuckingyuckyuckand I”m doing this thing I’m sucking off the dog and thigns and I kinda like it because I’m doing it for him this teenager friend of mine and he asked and I cannot say no cannot bend the rules; gotta do this thing for him and it tastes kinda nasty and Im’ using my teeth the way he showed me not to (later on sometimes) and scraping the dogs dick and the penis and the dog is knda crying and I am too sorta but not; crying cuz it tastes kinda bad and this thing is hiiting in the back of my throat and things and it hurts real bad but I wanna pleas him this teeanger and things.

And I look up and the teengare is fuking smiling at me saying go on go on go on and do it and it’s like he’s kinda mad but he’s not he’s kinda smiling and my brother is in the corner and he’s screaming ‘you’re hurting him your hurting him over and over again while he’s crying all balled up and things and how does he know his fuckin eyes and midn are closed a lot like min is right now

and I think I’m gonna be sick; we can feel this thing ;a deep down fucking nausea at whats going on; physcial sensations include just like when I was fucking cutting; burning sharp skin pains on waist and belly its like the dog is fucking clawing me (this is NOW realtimeing and folks; it’s for real feels like I’ve taken a razor knife to my own skin and is cutting it RIGHT f’ing NOW)

moving on. Mikie

Tell me some more. Tell the nice audience some more; they aren’t gonna be hurting you or nothing; they are friendly and people and they’re gonna be okay (okay people out there? Hang this up hang on the phone and fucking hang it up if it’s bother you nothing triggers someone more than this kinda shit I’m knowing; don’t want you out there getting hurt or nuthing)

Okay mikie, move on. You are sucking this dog thing and then what happens; comeon you can tell us (he is crying inside but we are … zoned – can’t cry a single tear for him; this is his ownprocess and we’re gonna have to go through it sometime again; I can realize that kinda thing but move on.)

Okay.

The teenager he is saying stopping me and we look up and he’s got a big grin on his face and we’re wearing one too; we are happy we have served him; done him proud, make him kinda like us or something (he is my brother’s best friend) and my brother is not done crying he is kinda like laying there in the corner in the hallway moaning and some kinda shit; WE are the one hurting him we realize; WE have done this thing and it has hurt our own brother in this way somefuckinghow we don’t know when or how this has happened he didn’t suck the dog’s dick WE did and we’re not happy with him or it anyhow

but this friend of ours is saying something he’s saying ‘come on come on, do (this thing) to me!” and we are still on our knees (we were on our knees before bent over this dog thing and it SMELLS real fucking BAD kinda nauseous again)

and he’s saying ‘come on come one do it do it” and he has his dick hanging out and its an enormous thing it appears to us that way and were crawling over a few handsteps on our knees to him and he’s putting it in our moth and things and then he starts rocking back and forth real hard and then he’s saying something about teeth again making us curl our lips under and THAT hurts kinda bad and then we can taste something it’s blood in our mouth from doing this thing he’s pressing even harder and hurting our nose and shit and down pressing and our teeth are cutting lips and tongue our lip our tongue

and he says stopping

‘come on lets go to your room’

and then we’re going I”m standing up to him and we’re going down the hallway and into the dark room leaving my crying brother far behind him is with the dog and things and we are feelin g kinda sick again

and we go into my room and he doesn’t even turn the light on I though we were gonna try playing some games and things; doing something fun but no he is having me get on the bed right there beside him no he isn’t on the bed; it’s next to him and its our bed as well.

And we’re getting on the thing and laying down he has us laying down on our belly and things and then he kinda takes our pants off only its not pants its those shorts momma makes me where – the cutoffs and things we are so poor we haven’t hardly go any clothing so we must wear this thing all the time all of the kids in the hood do; the fuckin hood is a poor kinda place really fucking poor

and he’s saying something about how he kinda loves me??? and then hes’ sticking a finger in my ass and it kinda hurts and something then he’s fucking on top of me squashing me so HARD breath runs outta me like kinda like the air from the dryer vent and THEN he’s doing something else to me way down there and hes sticking it in and it hurts like fuckin HELL and then its over but no its not over yet because hes starting to do this kinda thing kinda like him and the dog; yeah to me and it kinda feels kinda good and then he sticks his dick in and then THAT hurts real fucking bad and he’s goin in and out and bouncing on me but it feels kinda good after awhile no not the butt kinda thing but him kinda pressing up against me I kinda like this thing of feeling his skin on my back kinda thing kinda feels nice sometimes but it HURTS so fuckin bad down in there even my belly is hurting so bad he’s got in in so fuckin deep or something and it hurts and I’m cryin but not tryin to show him

and then hes’ done and he’s rolling off the top of me and saying

“You wanna play?”

and we go and run

having fun again

and my bottom is hurting real kinda bad

and I’m not gonna be telling my parents and things because ITS REAL BAD and it kinda hurts down there and THEY might wanna come take a look at thing and THEN i’d have to tell them about the dog and THATS a BAD FUCKING THING we know that now we know that then we knew it all kinds of times.

Blackmail, that’s what I’m thinking (Putting Mikie away; poor kid; he’s had a hard time of it today and in the past 24 hours or so: the system pressuring him. But not “completely away”. We’re going to be needing him for the psychoanalysis type of thing. You know what I mean. Right now Aoela is taking care of him (old friend of mine; an ‘interior being’ which we discovered some time ago – about a month or so – and with whom we are involved in healing.)

So here’s the deal in a nutshell:

Mikies parents are going to the movies, and leave him and his brother with his teenage friend. The teenage friend is supposed to be ‘watching them’, with an emphasis on how ‘bad’ Mikie’s been.

They’ve also instructed their children to never say NO to ANYTHING anyone tells them (meaning someone older) – and certainly not to someone who has been appointed an authority figure over them

They have just appointed their teenage friend over “him”. He has now become the ‘authority figure’ – kind of like some kind of god.

And the teenager tells him to do this thing.

You see, they were running around playing – running around and around the house, happy and squealing like little kids do when playing a game of chase – and the teenager was the one chasing them.

Then the teenager does something (catches Mikie’s brother in the hallway? We don’t know about him; why he was crying so bad – BUT we do know he didn’t start crying until or during when the teenager started on the dog (damn, we KEEP on misspelling “dog’” as f’ing “god’ – Freudian slip or something? We dunno. LO softy and somewhat bitter L’ing.)

