Over the next few years, I began experiencing my peculiar
nature, or at least a nature
viewed as peculiar by so many people for much of my life. I knew
my peculiarities weren't
wrong, or bad, but I didn't have sufficient awareness to
articulate my needs or defend my
right to them. Which is why, my intuition warning me, I kept them
to myself.
One example was a song that came out in 1947,
``Ballerina'',
by Vaughn Monroe and
his orchestra. The words held a special fascination for me, as
did the rhythm. ``Dance,
Ballerina, Dance, and do your pirouette in rhythm with your
aching heart. Dance, Ballerina,
Dance, you mustn't once forget a dancer has to dance a part.
Whirl, Ballerina, Whirl, and
just ignore the chair that's empty in the second row. This is
your moment girl, although he's
not out there applauding as you steal the show. Once you said his
love must wait its turn,
you wanted fame instead, I guess that's your concern, we live and
learn, and love is gone,
ballerina gone. So on with your career you can't afford a
backward glance. Dance on and on
and on, a thousand people here have come to see the show, as
round and round you go. So
ballerina dance. Dance! Dance!''
Eight years old and I whirled to that song. I adored it, was
moved by it, and I knew
my folks, particularly my father, wouldn't have liked my singing
and dancing. I have no
recollection of my father ever singing or dancing. The closest he
ever came was when he did
the calling for the square dances down at the Grange Hall. Dad
did like ``a good fiddle.''
That was it. A son dancing and spinning to a song meant for a
girl would have been more
than a little ``displeasin'.''
So, at eight years old, I would sneak the record player and
that precious record into my room when my parents were out, that
record and a few others I can only vaguely remember. They were
mostly melancholy songs, with moody tempos."The Old Lamp
Lighter","Harbor Lights","Indian Love Call","Ghost Riders in the
Sky","Cool, Cool, Water"and "Nola" are the only ones
that come readily to mind, although there were a couple more.
There, alone in my room, I would sing and dance. With a slight
chagrin, I recall misunderstanding the phrase
in the song where it says, ``a dancer has to dance a
part.'' I
thought, like me, the dancer had
to dance ``apart'', hidden from view. I felt sorry for
her, and thought she must have been a lonely little girl. Having
secrets, I knew only too well, was a lonely business.
------------------
In 1950, Dad became Assistant Coach for the Dufton Hardware,
Clearfield's Junior
League Baseball team. He wanted me to play and naturally, he
expected I would be good at
it. He was sadly mistaken. I was eleven years old, relegated to a
farm team, and I was
wretched. At bat, I struck out almost every time and I couldn't
catch a ball nearly that well.
My only consolation was that my teammates weren't any better. In
one game we resigned
after the first inning. The score was 26 to zero and we hadn't
put a single man out. Dad was
ashamed of me. How could I, his flesh and blood, be such a dismal
ball player? I was
ashamed too. I wanted to please my father, and I tried hard. I
tried harder than any of the
boys. Even my father noticed and commented, ``Why do you work
so
damn hard at
everything you do? Baseball's suppos'd to be fun. You'll do
better if you just relax and enjoy
it.''
I hated baseball. I would have hated it if I had been good at
it. I played hard because
I wanted to be a good boy for my father, the boy my father
wanted. When I was at bat I
swung with all my might. The few times I got lucky and hit the
ball, I ran the bases as if my
life depended on it. Out in the field, I chased balls the same
way I ran bases. Although I
hated baseball, I played hard at it, hoping to gain my father's
respect.
My father was right. I worked hard at everything I did.
Everything I did was at breakneck speed and full strength, not
just baseball. Moreover, I kept
at things longer than the
other kids. I never knew when to quit. Neighbor kids would play
with me, get tired and go
home, and other kids would take their place. My folks were often
angry when I refused to come in the house or refused to go to
sleep. Eyes drooping, exhausted, I forced myself to stay awake.
Many was the times I wouldn't quit until one of my parents,
usually Dad, hauled me in the house, walloped my ass, and threw
me in my bed.
I was trying hard to be a good boy for my family. That was
what they told me I was
and I believed them. I wasn't sure what it meant to be a boy, why
I didn't like the things
boys liked, or
why it took such effort to do things boys do, but I devoted all
my energy to being one. Of
course nothing is all bad. When my father's team won a game,
which was often, he would
celebrate by taking Mom and I out for milk shakes.
In 1951, the following year, Dad was promoted to Coach. Dad
had sweated through
the summer teaching me to hit a pitched ball. After a fashion, he
succeeded. I could hit the
ball. Not hard. Which was part of his teaching, not to swing
"so damn hard." The result was, I wasn't good for
many home runs, but it was almost impossible to strike me out.
Then Dad put me on his team as a pinch hitter. Nepotism!
Everyone knew it. Especially me! The only thing I could do was
hit the ball. I still couldn't play on the field. None of the
boys said a disrespectful word. Which showed the respect they had
for Dad, but I sensed their disfavor. It showed in their eyes,
distant, when they looked at me, and their polite indifference
when I spoke to them.
