There was a time when I was a virgin (well, I still am, but on my blog I like to pretend otherwise, maybe I’ll hook up with one of the supermodels with adventurous lives who read it). I thought I tell you some stories from those times - but I have to warn you: you might end up wishing you didn’t read it. I shall call this series “Intimations from the Age of Innocence.”

My first “sexual memories” from childhood are rather disturbing – at least, they disturb me. (And, btw, “intimations” is a word I learned from Wordsworth.)

In what is probably my earliest memory (was I yet in kindergarten?), it was a lazy, wonderful summer, I was 3, 4 or 5 and playing with a girl one year older than me. She’d lay down on her back on a big log in the riverbanks and I would lift up her skirt and start playing with her pussy. I was quite independent as a kid and seldom did what I was told – I was a rebel way before knowing what it means or that chicks dig it – but when I was with her I felt this strange, inexplicable obligation to do that until she’d tell me to stop. For some reason, we did this at least once a day and perhaps the perfume of the verboten fruit was what kept me going. I may have even initiated it a few times.

Sooner rather than later I started feeling strangely left out of this equation. This activity felt unfair, as she was going through some kind of transformation of sorts, while I was getting a CTS (and this is way before Seymore Butts taught us in Tushy Girls how to build stamina for G-spot hand stimulation). I got bored and frustrated and I started to experiment by deviating from the gentle crescendo into a random jerking mode, causing her to yell “not like that” and other similarly concerned statements. But that wasn’t enough. I threatened her I’ll tell my grandfather what was going on. Maybe I was afraid that I was “hurting” her and felt guilty, or maybe I picked up on her own sense of guilt and wanted to play with it, I can’t remember, but I had no intention to actually rat on her, I was only teasing her.

Next thing, a few hours after uttering my threat and then getting back home, my grandfather came into my room. I don’t think I had seen him this angry before. His eyes were burning as he told me I know what you’re doing and I want you to stop right away! I can’t remember if I was playing the fool or if I was trying to figure it out myself, but telling him that I didn’t know what he meant did not mollify him.

I was quite angry with her: she did to me what I only threatened to do but had no intention of doing. Also, it was most likely her that got me to do those things to her – yes, I was born with certain instincts, but finding the clit could not have possibly been in my genes – in my jeans at most. I didn’t want to see her again but the circumstances forced us to be together. We weren’t allowed to go to the river again on our own and besides I was upset so we spent our next few days indoors.

Either because I still felt the need to explore but her body was now off-limits, or because I did not want to see her again, I started going under the bed or behind other furniture and not coming out. That scared her so I started playing on that by declaiming in what I wanted to be a ghost-like voice but probably came out more like Peter Griffin. Regardless, it did scare her and predictably, she told on me yet again.

Most people learn from their mistakes, but I’m not one of them. I should’ve learned that girls have this propensity to rat on you whether they are guiltier than you or not and have none of the qualms boys have about appealing to a higher authority; also, they don’t seem to experience the relatively greater shame of the situation they place themselves in, taking comfort / Schadenfreude in the proportionally smaller discomfort they are causing you. Perhaps this is the reason why most women I slept with (with very few exceptions) were much eager to film our sexual escapades than I ever was.

plane Lolita

She reacted by doing the same to me, even though I wasn’t touching her at all. While my raising of voice caused almost no reaction, when she did it, everybody in that transatlantic flight turned toward me with horrified eyes. I felt sick. Not only that I had failed miserably in getting her to let me read, but now people seemed to think that I was manipulating her into having sex with me while making it seem that it’s her desire (as most pedophiles are apparently very adept at doing). When we stopped to refuel (Dublin, Belfast or another unusual city, most likely), the girl asked me if she can go with me to see the airport. I was considering my options (I was actually concerned that she was so crazy she might do something stupid and despite the evidence to the contrary, for some reason I felt I can protect and handle her), when a flight attendant told us curtly, adding insult to the injury, “I will go with her.”

What has happened with the airplane Lolita is very clear to me, but my weird compulsion to push the riverbank girl’s buttons still bothers me. Was it biological programming? Had one of us been previously abused? Was I precocious or just doing what boys have always done? Was I more like Edward Scissorhands than Edward PenisHands?

Sources / More info: [weird al] [madonna] seymore, CTS, imdb-es