So… teenager rolls the dog on his back, and begins masturbating the dog; making the ‘pinky thing’ come out of him. While he’s doing that, Mikies brother comes walking up (we’re thinking; this event has almost a sense of unreality – zoned out I know; that’s why; its US and not him doing that thing: zoning) – sees what the teenager is doing, and perhaps misinterprets the thing coming out of that dog of his; slumps down in the corner of the hallway wall and floor and starts crying;

meanwhile Mikie is walking up and the teenager is saying “Watch this!” while jacking off the dog. Then (I reckon) something occurs to this teenager friend of ours, and he has Mikie start doing it – the jacking off kinda thing, and then the words come:

“Put your mouth on him” meaning on his (the dog’s) penis.

Mikie doesn’t know what to do (he’s never done this sort of thing before) and so he bends over – but really doesn’t know what to do.

The teenager shows him by pushing his head down, and inserting the dogs penis in his mouth.

And the dog begins ‘humping’ him (as if he wasn’t already) – right in the mouth.

Now I don’t know what you know about canine biology, but there’s a bone in there; so it kinda hurts him; the dogs penis is deeper than the boy’s mouth can go – so he ‘forces it in’ – so much so that it’s kind of gagging him (hence the vomiting reflex) – not to mention the awful fucking taste (yes, here years later, and I can still taste that damned thing in my mouth – fucking body memories – GO AWAY! LOL’ing, doubting that they ever will; they never will; we’re kinda knowing that sort of thing.)

Can I say this kind of thing is “awful” right now? Can you folks put up with me saying that (asking you readers; we are having a hard time going with the one word “awful” – it seems so much more than that to us.)

So here is little Mikie pumping away; the dog is ‘doing’ him while his teenager friend is standing there watching on and Mikie’s big brother (who is littler than him; therefore, you’ll often hear Mikie referring to him as his “little brother” sometims) – his brother is slumped down, curled into a fetal position (kinda – we can SEE and REMEMBER this thing like it is YESTERFUCKINGDAY! – never did ‘forget’ this one; just the dog thing kinda for a few years on back – recovered memory kinda process; the dog thing – but the REST of it we have remembered forever!)

And while this is going on his brother (Mikie’s own) is screaming and crying over and over again: “You’re hurting him!” Now whether he meant Mikie or the dog – we’re not knowing, and we’re not going to ask – for brother denies this thing; denies any kind of sexual thing ever went on between us – but it DID: we know it did, many a time: it’s our now grown brother’s way of protecting himself from his own emotions (he’s a lot like we were about 20 some odd years ago, only worse off.)

And then the teenager (getting bored I reckon, or wanting some of that kinda action for himself), looks at our little friend Mikie and says:

“Come on. Do me.”

And Mikie is fucking HAPPY to be doing it (kinda) cuz’ it means he ain’t doing the dog no more; he’s doing his friend – and his friend ‘kinda loves him’ (or at least he’s hoping so) – and by doing this thing he’s hoping to make his friend love him stronger – and so he does it anyway

and he’s just not doing it right at first (he’s never done this one before: giving blow jobs before) – and so the teenager instructs him to ‘curl his lips in’ (over his teeth, ya know) – “and kinda stick your tongue out” (padding the bottom of his penis) – while he ‘rubs it in” (meaning – well, you know these kinda things)

And the thing is the teenager starts pressing so hard that it’s cutting Mikie’s lips and gums; tearing at his tongue (he’ll wake up in the next morning with a cut completely across the bottom of his tongue and stuff)- and the teenager is just stroking it in, ya know what I mean? Just rockin’ back and forth with him in Mikie’s mouth – and Mikie’s kinda kneeling on the floor . . .

Goddamn. You should’ve seen Mikies face when the teenager looked down at him the FIRST time and told him to stop doing the thing with the dog and do him.

Mikie looked up at him with a fucking ANGEL’S face and this sick, weird kinda twisted smile on his young face -sooo fucking relieved that this dog thing was over and more than fuckin relieved to be ‘making love’ with his friend and not the dog anymore. (and yup; that’s kinda how he looks at this thing: the human on human sex kinda thing: as “makin’ love” – though he picked those own words outta OUR head (he has access to a lot of information) – However, back then it wasn’t called making love; it was called “sucking our cock” or “sucking his dick” and things. You know: normal kinda kid talking. (Later on it would be “corn holing” and “fucking”, meaning the anal kinda thing.)

Then his teenage friend gets tired (I reckon) of this going on, and abandoning Mikie’s brother in the hallway, takes Mikie on down to his room, has him lay in his bed – and kinda “rapes” him – right in the ass; the ol’ “boogerhole” (Mikie speaking, quite bitterly by now!)

And then the friend gets done, gets off of him, and goes away to play – inviting him along.

Mikie is so relieved that he does this thing: pulls his ‘pants’ (they are cut off blue jean shorts; all the kids had to wear back then; that and a thin set of underwear that his dad kept pulling off of him (shuddering) for different reasons in our livelihoods; but mostly just to beat him (belt on meat seems to satisfy the old man – beating and beating and beating and beating him until his asscheeks were bloody and bruised.) No wonder Mikie prefers this kind of abuse (the sexual thing). It hurts so much less (on the outside) – and he thinks it’s a kind of love (something his parents aren’t giving him) – and he’s not getting ‘beaten’ for doing it – unless he tells his mother (and then parents, for what he tells mom goes directly to dad for beating distributions, LO bitter L’ing going on.)

So then the kid was scared to tell anyone about the ‘dog thing’ – a form of blackmail in our mind; done by the teenager to ensure this kid’s silence in time – and for ALL time – which he very nearly did.

We told a psychiatrist this one once. And you know what she did?? She fucking LAUGHED – laughed in our faces while this went on … permanently damaging us again (we’re thinking). She thought it was FUNNY – but then again, she had some ‘cult’ thing going on; probing into our own past, looking for evidence of ‘cult kind of behaviors’ in our past – being was our mom is a witch, and the neighborhood we were growing up in … well, weird, but in a wonderful kinda way – not at all the way the psychiatrist was thinking – though we have some dark suspicions about the ‘cult kind of thing’ due to some other issues we had going on. If so, it wasn’t overtly obvious or nothing; perhaps we were being drugged, but I kinda doubt it. I’m thinking it was ‘just bad dreams’.

And so: Now begins the hard part: absolution. One by fucking alter by one.