Steeling myself, I asked Dad if I was on the team because I
was his son. He declared good pitch hitters were rare and
maintained I had made the team on my own effort. He
spoke intently, his brow wrinkled, his eyes wide, and his
hands flailing in the air. Dad was never comfortable when telling
a lie.
That year Dufton Hardware won the pennant. At the beginning of
the year Dad had
asked the guys if they wanted to win or if they wanted to have
fun. They said they wanted to
win. Dad said, ``Okay then, but before we're done you're gonna
think I'm the meanest son-of-a-bitch that ever lived.'' Not
only did they win the
pennant,
they won undefeated. After the last game they carried Dad around
the field on their shoulders, a victory dance. I
didn't feel like part of their victory. I wasn't part of their
victory. It was disturbing to know
my team had won and no one thought me a part of it. Not that I
wasn't happy for them, and for
Dad. They were all so pleased, and so proud prancing around the
baseball diamond. I
wandered around in the background, unnoticed and indifferent. It
was some consolation that the few times I had played during the
year, I hadn't made any grievous mistakes.
Later, I was to learn that I have been nearsighted most of my
life. If my father had known I needed glasses, I would surely
have played better. Still, it wouldn't have changed my attitude.
I didn't understand baseball. Not at all! Why would anyone want
to play the game? With all due respect to those
who do, I still don't
understand it. Notwithstanding, it's better to play baseball then
to watch it. Nothing in this world is more boring than watching a
ball game, unless it's watching a
double header. My father frequently took Mom and I to ball games,
often double-headers. In the ever popular psycho-babble of today,
he was obsessive. I even learned to hate the tasteless hot dogs
and watered down cokes they served at the games.
------------------
Sometime in July, 1951, I discovered masturbation. The
discovery process began early on a
Saturday morning and had nothing to do with any natural curiosity
concerning my body. Our home was a two story house, third down on
the right from the top of McBride street. McBride was the
steepest hill on the northside of Clearfield. At the top, where
the street ended, there was a flat paved area, and above that a
heavily wooded wilderness of brush which rapidly became heavily
wooded, eventually turning into a thick forest a mile of so
further in. Spreading down from the flat area the street was
paved and fell away rapidly. McBride, if you weren't careful,
could start a person running while simply strolling down it. Your
feet had a tendency to get away from you, moving faster
and faster as gravity tugged.
I was on my bike and riding down this angular hill, on my
way to baseball practice in my Dufton Hardware uniform, when I
heard Mom calling. I looked back over my shoulder. Always the
chronic worrier, Mom was shouting for me to be careful. Hardly
finishing a reassuring wave, head turned back over my shoulder, I
hit the bumper of a parked car.
Catapulted over the handlebars, I slammed into the front of
the car and slid down the grill. There was a sharp pain near the
base of my penis. Impaled on the corner of the license plate, I
screamed. There was no one to hear. Mom had already gone
back inside the house. Gritting my teeth I eased myself off the
metal edge penetrating my flesh. Standing for a
moment, uncertain what to do next, my legs shaky and wobbly,
shock was setting in. Weakness washed over me, lethargy. I could
scarcely stand. Then, adrenaline countered the shock. Terrified,
half-walking, half-running, I staggered up the hill and onto the
back porch. I pulled down my pants to survey the damage. My
shorts were drenched in blood. I pulled them down and
saw a large gash steadily spurting a bloody stream. As loud as I
could I screamed, ``Help! Help me!'' I don't remember
passing out, but my next clear memory is of the doctor's
office, stitches being administered.
It was nothing serious, a childhood accident, something
quickly recovered from and something quickly forgotten. Except
this childhood accident was to open up a whole new world for me.
At home the next day the wound began to ache. It wasn't
intense, just annoying. I rubbed myself to see if I could ease
the pain. It felt surprisingly good and the more I rubbed
the better it felt. I kept it up for awhile, finding as I rubbed,
the ache disappeared. In fact, I was feeling better and better,
moment by moment. I rubbed faster and faster, feeling better
all the time, and then, suddenly, a white goo erupted all over
me. Abruptly the pain returned. I was horrified! Had I reopened
my wound? What was that white goo? Was it pus? I made my
way to the bathroom and cleaned myself off. ``Everything looks
okay!'' I thought, ``Maybe I
didn't hurt anything.'' Throughout the day I'd slip into the
bathroom to see if I had seeped any more white goo, relieved to
discover nothing moist and sticky.
The next day, having determined no serious damage had been
done, I tried rubbing the pain away again, promising myself I'd
be careful this time. "No more white goo!" Shortly, the
white goo erupted once more. Not quite as frightened this time, I
noticed it came from inside the shaft of my penis, not from my
wound.
I was elated, thinking to myself, ``Wow! What great fun.
What an incredible discovery. Wait'll I tell everyone, I'll be
famous. Maybe even rich.'' I started to imagine how I could
go about selling this splendid idea. Surely, I could make a
profit on it.
My first impulse was to run and tell Mom and Dad about my
marvelous discovery, but then I remembered the taboo about
touching myself between my legs. Not wanting to get in
trouble, I decided to keep silent. "This had to be the reason
for the taboo. This had to be what I wasn't supposed to do, what
I wasn't supposed to learn." The thrill of discovery dampened
as I began to realize I wasn't the first person to discover this
remarkable pleasure.
