Saturday, May 1, 2010

Flying Airplanes, Part I

The first memory I have of it all is an auditory memory, or maybe not even that much, maybe just the words: flying airplanes. I always have this difficulty with my memories: if I try to pin them down so I can closely examine them, they sort of dissolve. I have to sit and wait for them to float back into my peripheral vision and promise not to stare. Something about how the three of us would go flying in Edd's small Cessna in the near future. I don't even have an actual memory about it, just the words, flying airplanes, sitting there in my mind like the label on a tacky birthday gift.

I've been telling myself for years that I was ten years old when this happened. I don't recall now which signposts I used in forming this belief, but now the belief is all I have. I could have been a year younger or older. In fact, now that I think of it, I'm pretty sure that I turned ten in 5th grade, and because I would have been nine at the beginning of the school year, I must have been nine when they first began to molest me, because it happened some time before 5th grade.

The next memory I have is an image: he, in the driver's seat, presumably of his blue-and-silver, mid-70's model Chevrolet El Camino. My mother sits to his right. I sense her, but I don't really have a visual memory of her. The thing that I have in place of a visual memory surely is a later fabrication: her sitting there, silent, hands in her lap, head down, in shame. I don't believe that to be a true memory, although it would have been appropriate. He said these words, although I won't impose any order on them: "I'm gonna let you other man". Without making any promises about which parts are real and which parts are fabrications, I'll translate this in the way that I always have: "I'm gonna let you do things with your mother that I would never let any other man do." That's the meaning of the thing that I remember, if not the exact words. The only other memory I have of that scene is the sense that we were out on a freeway, with afternoon rush-hour traffic, while he said this to me. I have no memory of whether I realized that we weren't going to fly after all, or whether I was disappointed about this fact.

The next thing I remember is driving into a hotel parking lot, but maybe that's not a real memory. That could be something I've filled in over the years. The rest of the memories come in no particular order. My mother and I are naked. She's lying on her back on the bed, and he has been instructing me on how to suck my mother's nipple. While I do it, he tells me to open my mouth a little wider, to cover her entire areola. He asks her throughout the night whether my actions feel good to her; she always responds positively. He has me finger her, pointing out that I should always use my middle finger, "because it's the longest." He reminds me to make sure that it feels good to her by asking her periodically.

Then they have me fuck her. This part is strange on several levels. First, at this time of my life I have no sense of sexual pleasure whatsoever. I don't think I was even aware of the pleasure of urinating--that had to be pointed out to me decades later. However, I did get sporadic erections. Usually when I had to pee, but sometimes just being naked could make it happen. I never experienced any pleasure from them. So I did have an erection when they had me fuck her, so I really did fuck her. My penis was so small, and my body was so small, that it didn't work at first: they had to put a couple of pillows under her butt so I could reach her better. I don't remember the specific act of fucking her. I mean, I don't recall the experience as I would recall having sex with someone now, as an adult. I recall it being more like lying on top of her and feeling very close to her.

I say, "'Feeling very close to her" rather guardedly. I've told myself for years that being molested by my mother was a happy experience at the time, because I felt loved by her for the first time in my life. That's definitely an embellishment of my actual memories. If I sit here and think about it, really try to remember, I do get a physical reaction, which is really rare for me, so I will assume for now that it's a legitimate memory. I remember this terrible ache from when I was little. I felt it often around my older sisters' girlfriends. I somehow associate that ache with the feeling I had when I was fucking my mother. Like the two are inversely related, that sex made the ache go away. But no, that's not a real memory, the part about the ache going away. More like the ache appeared in my life after they started molesting me. That seems plausible, that after finding sex to be the only route to genuine affection, I would start to ache around any older female.

That's all I remember from the first hotel session. I have a few flashes from a second session: me, being eager to get started, saying that the room is really warm and taking my clothes off, watching her suck his dick, hearing her say, in a cheesy, pornographic ecstasy, "I'm a fucking machine!"being surprised at the goo on my fingers when I went to the bathroom after having fingered her for a while. Now that I think of it, I wonder what that was. I remember it as being brown. Blood? No, couldn't be--I would have recognized blood, if not on my fingers then surely everywhere else. I know what it's like to have sex with a menstruating woman. I have no memory of any such messiness. I have only two other certain memories: lighting their cigarettes for them, which now I'm looking at closely to see just how appalling that is, and going to the hotel's internal restaurant to get a grilled cheese sandwich for myself. I think that the whole experience seemed like a special treat for me, getting this special, private interaction with my parents and being allowed to do special things (like smoking and getting a treat from a restaurant).

This is just the beginning. I'm going to post it and see how I feel about having such atrocities about myself available to the public, while I work on Part II.

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