Religious Man: sad, sore, but torn between forgiving him and condemning him.

F’ing religious Man: you are a CHRISTIAN (tho we are NOT) – you are supposed to be FORGIVING HIM.

RM: Hell no; he belongs in hell for what he did I”m not going to have anything to do with that little bastard of mine (this guy is my ‘dad’ figure in a lot of way).

ME: why NOT?

RM: cusz what he did.

Jeff: did he have any fuking choice in the matter, my friend? LOOK at him: just a little kid; doing what he did; because it was TAUGHT to him (you religious freak! Comeon, get WITH it – come ON guys; he’s just a GHOST in your mind; NOT the real thing; he’s a figment of your combined imaginations; get RID of him; he’s NOT one of your own souls; you ain’t gotta take him in.)

(sighing)

Okay, we’ll try; he’s not one of us he’s not one of us he’s not one of us he’s not one of us he’s not one of us hes’ not one of us he’s not one of us.. can’t get rid of him? Shutting him up and ignoring him will do just fine, though! (satisfied smile somewhat grimly as we shut the door on this ‘man’, this so-called ‘religious man’ who’s quite a freak himself – and an f’ing hypocrite! We don’t NEED him anymore; we’ve got our OWN kinda religion, and it IS NOT HIS: his only value is in remembering religious FACTS; not fictions; and in his own fictions – he cannot forgive the kid – just like my own dad done. Never forgiving us for ANYTHING.

There: got to the core root of THAT thing: religious man IS a representation of my own father figure who was never forgiving; just like that ‘momma figure’ we got rid of some time ago (converting her over to Aoela; a separate (yet somewhat troubled) woman being who we let take care of our inner child last night when things were going wrong; we are kind of trusting her with him now more and more these days: it’s not my momma; its some kind of other woman in my head; a ‘real one’ for all extants and purposes, tied into the core being.

Okay, next in line: Matthew.

How do YOU feel about him – Mikie, your own friend, and the child you were supposed to take care of (not THEN, but NOW, my friend – you weren’t even AROUND back then! You didn’t appear until 1971 or ’72 or so.)

Can you see it my friend (we are asking him; Jeffery is asking; love and compassion radiating out from him for all of my own survivor friends on the inside?)

See what Matthew is harshly demanding

See that what you did to him wasn’t fair – you’ve been mistreating him. He’s YOUR kid, goddamnit! (Jeffery can be quite a bit hard when he has to be: a fair thing and a good thing IOO (in our opinion; you folks better catch onto that one; we’re gonna use it next time without all this g-d explaining to do!)

YOU have been abusing him as well (Jeffery is saying;) all of them years you were together – you kept shoving him aside and burying him – all the while being lonely as hell and denying the love he felt for YOU inside YOU

(Matthew is crying a bit now; we aren’t’ just watchin; but ..hmm yeah, wet eyes; not tears; just soggy)

You see Matthew: you always had the love of him; this Mikie friend inside. In ways he was your own son – AND your own father, if you are thinking about this one: HE created you; YOU didn’t create yourself; and that MACHINE thing was your own doing and WE understand!! We ((okay going over to him: time to cry?? we are hoping hoping hoping!! stop typing give it a shot.)

stop to go on deck and do some REAL working with Matthew now okay going…time:1248hrs

1300hrs:

Jeff: Matthew is thinking about what we told him, which was THIS and in a way Matthew can understand:

“Mikie was a prisoner of WAR; just like a fuckin’ prisoner of WAR – and if YOU (matthew) was a prisoner of WAR (which is something Matthew trained for) – and your ‘captives’ (meaning wardens; meaning enemy) was to tell YOU to fucking go down on a fucking dog WOULDN’T YOU??” (and yes he shamefully admits he would rather than lose his own life and here’s the thing matthew my fine fucking friend no harm intended we love you too!)

MIKIE WASN’T GIVEN THE OPPORTUNITY TO SAY NO! He was told and he’d been taught that to SAY that thing (the word “NO” to any of his parent or ANY of the authority figures in his lifetime) – “HE WOULD BE BEATEN!! and beaten and beaten and beaten again!!!! We KNOW that fucking thing because he was beaten BEFORE and as a small child (younger than 10 or 7 or 8 again; even further behind; back when he was a small child experimenting with the word “no” again and again like any fine young toddler will be doing sometimes –

and he was BEATEN with a fucking WARBELT you SOB (thinking of father; religious man again); yeah, YOU know that thing; we ALL know of that fucking thing; the belt with the HOOKS and things that hurt you some kinda bad

and that’s where one of the ‘breaking points’ came in, being BEATEN by that belt and seeing his own brother BEATEN in that bag of his (the old man’s laundry fucking bag rubberized thing smelling of army and men)

And to say NO this time would have gotten him BEATEN again; he knows in his own mind this kinda shit goes on; goes on all the TIME and on and on and on IN HIS OWN LIFETIME JUST A FUCKIN SERIES OF BEATINGS almost every day sometimes twice and 3X at a time during the day; beaten and beaten until he was fucking animal inside and fucking bloody without.

THAT’s the reason he didn’t tell: he was afraid of being BEATEN again; beaten into a young animal again; fracturing his young mind how DARE he tell how COULD he tell? He knew this was a bad fuckin thing; not just him and the dog but him and his friend and how DARE can you not LOVE him he needs your love and things MATTHEW my own man can’t you find it in your heart to forgive HIM???

You fucking understand; quit shaking your head in there; I can SEE you doing this thing you KNNOW I fucking can; come ON man; can’t you SEE it: you made him made you made HIM???/ Goddamn I’m almost crying now in goddmanfcking frustration can’t you SEE it, man???

Loving him; that’s what you are supposed to be doing; he was SAVING you by being him and hiding some of the time; hiding himself AWAY from you after him; creating you for his own peace of mind; trying to put some distance between us and his own pain and hiding then for such a long fucking time; poor kid my god can’t you fucking see this poor kid of mine?? he’s standing there crying awaiting you to come HOLD him Matthew; WE’re not going to be doing this thing YOU gotta do it this time (hardening the heart; don’t WANT to see my own f’ing kid crying like this so pitiful and sooo fucking sad sometimes can’t you HELP HIM OUT with this thing, Matthew?