``What was wrong with what I had discovered?'' I
questioned. Twelve years old, I knew nothing about sex, nothing
of how babies were made, and nothing about masturbation. Oh, I
had heard the word and knew some of the guys had said it was fun,
but I didn't know what it was they were talking about, and afraid
of looking stupid, I never asked. Suddenly, it dawned! What I had
discovered was this thing everyone called masturbation.
Now, I felt really stupid. Some incredible new discovery;
everyone was already doing it, everyone except me!
After a time I began to experiment with this new and exciting
activity. I tried scotch tape dispensers, cardboard cylinders
from toilet paper rolls, balled up toilet paper, towels,
washrags, and a silk half-slip from the dirty clothes hamper.
Silk felt cool, smooth and sensuous wrapped around my erection.
Other objects didn't work nearly as well.
I never fantasized about sex with anyone, men or women. I
didn't grasp what sex was, that two people could do it with
each other, or that it was how babies were made. I was
merely fiddling with myself. As far as I understood, masturbation
was a solitary pleasure with no purpose or design, except for
personal amusement. Eventually, of course, I figured out the
rest. Nevertheless, it's curious to recall an age when I was so
naive concerning life's major engrossment.
------------------
One afternoon, while I was in my room wearing a half-slip and
ready for some
serious fiddling, Dad yelled up the stairs. He wanted me to come
mow the yard. My desires
were frustrated for the moment, but in anticipation of returning
to my furtive activity at a
later time, I pulled my trousers up over the half-slip.
``Okay Dad! Coming,'' I yelled, bouncing down the
stairs two
at a time and rushing
for the kitchen door.
``HOLD IT,'' boomed my father's menacing voice from
behind me.
I froze, knowing
instantly I had been caught at something. ``What's that
sticking
out of your pants?'' Cold
shivers ran up and down my spine. I knew what it had to be. I
reached behind my back and
felt a huge wad of silk sticking out from my trousers. I cursed
my stupidity.
``You little bastard, if I ever catch you doing anything
like
that again, I'll beat the
holy living shit out of you,'' he screamed, as enraged as I
had
ever seen him. Dad whipped
my ass for fair and ordered me to never touch my mother's clothes
again. Still, I couldn't
understand why everyone was so touchy about masturbation, or why
wearing my mom's
clothes caused such a row. I did my best to make sure he never
caught me again.
------------------
A few weeks later I learned something disturbing. I learned
how seriously people took
wearing someone else's clothes, particularly clothes from the
opposite sex.
Mom and Dad invited Aunt Judy, my mother's sister, and Uncle
Louie, her husband,
over for a game of Canasta. I was supposed to be in my room
sleeping, but, as I often did, I
crept down to the foot of the stairs to listen to the adults
talk. Hiding in a small alcove just
off the landing I could see and hear everything while remaining
virtually invisible. It was a
favorite preoccupation, it was adventurous, and much better than
laying in bed. Mostly such
evenings consisted of smoking, drinking beer, telling off-color
jokes, swapping small talk,
and card play, very boring stuff. It was often hard to stay awake
listening for the good stuff.
Ah but once in awhile there was good stuff, stuff I knew I wasn't
supposed to hear or know
about.
This activity wasn't something new. I had been doing the same
thing, undetected, for
years. I was five and in my little alcove snooping when I
discovered there wasn't any Santa
Claus. I didn't let on what I knew. My parents had lied to me,
I'd lie to them. Let them give
me an extra gift from Santa. It was only fair. I was the first
kid in my neighborhood to learn
there wasn't any Santa and the last to admit I knew the truth.
As the evening rolled on the conversation seemed unusually
listless, until they
mentioned a story in the paper about some guy who was caught
stealing women's panties off
a clothesline. My ears perked up, my eyes opened wide, and I was
instantly alert.
Mom said he had to be sick, and Judy agreed. The way they said
it wasn't
sympathetic. They meant he was disgusting. Dad grumbled the guy
was a pervert and should
have his balls cut off. Louie laughed and made a comment that the
guy would probably like
it. Everyone laughed. The story was a natural lead in to queer
and faggot jokes, which consumed the next phase of their
conversation. I didn't know what
queers and faggots were, so it
didn't interest me.
I did understand something about the guy who stole and, I
surmised, wore female
panties. I had never wore panties, or stolen anything, but I had
on occasion donned a half
slip. Was I a despicable human being? Was I sick? Was I a
pervert? Would my family hold
me in contempt? I tried hard at everything they wanted. Was
something wrong with me?
Everything they said about this man felt like it was directed at
me. My mind reeled and
recoiled from the ridicule. Tears filled my eyes as I slipped
from my hiding place and made
my way back up the stairs. I was trembling. Would my mother and
father despise me if they
knew I wore a half-slip? Was that why Dad had beaten me so
severely the time he caught
me? The thought made my stomach churn, sending a shiver of shame
down my spinal cord
and bringing a hard lump to my throat. ``Why? What was wrong
with
me?'' silently I
screamed. ``What I was doing was harmless, it didn't hurt
anyone.''