Going on deck to resolve this thing. Time Out: 1310

____________________________________________________________________________

And it was at this point (about 1318) that the phone call came, and my dad said he was coming over. (sad sad sigh sigh and so f’ing mad in some ways that this process was interrupted and a ‘new one’ started – the confronting of the dad thing-a-fucking-jing)  IMPORTANT TO NOTE:  WE did NOT read the thing up above before posting; though I suppose we should.  It will tell us something in how much progress we’ve been making I am guessing wondering if I wrote something about that one (use of blog entries for ???)  Damn.  Like I said: Time slipping: other alters are doing things of which I am just barely, barely aware: like looking at someone’s actions through a fog.  (scratching my head wondering if it’s my arse racking my brains and someone else is hiding in their chuckling and things.  LO L’ing going on; soft or sad and perhaps the bitter one is my own?)

We’ll see in time.  It’s 0600 and we are (sick?  tired?  upsetting?) and switching all over all the time.

Promises to be another in “NOT a Good Day!”


4/21/11: Finished – Note: this isn’t for you.  It’s for me.  But feel free to hang around; read, whatever.  part of my own ‘therapy’ session with me in attendence (m3) and some of my ‘alters’. (yeah, you guys.)

(4/19/11 pm?)*  This is the story of how the groomed child was betrayed and rejected by the guy whom he thought loved him – a rejection of his, that child’s innocent love turned to lust; mistaking the real thing for something much more … physical and intimate.

The ‘child’ had been ‘making love’ to the adult – a mere teenager, mind you, about 6 or 7 years older than the child – in return for something that felt like love and affection; qualities that child had been missing at home (along with what has been described as ‘horrible and horrendous abuses’ at the hands of his parents by various psychologists, therapists, psychiatrists and counselors.)  Abuse is of course a perceived betrayal of trust systems, along with many other inhibiting qualities.

In this case it started during one of the parties that the teenager often (sometimes?) threw.  (We can’t figure it out; too much information missing.)  *(Elvis: I’m asking questions as we go along with this child of mine and ours . . . so precious to us now.) – (M2/3: 2 on ‘top’, standing by; we are monitoring the emotions / thoughts / images of this child: what ‘he’ feels, ‘we’ feel, you see: what ‘he’ remembers with vivid clarity – ‘we’ remember – and see.  This goes ‘down’ to the ‘Scientist’ side and the ‘Recorder’ side for further analysis.  This, BTW, is a ‘for the record’ on how the system works; we take notes; perhaps some of you do, too.)  Now we are letting the child speak for himself.  We will ‘back’ out; let the ‘editing’ side take over, and let this thing be done.  It is in the interest of healing, understanding better the child’s emotions; reduce his sense of the betrayals done, etc. ad infinitum in an effort to aid the child we’ve come to first: understand his motivations, b) emphathize with his emotions; c) explain to him his physical state, d) give him reason to both love and trust ‘us’, e) reduce the tensions between Matthew, the teenage controller emerging after him (whose behaviors were in fact determined by this child’s emotions and his conclusions – as Matthew’s come to realize in this ongoing on-line ‘therapy’ session – and whose behaviors were passed on to us (among us would be a better term; not all parts share the same ‘sessions’ or similar effects from this abuse).

(4/21/11 0730 hrs) *Note: We wrote most of this before we re-read and posted “The Party” – and after reading “The Party” we confirmed: so many details are the same: this memory (as I and we know and knew) – is entirely accurate; captured on the VHS recorder of the child’s mind; entered into the notebooks of time (the Scholar/Notekeeping recording device) in our mind.  🙂  Now we know why we are being so cautiously redundant in this thing: checking facts, again and again, not willing to overlook even the smallest detail – because in those details we are finding some understanding of the child in us; ourselves, our motivations for the things we’ve done and do; and discovering the qualities of richness and interconnection within our life.

4/21/11 done: – Note: we don’t care about any typos in the message below; this was between me (M3) and my child (m1).  We are trying to get to grips with issues affecting M2 about this child’s behavior and emotional patterns; reduce frictions between M2 and self.  anyway: done.

(4/19/11 pm)  So why ask why?  In order to understand and heal this child – and to understand ourselves better; our motivations and the whys and hows of things that were done; burnt bridges, to be sure, but their skeletal remains affected our paths, much as a downed bridge would affect your own.

(start of child’s ‘testimony’, as we referred to it in the olden days of Trial and Punishment – yes, there’s still a hard heart of anger there; we can feel it … Matthew, perhaps; he is in hiding.)

We were in the truck; it was an old truck, very heavy, with a camper built on the back of it.  It was a two room camper; small made mostly of plywood and with no windows.  Very hot and stuffy in there.

Anyway we got invited to a ‘party’ that meant we could spend the night over there; it was all right then there was his little brother approximately my age and my older brother would be there too.

But when we got inside it was dark and it was hot and stuffy hard to breath and there wasn’t a lot of room in there.  So this teenager friend gets the room ‘upstairs’ I’m meaning the first room which was the second room; the one closer to the cab than the back where you got in and

then this teenager he has us coming up to him; yeah, we all kinda did it one at a time and yeah he had us competing to see who in there was good enough (to finish him off) and he’d call me up to scuk on his thing then well sometimes someone else and then I wasn’t good enough so he had my friend his brother ya know and we both held him and he sent us away.

Then we were doing it my friend and I while he (the teenager) did it with my brother cuz’ I wanted to do it for him but I lost and I was really sad cuz he didn’t want me.

(Okay, he’s quit talking)

Elvis’s (creative side’s) Interpretation:

Mikie had gotten invited to a ‘party’.  At least that was what it was whispered to be among the little children involved; information given out in hints by the teenager.

Mikie was approximately 10; the teenager at least 16 or so (+/- 1 yr).  The teenager had built a ‘camper shell’ out of plywood; a long low thing in the Southern heat; sat out in the back yard of the teenager’s house.  The truck was indeed old; I’ve just come to realize we’ve modeled that truck in OUR truck in that story we’ve written, “The Boy”.  Yup indeed: that was the truck, minus the camper (which didn’t last long; his dad tore it down in a few days; needed the thing – the truck that is.)

He and his brother are invited to come along; there, too, is Mikie’s best friend, the teenager’s younger brother – and yes, there were incestual relationships going on; some of them very bad ones (the teenager ‘pegged’ (Matthew’s word) the teenager’s youngest sister – Mikie’s ‘girl friend’ and sometime later, ‘wife’ friend – when she was only 6 years old.)

So they showed up that evening – about twilight time (I’m seeing it: sand lot back yard; some scrub oak and pines, rambling building in the  background – more on that one day) – and clamber into this truck.

Well, the heat of the day is trapped inside, and the teenager takes the ‘front’ room – the one nearest the cab.  The height of this thing isn’t much more than 3 or 4 feet; it is indeed very stuffy and hot; something which makes an impression on Mikie because what is going to happen later.

The teenager begins calling them one-by-one up to him; pants pulled down; they’re orally sodomizing him (okay, kinda weird and backwards; think ‘sex orgy’ sort of: loser goes down on the other).  And hot sweaty skin; hot confines; heat and more heat – and of course this is a kid and it’s almost a man sodomizing him; yeah it hurts and tears some and makes him leak tears onto the guy’s dick.  But he does it anyway; this thing, like that one (okay, we’re gonna have to figure that out later) – and it hurts him and chokes him

and then the teenager sends him away.  He’s stuck there with his brother in the ‘back room’, but there’s nothing to do; him and his brother aren’t on the best of terms ya know anyway.

And so then this teenager sticks his head in and announces he wants Mikie’s brother, and then so slowly his brother reluctantly moves forward (unlike Mikie and Mikie’s best friend, Bro was never one to do these sort of things willingly) – and Bro and Mikie’s best friend are doing the teenager – and then something happens (?? we don’t know) – a fight of some sort perhaps; it becomes ‘hotter’.

Then best friend is ‘sent back’ to the ‘back room’ where he and Mikie begin ‘doing things’.  But in Mikie’s heart he’s hurting; he wanted to do it with his friend – and yet the teenager as well (acceptance by the both of them, we can feel this thing: two brothers ‘lovin’ ” on him, okay, him on them as well: can you say “using” perhaps even double penetration? Happened sometimes; not bad; he just sort of ‘went away’ on a soft white cloud of ‘loving’: that’s his words, not mine; no matter what we’re remembering – or what’s forgotten, lost in that ‘white cloud of love’ — Mikie was happiest then sometimes . . . and yet sometimes deeply troubled, suspecting perhaps we know: suspecting that what was happening to him wasn’t right sometimes; sometimes they’d fight with him, hurting him: these were kids, ya know

(sigh!  literally wiping the sweat off my brow: yeah, it’s already hot down here in the south, and this was in the middle of summer).

Analysis:

Rejection number 1.  Age?  9? 10?  But he’s perceiving it as a rejection; and he’s picked up on OUR thoughts that “hey, he was growing; the teenager showed a propensity towards younger children; approximately between the ages of 6 and 8? Tapering off at 10? – and trying to explain to him (and he’s slowly coming to accept this, we thing: it’s not your fault.  It’s his.  The teenager’s.  Yeah, maybe he loved you some – but maybe he was also using you.  (This brings a lightbulb on in child’s mind: he knows what comes next, in the ‘next’ story in this blog entry.)

And then there was that “competing” thing; asked (no, forced by his desire to feel accepted and wanted by the teenager; something that felt ‘kinda like’ love.)  The feeling of being used as a ‘pawn in a game’ (yeah, this little kid could play chess, BTW: his father had taught him; never letting him win, and always soundly beating him: but this kid kept on, stoic and stubbornly: never say ‘quit’ seeming to be his motto sometimes, LOL  HE says “until the past part was gone” meaning the last piece, but then again, he’s talking the ‘lost part’ now … something we need to be looking into.) (<- end this section done 4/19/11)

4/21/11 0830 hrs:

We have realized: we’re gonna have to talk to Mikie some.  TRIGGER WARNINGS: Do not attempt if you aren’t ready to ‘go here’.  We have a strong feeling that for those of you who ‘hate’ or ‘dislike’ or are even ashamed of your ‘inner child’ and the actions ‘they’ve done’ – don’t even go here.  It will cause system disorder and chaos, since YOUR own system may begin to rebel; begin asking these same sort of questions of YOUR inner children; causing you potential harm and damage.  So be safe, okay?  (We are having a hard time typing w/o typos, LOL, this things to the bursting point; the fact that ‘bursting point’ contains a hard pun for us isn’t a joke, BTW … okay, going there: scientist/analyst mind pushing; little boy coming thru’)

S) Mikie.  (shhh .. .. sit down with me a minute; then you can go run off on the beach … yeah, I know it’s gonna be hard, little one, but you gotta sit still and tell me what you know are knowing you know?)  M1 nodding head; tousled sand blond hair today; cropped kinda short: yeah, these children’s appearances can change .. moving on

S) Mikie.  Tell me.  Going back.  I want you to remember when you were in that truck.

remembering

Okay, tell me; FEEL me this one:

How did you feel when you were sucking that guy’s dick (Mikie flinches a bit/ we all feel his anxiety and confusions .. and he feels

this: we felt sick and afraid but we were lonely and wanting him looking up at him with his dick in our mouht and it felt good knowing him and loving him like that but I was wanting him to love on me some TOO and he (that son-of-a bitch) didn’t wanna love me BACK none and then it was so fucking hot in there sweat sweat mvoing around and I’m gonna be sick and then he says ‘move on’ moving me away and then my friend (my best friend – S) his age) is there and we’re both doing this ting tongues touching tryiing to please him and my freind laughs and its no good he’s teasing me tickling me DOWN THERE my friend is and the teenager he doesn’t care and then he shoved us OFF of him says come in my freind to my little* (big) brother but theres twoo many in there so he shoves me off with him foot and shoves me out the door into the back then ..my freidn comes in too a littel while laters and we are doing it shoving little dicks in each others mouths meaningwhile THEY are humping it up in THERE and i’m listening to him while I’m doing it with my freind I’m JEALOUS dna I”M MAD at him cuz’ he doen’st want me up in there just him and my little brother who’s not so small he’s kinda big my own brother; yeah and thats cuz I reckon he’s my big brother and I HATE HIM, the fucking both of them for not making me feel good instead of him mother fucker didn’t make love to me at all

Mikie: enough.  We got it.  You felt hate and anger and jealousy; you had to listen to ‘them’ making love while you were relegated to making love with your friend which we can feel was okay by YOU but NOT as good as making love with your friend’s bigger (oh so much and bigger we know we KNOW we can FEEL it dogdammit!)