``Maybe,'' I thought, ``if guys who did such things
were evil,
maybe, I wasn't a guy.
Maybe I was a girl. That could explain everything. I wasn't a bad
boy, I was a girl, a good
girl.'' My folks had made a terrible mistake. I knew I
couldn't
tell them about their mistake,
but at least understanding it made me feel better about myself.
------------------
My knowledge of sex wasn't vast, expansive, extensive, or
comprehensive. In fact,
when it came to sex, I was abysmally ignorant. This was never
more obvious then the first
time I ran across someone going at it. I was still twelve years
old, although nearly thirteen. It
was a spring morning and the weather was pleasant, not too chilly
and not too warm. I was
strolling down the alley behind Freddie's house, fifth house down
McBride on the left.
Freddie was one of my friends from the neighborhood. As I rambled
along I heard a giggle
coming from a pile of lumber in his backyard. All of us kids had
hidden in that lumber pile
during games of hide and seek. Who was there now and what were
they doing that made
them giggle?
Curious, I moved silently toward the giggling. As I rounded
the corner I could see in
a small hollow in the center of the stack. It looked like two
kids wrestling. Strangely, they
had their clothes off. Well, not exactly. Freddie had his pants
off, but still was wearing a
shirt. Mandy, on the other hand, had all her clothes off and her
legs were wrapped around
Freddie's back.
Came the dawn! My god, they weren't wrestling. Freddie, ten,
was humping away on
Mandy, only six years old. They were fucking up a storm, and so
involved neither one
noticed me staring at them. Mandy giggled again, opened her eyes
for a moment, and saw
me standing there with my mouth wide open. I was numb with shock.
I had never seen any-
thing like this before. Quickly I shut my mouth and regained my
composure. It would never
do to let them know I was stunned.
When Mandy saw me her eyes grew big and frightened, and she
said, ``Don't tell.
Please don't tell. I'll let you do me next if you don't
tell.''
Freddie turned his head then and saw me. He didn't try to get
off, disconnect, or
whatever one does to stop fucking. He just looked at me with a
big smile on his face and
waited to hear what I would say to Mandy's proposal.
``Ah, you're too little,'' I answered.
``No she ain't!'' said Freddie. ``Ben fucks her and
he's a lot
older than you. She's
real loose. She does it with everyone.''
``Not with me she don't,'' I retorted and started to
leave.
``You gonna tell?'' asked Mandy.
``Naw! Probably not,'' I answered as I walked away
leaving
them to their pleasure.
Mandy and her mother lived across the street from us, directly
up the hill from
Freddie's. Mandy's mother didn't have a husband, but she did have
a continuous stream of
men visiting her house. Almost everyone in the neighborhood knew
what was going on, even
the kids. Which was how this young girl, a baby, started doing
the neighborhood boys. She
was imitating her mother.
Hands in my pockets, shoulders drooped, head hung over my
chest, I walked into the
wooded hills above my home. I remembered the first time I had
seen Mandy. Mom had taken
me along when she went over to welcome them to the neighborhood.
Newspapers, clutter, trash, garbage, and excrement spread over
the floor and furnishings. The smell was heavy and oppressive
making it difficult
not to gag. It was beyond
imagination that anyone could live in such conditions. I
controlled an intense urge to rush out
the door. However, Mother had raised me proper. I stood politely,
silently, near the door,
but my eyes were transfixed on the mind boggling display.
Tetiana, Mandy's Mom, profusely apologetic for the mess,
brushed newspapers from
an arm-chair and offered my mother a seat. While Tetiana cleared
a chair for herself Mom
sat down and started chatting as comfortably as she would have in
her own home. I prayed
this wasn't an indication of how long we would stay. I wasn't
sure how long I could endure
the stench.
Mandy, three years old and sitting in the middle of the floor,
was dirtier than the surroundings. Her face was covered with some
unidentifiable black
crud and she was eating shit
dug from her diaper. It was smeared all over her face. My stomach
felt queasy, but Mandy's
mother wasn't paying the slightest attention, as if it was the
most natural thing in the world.
Thankfully, we didn't stay long and we never went back for a
second visit.
Once we returned home my impression was validated. My mother's
reaction was
intense. "You should've seen it," she reported to my father.
"Squalor everywhere! The
woman doesn't deserve a child." Later on, when it was discovered
how Tetiana made a living
I heard my mother comment, "Jesus, who'd pay for sex in all that
filth? What kind of man?
Oh, and that poor sweet, innocent, little girl. What must life be
like for her?"
``Everyone was doing her,'' Freddie had said. Everyone
but me!
Was something
wrong with me? I didn't want to do her. I wouldn't have wanted to
do her even if my
memories hadn't been disparaging. The realization was upsetting.
What if I never wanted to
do anybody? Other than my solitary fiddling I rarely considered
sex, it didn't mean anything
to me. Why? What was wrong with me?
Later in the day, Freddie sought me out. He wanted assurances.
``You aren't going to
tell on us, are you?'' he pleaded.