Jeez; I reallywe really HATE those body sensations: but recording for posterity: choking sensation like lumps in the throat; too much salivia in mouth; hurting aching feeling way deep down in chest; a little bit of (no … not anxiety; but? – – sadness, a great pooling lake of some kind of sweet sadness and sense of losing – loss?)

Okay (christ i hate that kinda stuff; ALL of us do – M3)

gonna go mow grass; let DA and Sarge fight my kind of battles (Mr. Fixer Upper here) – while Iandwe go and ponder this thing. (end entry 4/21/11 0900 hrs)

(4/21/11 1600 hrs)

Okay, Mikie, we’re gonna start again (Elvis typing, Mikie sitting here with me on comfy (NOT!) old piano bench; dusty auditorium as usually (sighing, dusting off the keys here), M3 sitting ‘in the background, Mr. Monitor).

(M3): Mikie: remembering what you were doing – how’d you feel the very next day?

(common little fella, remembering: yes, it was a bright and sunny morning for us, too, in there)

Okay, he’s coming out.

Here’s the deal:

Mikie:  I don’t understand.

M3: (soft sigh; knowing he didn’t explain things right; this is a child man: yes he can read your mind; but he’s BALKING)

you know (m3)

Okay I’m gonna tell.  I’m coming out the truck; got my bedroll moms blankets and things and we’re coming out the truck down the tailgate and all and walking (my feet are bare cool sand feels squishy nice underneath ) towards my house its right there the red one but gotta walk around the fence its to keep the dogs in (1 dog; BAD memory yuck yuck yuckkkk!)

Okay; (JEEZUS!) that’s a bad one I understand; we’re not going there today, M1, o’tay (soft gently okay stroking his hair m3 is)

O’tay, I want you to tell me aboutt your feelings: about how you felt about your friends when you got outta the truck; how’d you feel/

Come on mikie you can tell me.

fucking telephoneoj;asawoweajg@!11!!!!

M3) take the phone off the fucking hook.  (done by system)

o’tay, back where we are.

Mikie sorry about that how were you feeling?   (okay)

Okay, here goes: Tell me: on that wonder beautiful morning (yes we can feel this in his heart he is enjoying the morning sooo! much after being trapped in that damned truckall night long)

okay, here we go: Mikie, tell me something: how did you feel about your friend – your best friend B…. after this: how do you feel about him now?

okay

I love him i lve him i’ve alwasy loved him he is so good to me we fight sometimes but he is my bestest ever friedn and he and i’m been doing thing thing and its okay tho’ sometimes he pissed in my mouth but its okay I stopped him he’s laughing now; thats how I knwe it didn’t taste good b

Mikie: How did the incident in the truck affect you?  How can you see him now?

I love him he is  my best freind and I love him more cuz’ him and me were doin it and not the teenager he’d done kicked me out an then him so then we were togeather and ti felt real good beng with him.

So you loved him more for doing this: why?

Cuz he was with me insdie and out and he was another losing child like me we both lost in this game me and my brother won; he did, my brother won but B… didn’t so he ahd to come join me just like I knew he wuld the teenager was after my brother not him and I so my brother won and I HATE HIM SO FUCKING MUCH!

O’tay little mikie its okay; so you hated your brother for winnng in the sexual game

Yes i hated him always sometimes he made me do kissing and things with his fuckin tongue and i don’t LIKE it make me sick

Okay, little mikie: I wanna ask you something: how did you feel about the teenager?

(this is hard he wants to answer as soon as I think the question; that is our normal mode of operation; but wanna get this down: further research into things we gotta keep track; mind getting crowded; 3 TOPS ON TOP AT MOST you guys  jeeezus backing off there; they know, they realise (sighing – ol’ Elvis sighing here; wiping virtual ‘sweat’ off my fucking brow with the — oooo, nice – they’ve given me ‘his’ (the real Elvis’s) white sequined jacket those damn sequines hurt! I’m telling ya, LOL, going on time for mikie)

Okay: about the damned teenager: your friend; I didn’t mean to hurt you I know you love him (loved him?)  a lot okay my little man it’s okay go on (sorry I didn’t mean to call you little man sorry forgotten right there it’s okay: about this teenager? my friend?)

we don’t feel so good about him it was hot and muggy in that truck and WE LOST (crying crying sad sad crying okay ‘that day’ isn’t looking so good right now; beauty is gone/ ignored; bad thing) – it’s okay Mikie: tell me: what are you feeling about him?

He betrayed us (translation of what he is feeling; no child has these kinds of words).  Hurt hurt goes way deep down inside; not as bad as what is coming (he knows what is coming; it is our future shared; therefore we ALL know the next step down the line, the really bad one, not the one before, the one where we did it the first time THAT was a bad one too already written going to be posted in blog ‘my first time’ btw there so  you know folks (sigh)

Enough for now.  We can’t do this thing long.  it hurts going inside like that.  And we have to process the information: but –

4/19/11 (pm?)
Incident Number Two: (note: 4/21/11: we realize: we need to ‘start’ another ‘blog entry’ for the upcoming; this one is up to 3500+ words; too long.  Need a ‘fresh start on the next one – but we’ll leave what we started below)

4/19/11 (pm?)

So this little kid begs him; teenager does his thing; rolls off, mocking and laughing.
Two weeks later, the teenager ‘outs’ him in front of all his friends and neighbors (the teenager’s friends, not the ‘real’ ones, the people who lived in the houses)

You wanna talk shame? And embarrassment? Little kid vehemently denies, then runs away crying.

End of relationship, but not quite.

Anyway, what does this do to a child’s outlook on sex? And the whole wide world of ‘loving’ and ‘love’ and affection.

For one thing, he makes him not want to reach out to people. He’s tried that in the past – and figuratively, got his arm bit off and heart ripped out, and betrayed – publically speaking.

Makes him kinda shy, don’t you think? Always seeing some kind of harm in a loved one’s eye and / or in their embrace?

That fear of being mocked and used again (that damn kid; we wish he didn’t have access to OUR own memories; HE compares himself to a ‘dirty rubber’ and a ‘used condom’. Not with hate, but lonely sadness. Our special child (inside hug).

*once we realized that this was going to span several days – and that we were adding notes as we ‘discovered’ or realized something – it became more important to us (and perhaps some researcher out there) – to document the dates when ‘what’ happened.  Make sense?  It does to us: satisfies that intensive and thorough ‘scientist and researcher’ mind of ours: record ALL data in hopes that it will give us some ‘survival benefit’ (insights) later on.

This Was Mikie's Home in Our Mind for Many Years


This is in preparation for an upcoming post; part of the on-line analysis we are doing.  Forgive us if this becomes redundant; this isn’t about you; it’s about healing.  We’re going to backtrack to see where we were when we last analyzed this.  Lately, we’ve become aware and have realized there were several critical and life/emotionally altering experiences which had profound and lasting effects on our’s, and other’s lives.

Why here? Why not?  Let someone else see the process; what we’re doing; trying to grow into a better, happier person in our pursuit of life, and this thing: ‘happiness‘.  Maybe some get a kick out of it (see what the nut is doing); for others it may help.  At the least, it’s an on-going documentary of one person’s life going through the journey of DID, healing from child abuse, and many other things.

Just a bit of forewarning – because of the intensity of the effects of this whole time period: we’re going to look at it hard, in detail.  After all; this is the beginning of M2 (the next controller) being created.  This, and some following events, were the seed of extreme damage being planted in a child’s mind, and in his psyche – one that would affect his relationships from here on; indeed, for his entire lifetime.  Nuff’ about that.  TRIGGER WARNING, okay?  Be careful and be safe with yourself.

Moving on: Tokoni: May 27, 2009.  (Not the first time we’ve examined this series of events, the emotions that it caused . . . feeling a sickening shudder; and realizing who it is, I gently embrace our inner child with love).


Time? Approximately 1969.  Hard to determine; as many of these things are, these disturbing things that went on in “the ‘hood“. My fault, of course. I should of kept better track, I reckon. But how was I to know? (How COULD I know? Did I know? I don’t know. All I know is that I knew it was ‘bad’ — meaning the grownups would not approve, and this was something to be kept hidden.) I do know it was around the time of the Apollo landing, for the camper in this tale of sexual abuse existed on the night man landed on the moon. You have to forgive me, and I hope you understand, if on some the ‘dates’ are fuzzy. After all, I was a little kid.

On with the story.

There were times when the teenager next door would invite some of us little kids to “go camping”. We called it “camping” though it was a night in one of our ‘forts’, our itty bitty Army pup tent, or in this instance, the back of his dad’s old truck. In reality they weren’t camp-outs – they were sex orgies for the him and us little kids.

In this one instance when I was about eight the teenager had built a two-room “fort” like a little camper on the back of his father’s dead truck. It was made from discarded plywood, and had a wall about 1/3rd of the way in towards the cab with a hole cut in it as a ‘door’. There was a roof on this thing; again, constructed from old plywood and shingles, perhaps a little tin, though the entire structure was flimsy. That didn’t matter to us, nor the teenager, I guess, because we used it a often for play and other things.  (Once we built a giant underground fort in his backyard – same purpose, different design, and another story altogether.)

This one particular night my brother, I, and my best friend (the teenager’s younger brother) had gotten ‘invited’ to go ‘camping’ with the teenager in the back of the truck. Most of our ‘forts’ were shabby affairs, constructed underground, and because the grownups considered underground forts too dangerous, we weren’t supposed to be digging one, much less existing in them. So that made this fort more unique, and a desirable place to hang out. Unlike dirt forts, it didn’t leak when it rained; but like the dirt ones, it had no windows for anyone to ‘peep in’, thereby lessening the risk of chance exposure and/or discovery.  It also made it hot as hell in the sun, which is why we preferred our forts underground, no matter how dangerous it was.  We just didn’t realize.  Later one of my friends & I did, to our horror..

On this night – I really remember it good — it was very hot and muggy in that plywood and metal ‘bin’. It had to have been summer, hence the muggy heat, and our parent’s permission to ‘camp out”. The ‘front’ room, nearest the cab, was the teenager’s “room”.  The rest of us were told we could sleep near the tailgate. It seemed as soon as we got in the teenager had us begin to have sex with each other, then we went to ‘compete’ for his ‘affections’.

You can imagine what the competition was: who could perform the ‘best’ oral sex on him. He’d have my brother, then I, then his brother come in – ‘work’ for awhile, doing our best to PROVE we were the best – the youngest and the most eager, and loving it – then he would dismissing that kid and call the next in to see if he was any or worse than the previous one. Whoever was left in the ‘outer’ room had to have sex with whoever was there (the losers). Needless to say, given young boy’s highly competitive natures, and my own drive for something resembling love, affection, and acceptance, I did my best with all that entails. I didn’t care if I choked.  I swallowed him with pride, going as deep as I dared to, until my throat hurt and my lips felt chapped and raw. If you’ve ever performed oral sex with a guy, you know what I mean. But here’s the thing: I was thrilled to be there, glad to be there, and would do anything he wanted as far as I could. And unless you’ve been there you have no idea what that really means in a little child.

At any rate both my best friend and I ‘lost’.  My brother had the enviable luxury of spending the night with with the teenager. Of course my friend and I made up for this as best we could – we did for each other what we’d done for the teenager, because the teenager, hearing our pleas to come in and be allowed to take part in the party, had ordered us to ‘do each other’. Which we then did. But my heart wasn’t really in it; I wanted to be in the other room, with the teenager, feeling him, being with him, and having that feeling of love and acceptance it brought (even if it was, in reality, just being used — something I have trouble accepting, with parts of me calling that child of the past “stupid” and “dumb” — even though I know logically that it was due to lack of love in my ‘real’ life, meaning “at home”. (Update, Aug. 29, 2017: It’s no longer true: we love him. It still makes us sad, but we’ve come to love him, and forgive the teenager a good bit.)

To this day I feel that sense of rejection he made when he chose my brother – my usually sexually reluctant brother – while I performed oral sex with my friend. It was the first of several sexual, mental, and emotional cruelties the teenager was to inflict.  In a way it’s kind of weird in I was still having sex – I just wasn’t having sex with the one I wanted. Odd, I think, that to this day I still resent my brother getting the ‘favored’ position of ‘treating’ the teenager that night; how I kept looking towards that ‘door’ hoping he would call me in to participate – while ‘going down’ on my best friend. It made me feel bad, unworthy at best — and hurt me emotionally. But on the other hand — I cursed myself for wanting it. While on the other hand I now know why I wanted it (love). While on the other hand it makes me sick to think I wanted it that bad. But on the other hand (running out of hands yet?), I wasn’t ‘good’ enough for my ‘friend’, the teen I so admired and wanted to be like. But on the other hand — I tried my heart out to be good enough. And yet on the other hand . . . well, I ran out of hands a few hands ago, but you get the picture — a very confused and sexually – and in terms of love, abused – child, faced with all this crap.  I hope you can see how this can kind of mess a child up. It wasn’t so much society’s views on sex as a child – or how ‘bad’ it might be.  It was that sense of betrayal and rejection by one you loved, and who you thought loved you . . . but then you had proved not to be good enough for them, or at least not for this most intimate of things, and times, and possible closeness.  (Sometimes he just used us, like a rubber or a balloon. Then again sometimes he would be nice & hold you afterwards, especially when he’d got done having anal sex with you.  It felt nice having him on your back, butt burning.)