``No, I won't say anything.''
``Great! You know you ought to try her out. She's a real
good
fuck. She's the
neighborhood slut. She'll do it with anyone.''
A wave of anger threatened to engulf me. The urge to hit
Freddie was so strong I had
to turn and walk away. ``Sure,'' I thought, ``that
wretched
little girl is the neighborhood
whore, and you pricks taking advantage think you're so damn much
better.'' I knew her to
be a desperately lonely little girl willing to do anything
anybody wanted in exchange for a
little attention. I also knew the boys fucking her didn't give a
damn about her. None liked
her. She was just a willing hole for their throbbing cocks. As I
walked away tears were in
my eyes. I wasn't sure if I was crying for Mandy, or for myself.
It wasn't only the boys who didn't like Mandy. The girls
didn't like her either, barely
tolerating her presence when they played games. My memory of
Mandy is a big eyed little
girl with a crooked smile, a perpetually dirty face, a
perpetually grimy dress, standing alone
on the side-lines while other children played. Sucking her thumb
she just stood and watched
for hours at a time, never saying anything, never joining in the
play. I knew she was a love-
starved little girl expectantly yearning for some crumb of human
affection. Sure, I couldn't
bring myself to take advantage of her the way the boys did, nor
ignore her the way the girls
did, but I also found her uncomfortable to have around. Still, at
times, if she and I were
outside alone, I would play with her. I would talk to her. I
tried to be nice to her. From time
to time I think about her, wondering where her life might have
lead. I suspect I'm happier
not knowing.
Sometimes, like my father wanted, I would wrestle and rough
house with the boys in
the neighborhood. I never initiated such play, but when I was
invited I joined in. I didn't
enjoy wrestling and rough housing, but, like everything I did, I
played hard at it. I'd ram
their arm up behind their back and twist it until they yelled. Or
sometimes I'd gain a
headlock and squeeze until they shrieked. I inherited an
unusually strong body from my
father and I was bound and determined to prove I was a boy, a boy
just like everyone told
me to be. I hated the things boys did and, when we wrestled, I
took it out on them. After
awhile I wasn't invited to wrestle anymore. I played too hard.
So, as it happened, I was
welcome in other games the boys played, but none in which I could
cause them pain.
I played house with the girls too. It was delightful. I had to
play the father, but the
way I played father was in name only. I helped make mud pie meals
and clean the play
house. I changed the doll baby, rocked the doll baby, and sang to
the doll baby. I was the
only boy who didn't have to be coaxed into playing house.
Consequently the girls all wanted
me to play their husband. I loved it!
The boys were upset that the girls were always asking me to
play with them, but no
one seemed to think it was strange and no one harassed me. I
figure, because I wrestled
harder than they did, in their minds I was all boy. Of course, if
I was all boy, then the only
reason I could have for playing with girls was to get a little
pussy. Freddie, with sex always
on his mind, started imitating me. He could be talked into
playing house when I wasn't
available. After I refused to screw Mandy, he had decided I was
getting better stuff from the
other girls. Following my example he hoped he'd get some too.
Once he said as much to me.
The girls, on the other hand, weren't aware of the things the
boys thought, they were
just glad to have an attentive father to play house with them.
Okay, we kissed and hugged a
little, but that was part of the game and didn't mean a thing to
any of us.
A few weeks after the Freddie and Mandy incident, Ben and Tod,
brothers and the
neighbors from the block behind my house, asked me if I wanted to
go to the forest and play
tree tag. Tree tag was a game which, naked as jaybirds, we chased
each other through the
tree tops. We were like three hairless apes, swinging from limb
to limb. Later that day, after
an exhausting romp through the trees, we were sitting around the
base of a large old oak
panting and trying to catch our breath. I looked at our naked
bodies glistening with sweat and
thought we really did look like hairless apes. It brought a wry
smile to my lips.
Ben, also, was staring at our naked bodies. His gaze was
somehow different. The
focal point of his scrutiny was directed lower down on our
anatomy than mine had been.
``Have you ever played Milk the Goat?'' asked Ben.
``I don't think so,'' I replied, not having the
slightest idea
what he was talking about.
``It's great fun. Tod and me do it all the time. You do
play
with yourself don't you?''
he asked, nodding his head in the direction of my crotch.
``Uh . . . sometimes. Why?'' I replied flustered and
red
faced.
``Milk the Goat is where a guy gets down on all fours and
lets
someone else milk
him. Tod and me'll do you. You and Tod can do me, and you and
me'll do Tod. Okay?''
I had an uneasy feeling in my stomach. This was scary. Still,
they were my friends
and, if they did it, I didn't want them to think I was chicken.
``Okay!'' I agreed reluctantly.
Tod was first and it didn't take long at all. Ben did the
milking and in just a few
minutes white milky semen was shooting out all over Ben's hands.
Ben was next. He took
quite a bit longer. Tod and I took turns doing the milking and we
each had two turns before
Ben shot off, an immensely satisfying look on his face.
Now it was my turn to be the goat, but I couldn't get an
erection. I was anxious, but
that wasn't it. The real difficulty was that I wasn't aroused.