You’d think that rejection would of lost some of its sting by now. (Update 4/29/’16): and it has.)  But that wasn’t the worst of what was in store later. I would find there was something that could cut and hurt even worse. But we’ll save that for another time. I can only take so much at a time. The thing to remember is: it wasn’t always ‘one-on-one’. Sometimes it was a ‘party’. Only it wasn’t a ‘party’. It was a kid orgy. And the kids weren’t reluctant to participate – indeed, we all were VERY willing, compliant, eager little subjects. And like a disease this disease was transmitted from one kid to another, to another, to another – eventually infecting almost every kid in the ‘hood.

Enough for now. I’m saddened and disgusted with my younger self, the so-called “child within”. It’s things like this which make it very hard for me to accept ‘him’ – no matter what the shrinks said I should do. And I hope you can kind of understand this — because I’m still trying to get some handles on it. (must of ran out of hands . . . some time back, I reckon.) Oh well, so be it. Sometimes life screws you up — and you never DO get a hand on it. (Okay, I’ve got a few bitter chuckles now, sorta mean to myself, but hey . . . that’s life, too, I reckon.)


Note the ending: WE ARE SURPRISED!  This is NOT how we are feeling NOW towards that child; Jeffery showed us the way: through love and understanding we feel compassion towards him; yes, a fringe of disgust; but that again appears to be from M2 (hates his moniker right now; though he agreed: system agreed: it would do this to protect him and his identity.)

But we find it of interest to note: THIS WAS OUR ATTITUDE THREE YEARS AGO: “ . . . saddened and disgusted with my younger self . . . make it very hard for me to accept ‘him’ . . .”  NOT our attitude today!

I think it a remarkable improvement that we have changed our attitude towards him (our inner child, sweetly misled inner one; so tender and cute and full of love that was denied – and thrown back in his face …. shhh, little one; we’ll talk about that one later, my  love and my child; the one I once was inside.)


The Girl Next Door
(Tokoni, 05/06/2009)



When I was about three or four, there was this little girl who lived next door. I don’t remember a lot about her family; only that there were a LOT of snakes that lived under their house. We were always finding snakes in their yard – and ours – since our house practically butted up against their own.

This little girl – she must have been about my age, perhaps a little bit older. Now that I think of it, she must have been a little older – at least a half year, if not by one. She had curly blond locks and always wore a simple frock dress, with white panties underneath.

Now this was back in a simpler day and time when parents weren’t so protective of their children, and we were often turned loose to go run into the woods where we would play all day (or at least a couple of hours). I remember this tree that stood in our back yard, right on the edge of the woods – it was so tall, a lone pine that stood out and above all others. I would watch that tree during the storms, swaying against the storm struck sky, swaying wildly in the wind – afraid that it would come crashing down on our house, killing us all or something. . .

Anyway, back in these woods was a hole. Not really a hole, perhaps, but a fairly deep depression, filled with pine straw and the scent of musty needles. This little girl – I can’t recall her name – would come over to our back steps – they were about five runners high, entirely made of brick – and ask me out to play. My mom, not knowing what was going on, would often let me out.

This little girl (I wish I could recall her name!) would then take me by the hand and we’d go out into the woods; deep into them (though it probably really wasn’t that far), and she would lead me to that hole.

Then she’d have me undress, and would poke it in my behind – right where the ‘you know what’ comes out – and have me parade around for her, walking like a little soldier, around and around that hole, while she giggled and watched and encouraged me to stuff that stick in a little further.  And yes – it hurt bad, but because we wanted a friend, some acceptance – we complied.

Then she would throw her dress up (which is how I know she had white cotton panties), and fondle me, and sometimes she would have me lay on her and ‘do stuff’. I don’t know what stuff she was having me do – I doubt I ever succeeded in full penetration – but the thing I do remember most is walking around with that stick shoved up my ass, and her giggling and watching me do it. That was when I learned that girls weren’t built quite like me and my brother – they had nothing ‘down there’, but what they did have was . . . both interesting, and boring (because there was nothing there.)

But I’ll never forget parading around like that, looking (I guess) somewhat like a little puppy dog, with a pine branch hanging out my butt.

Later one day we were walking through the woods back on the way to our house when we came across a group of girls. They were older than me or my precocious little friend, and suddenly one of them bent over, exposing herself. I looked at her butt and what I saw was this little hole (maybe she was farting or something – I don’t know) – and I felt this sense of shock, along with a certain knowledge.

That was where my pecker belonged.

But she straightened back up, throwing her dress back down, and laughing cruelly at us two ‘little kids’, they went on their own way, and me on mine.

Later – much later – though it may have been only a few weeks or months, the little girl showed back up on my doorstep, asking if I wanted to go out and play. Of course I did – she and I had been playing this game for ages – but when I went to the back door and saw her on the top step, my brother was standing there. He had a metal bucket in his hand, and as I opened the screen door to go outside, he did something.

He took that bucket and with everything he had, he swung it upside her head. I know it drew blood because I could see it there – right on her forehead – plus there was a red rim on the red bucket that was redder than all the rest.

The little girl ran away, never to come back again.

I lost my friend that day, all due to a jealous brother who didn’t understand (or perhaps he did, that’s why he did what he did) – and have ever since wondered why.

Why did he hit her so hard, driving my friend away?

Why did she have me shoving that stick up my ass? Was something going on in her own home that I was unaware of?

Where did she learn something like that?

And right there at the top of all my questions is the one: how did I know that my ‘thing’ belonged in that girl’s ‘hole’ when she exposed herself to me?

Answers I don’t know; questions I’ll always ask, things to wonder about.

Life is strange sometimes.