Nothing was sexually stimulating
about three boys yanking on each other's cocks. I let them try a
few strokes, but when
nothing happened we put our clothes on and went home.
The next day Ben came over to my house and asked me to meet
him and his brother
at our clubhouse. Earlier in the summer in their backyard, we had
built a clubhouse. It had
been Ben's idea. I suspect, he had his plans all thought out long
before the first nail was
hammered.
Bored with Milk the Goat, Ben had come up with a new game. It
was a different
game, but it still involved messing around. Each of us in turn
was to play the girl for the
other two. I didn't like the idea and complained vociferously,
but Ben kept working on me.
He argued I couldn't know whether I'd like something if I'd never
tried it. Finally,
frustrated, I gave up. ``Okay, but just this once,'' I
admonished. We drew straws and I was
to do Ben first, but I wasn't able to get an erection. Sticking
my penis in someone's ass
wasn't something which held any fascination for me. Ben claimed
it didn't matter, he had
been ready and willing and he deserved his turn. Grudgingly I
conceded his point. Getting
down on hands and knees I submitted myself. Surprisingly it
didn't hurt and in a few minutes
it was over. It hadn't been a pleasant experience, but it wasn't
unpleasant either. Not that I
wanted to repeat it, I didn't!
``Yeecch!'' said Ben, ``Shit all over my dick.''
``What did you expect?'' I asked, laughing.
``Strawberries?!''
``Next time you'll douche.''
``Next time!'' I shouted. ``What next time? I agreed
to this
once. That's all there's
going to be.''
Pulling up my shorts and pants I buckled my belt and went
home. There never was a
next time, at least not with Ben and Tod, and not for many years.
------------------
I had two time machines when I was young, environments taking
me back to periods
before I was born, allowing me to experience what people's lives
were like in eras long gone.
My first time machine was my grandmother Naomi's home. There
was a foot-operated
sewing machine, a well-used butter churn, a wood cook stove, an
ice chest, quaint old books,
hand knitted doilies on the furniture, a player piano with more
than a few piano rolls, and all
in near new condition. There was also Grandmother Naomi, a woman
imbued with tradition,
antiquity, and infused with the rich gentility of yesteryear.
This was my window into a
culture of proud and determined people, people who had helped
build this country.
I would often just sit and watch Naomi, and soak up the
ambience from her home and
from her person. The little nuances, the messages given off, were
messages I appreciated and
enjoyed. In my imagination I travelled with my grandmother into a
time when women were
gentle and loving, direct and honest, and I surrendered to those
feelings in myself. In my
heart I was beginning to acknowledge my womanhood. Just a
glimmering, as yet, confused
and obscure, but unequivocal.
My second time machine was a more exclusive hideaway.
Grandmother Lansberry's
home had a sun porch almost never visited by anyone. It was off
the kitchen and directly
over the fruit cellar. Whenever we visited the Lansberry estate,
I made a beeline for the sun
porch.
Invariably upon opening the glass door and stepping into this
rarely frequented sanctuary, my movements would swirl dust
particles into the air.
There they would dance in the
sun beams, imparting the illusion, to my fertile and youthful
imagination, of passing back
through time. Chills tingled along my spine as the magic of this
treasure trove filled me.
Against the side wall was a couch covered with a black and
white cow skin. It was
soft, warm and cuddly to my touch. I loved to curl up on it,
feeling its sensuous texture,
running my hands over the fur and feeling it tickle my fingers. A
crank victrola with four
cylinder records rested on an antique oak stand near the couch.
The scratchy recordings of
Rudy Vallee, barely discernable, were astounding. When I listened
to them it seemed like I
was listening to the beginning of time. However, the most prized
item was on a small table in
front of the couch. There, in all it's time honored glory, was a
stereopticon and hundreds of
the double-sided pictures used in it.
There were pictures of dignified gentlemen, gaunt and stern,
wearing all manner of
moustache and beard, and there were grand ladies in delicate
finery. There were also men
and women in baggy ill-fitting clothes, their work clothes. The
men were covered with coal
dust and wore lanterns on hard hats. The women, grim faced and
exhausted, were pictured
hanging over wash boards or bent over large black kettles. All
seemed aged before their time.
Not much joy showed in their faces, but there was sturdiness,
strength, a determination to
survive, a feeling of tremendous will power leaping from the
pictures. They stood proud and
tall, but there wasn't one smiling face in any of those pictures.
There were also pictures of the first locomotives, antique
automobiles, early bi-planes,
strange bicycles with huge front wheels, great factories
profusely blowing smoke, tall
buildings, some ten stories high, faraway places and long ago
times. This was my second
time machine, my transport to another age, and I would scrutinize
each picture, projecting
my imagination into the scenes and into the hearts and minds of
these people. Through those
pictures I tried to live a little of their lives, to experience,
in my mind's eye, what it must
have been like to live in such difficult times.
When I tired of the stereopticon, across the room was a glass
bookcase filled with Big
Little books, a few of the original Tom Swift series, and
numerous other old books, nonfiction as well as fiction. The
Compendium of Everyday Wants was an
encyclopedic book of
practical information on all manner of life's problems. Much of
it is amusing today, but parts
are still useful. My father inherited the book, and eventually
passed it on to me.
An excerpt from the Cooking Department:
``Carving should be considered a necessary part not only of
every man's, but of every
woman's education. Of course, if the head of the family is one of
the sterner sex, it is his
duty to preside at the head of the table where the joint is
placed. But in case of emergency
the lady of the house may be called upon to do the carving, and
if unskilled how awkward
the situation becomes.''
An excerpt from the Medical Department:
``Old women with their herb cures are often wiser than a
doctor.''
Near the bookcase was an oil lamp, and once, perhaps twice, my
folks visited
Grandma Lansberry late enough I had reason to light it. There,
curled up on the cow skin, I
felt immersed in the past. With my privileged perspective from
Grandma Naomi's home and
surrounded by the atmosphere and artifacts of Grandma Lansberry's
sun porch, I submerged
myself with threads of time, sharing the feelings and experiences
of an age and people I
never knew.
My father didn't approve of my solitary pursuits. He felt I
should spend more time
outside in the fresh air playing with the boys.
``Damn it! All you do is read those God damn books and draw
pictures. What in
hell's wrong with you? Get your ass outside and play with the
other kids.'' He'd yell those
words hundreds of times before I was old enough to leave home.
Even when we went for a
ride, if I took along a book, he'd scream at me about it.
``For
Chris' sake, there's a world
outside. Get rid of the books and look out the window. You're
gonna go crazy if you keep it
up.'' So I'd close my book and lay my forehead on the window,
promptly disappearing into
my imagination. The great outside world never held the
fascination for me it did for my
father. Just as books, music, art, and writing held little
fascination for him.
He wanted me to roughhouse with the boys, to play baseball,
basketball, and football.
He wanted me to be strong, to make him proud. I tried to please
him, and I did rough house
with the guys, but I needed more. Was, as my father suggested,
something less than manly
about those needs? I didn't know, but I knew they were a part of
me.
------------------
Sometimes things have happened in my life making me
uncomfortable while giving
me immense pleasure. One such time was in 7th grade at the class
Halloween party. It was
my first year at Clearfield Junior High and, because the school
was across town, I had to stay
with Uncle Abe, one of Pap's brothers, and his wife, Kathleen,
until my folks picked me up
in the evenings. Sometimes I didn't get picked up until the
weekend.
I didn't have a costume for dress up day at school, but Aunt
Kathleen promised to
take care of it. Which she did! On dress up day she brought her
wedding gown from storage
and put it on me. Then, placing a white stocking over my head,
she painted in a darling face
using lipstick, rouge, and eyebrow pencil. A hat and veil added
the finishing touches. Then,
in her kitchen, we talked privately and she said, ``I know
your
secret!''
I looked at her puzzled, ``What secret?''
``You know too much about people for a boy. You know
the business. The
way a girl knows the business. Capish?''
Butterfly wings were beating a storm in my stomach. I felt
panicky. I nodded ever so
slightly. This was spooky. What did she know? How did she know?
Was she addressing that
thing I had barely begun to recognize in myself, that thing still
hazy, shapeless, and formless
in my mind? My butterflies spiralled, fluttering and flapping,
until they formed an
excruciating knot. I looked at Kathleen, not knowing what to say.
``Remember me when you grow up, that I was the first to
know,
and don't be afraid.
There's nothing wrong with you.''
Again she was addressing my private thoughts. I felt scared
and vulnerable. How
could this woman see these things in me, was I that transparent?
Without my saying a word
she answered, ``I'm the only one who knows. Promise me you'll
never forget the things I'm
telling you.''
I didn't understand why she seemed so desperate for me to
remember her, nonetheless
I promised and set the memory. With hindsight I suppose, since
she and Abe never had any
children, I was a substitute for the child she never had. It was
a shame she never had
children. Her insight was remarkable.
Searching back, into the deepest recesses of my memory, I
recall strands of conversations with Kathleen, almost always held
at the kitchen table, and
I wonder, how much did
that woman know? Do these strands reflect what was, or what I
imagined? I don't know. If
my memories are true, she spoke of people with two genders as
extraordinary people, people
of purpose. When she spoke thus my stomach churned and my mental
processes began
spinning. I wasn't ready to appreciate what she was saying and I
dismissed her message as
the rambling of a kindly old lady, one who was out of touch with
reality. However,
respecting her good intentions, I would keep my promise to never
forget her. Indeed, much,
much later in life I was to discover the single clue I ever had
concerning the depth of her
perception. Kathleen, on her mother's side, was Indian, possibly
Navajo. Of all tribes the
Navajo, historically, have been the wisest about such matters.
After receiving my promise she hugged me and took me to the
hall mirror. I sucked
in a gasp of air when I saw myself! I was gorgeous! Truly
gorgeous!
``This is who I see when I look at you,'' she said
matter-of-factly.
I was impressed. I had been dressing in my mother's things for
some time, but I never
imagined I could look so beautiful. It brought tears to my eyes.
Quickly, I blinked them
away. Secretly, I was thrilled at the opportunity to do what I
had often imagined doing;
thrilled, yet terrified. The combination of pleasant thrill and
anxious terror sent conflicting
and confusing messages. I writhed with anticipation, even while
afraid of the uproar my
costume might cause. Then the time had arrived and, cautioning me
not to speak lest I give
myself away, Kathleen sent me off to school. I looked and felt
exquisite, every inch a young
woman.
Later on, in my homeroom, everyone had been guessed except me.
One girl was
absent that day and, although I shook my head in negation, the
teacher insisted I was she.
Already I had won the prize for the most original and the one for
the most beautiful. Finally,
I won the prize for the hardest to guess. In frustration the
teacher and students gave up and
asked me to unmask.
When I took off the stocking the teacher was visibly shaken.
Her voice was harsh,
agitated, and she vented her anger by taking away the prize for
the most beautiful. She
admonished me it was meant for a girl and shouldn't have been
given to a boy; as if it had
been my fault for winning it. Instead, she gave it to a girl
dressed like a gypsy fortune teller
whose costume wasn't nearly as beautiful as mine. However, she
couldn't take away that I
had been first to win. The prize itself wasn't important.
Everyone knew I was, by far, the
most beautiful.
Next, the teacher ordered me to take off the wedding dress. I
refused. She repeated
her demand and I was forced to acknowledge, in front of the
entire class, I didn't have
anything on underneath. The class laughed, tittered, and giggled.
I flushed with embarrassment. After that, she studiously avoided
me for the
remainder of the class party.
As the day wore on I had to go to the bathroom. While there
three boys accosted me,
wanting me to give them blow jobs. They insisted, since I was
dressed like a girl, I should
do what girls do. It wasn't clear in my mind what a blow job was,
but I knew they meant
something sexual. I also knew I didn't want to do it. I pushed
one boy into another and ran
from the bathroom. I stayed in the classroom the remainder of the
day and, when school was
over, hurried back to Aunt Kathleen's.
When I arrived Aunt Kathleen met me at the kitchen door and
asked me if I had enjoyed myself. Sparkling and flushed with
excitement I realized,
with it all, I had loved it. I
smiled and nodded.
``Good,'' she said pulling out a kitchen chair for each
of us.
``Sit down and tell me
all about it. I want to know everything.'' Happily,
I sat down and told her all
the business. Somehow I knew the kitchen was her throne room, as
it is the throne room for
many women, and I felt she had conferred an honor on me,
permitting me to attend her at
court.
------------------
``Skip is the best baby sitter we've
ever had. He's better
than any girl,'' my Aunt
Judy said, using the nickname I was called in the family. I
basked in her praise. I enjoyed
baby sitting. It meant a lot to me.
They had two children. Mikey was the baby and he was a quiet
baby, hardly ever any
bother. A warm bottle, a changed diaper, and he was as content as
a Buddhist monk meditating with a mantra.
Weezie, 8 years old, was chubby and delightful. She had a keen
sense of humor, was
bright and intelligent, and had the cutest dimples when she
laughed. We often played the
games little girls like to play; pretend cooking, dressing dolls,
coloring in coloring books,
and such. Sometimes I would make up fairy tales of princesses and
princes, magic and
romance.
It was gratifying to be trusted with my aunt's children and I
tried to live up to the
responsibility. The only thing I did which might have been
misconstrued as less than
responsible was, once in awhile, after the children were asleep,
I would try on my aunt's
clothes. However, her preference in clothes was dreary, and they
were much too large, so it
wasn't often. Mostly I just read comic books. My aunt had a large
collection; Sheena of the
Jungle, Wonder Woman, Tarzan, and lots more. I baby sat Weezie
and Mikey for a couple
of years, until we moved to Akron, Ohio. My father had been lured
to Goodyear Tire and
Rubber with promises of a substantial increase in income, better
medical insurance, longer
vacations, and a retirement fund.
I recall Clearfield with fondness. It was a dear town with
dear people, good
neighbors, and warm friendships. From the crab apple fights,
first green shoots, and hot flush
of spring; to the clear water swimming holes, family picnics, and
boundless energy of
summer; to the late evening wiener roasts, musky aroma of burning
leaves, and quiet
moodiness of fall; to the lively snowball fights, parlor games,
and brooding thoughts which
come with winter; it was an ideal place to live. It was robust,
healthy, a cornucopia of life,
with family, friends, and a profusion of activities binding us
all together.
here are so many people to whom I am grateful, and for so many reasons,
that it's hard to know just where to begin.
t was Saturday night, early
morning really, about 1 A.M. Drunks
were staggering from bars
in downtown Phoenix. Dressed in a scarlet mini-skirt, black
peasant blouse, black high heels,
and a brown gypsy wig, I strolled down the darkened sidewalk
along 6th Avenue. The air
was cool and stimulating, a slight breeze was swishing and
swaying long willowy weed
strands. Leaves on nearby trees were rustling and shaking, doing
a shy little dance, their
shadows playing a soundless symphony. A brisk wind whipped my
skirt against my nylon
covered legs and my hair blew in disarray. The night chill was
balm to my soul.