Flying Airplanes, Part II

Why am I doing this? Because my therapist asked me in our last session to give her an idea of how many times my parents molested me. While I sat there recounting the instances, I couldn't look her in the eye, but in my peripheral vision I could see her wincing and reacting. I attenuated the details a bit, but now I'm thinking that maybe I need to dig into them, look at them closely. Or maybe I'm just passing time again. I don't know.

So other instances. I don't clearly recall two separate hotel visits; I'm relying on other memories, memories of narratives that have been sitting in my mind for almost 30 years. I've told myself all this time that there were two hotel visits. My guess is that there really were two visits, and I remembered them clearly at some point, established the narrative in my memory, then forgot the details. I assume, for the time being, that my memory is at least mostly reliable concerning the broad brushstrokes, that I'm not fabricating anything significant.

I'm sitting on the edge of her bed in the late afternoon. I'm wearing just a swimsuit, just some form-fitting nylon/lycra shorts. I was on a swim team for a while, and I seem to recall running around in a swimsuit not being too unusual. She's sitting next to me, on the right. He's sitting next to her, on her right. I lie back and stretch. While I do this, she reaches over with her left hand, and using her fingernails, stimulates my penis with a light scratching motion. It feels really good, but the pleasure seems to be an integral part of the fact that I'm stretching. I still don't make any connection between this pleasure and sexual pleasure; it doesn't register on my radar that the pleasure is coming from my penis. My best recollection is that it was just an intensely good stretch. This seems a bit strange to me, as I am reminded that I never really noticed how good it feels to stretch until I was in my early 20's, when my girlfriend Rhonda, lying in bed one morning, wondered aloud why it feels so good to stretch.

Next, on a different day, they're watching and instructing me while I attempt to have sex with Donna, my oldest sister. If I were nine at the time, she would have been 16. I don't actually remember fucking her. I remember something going on, but I don't have any details except the memory of her saying, "He's so little!" When they had me fuck my mother, my nine-year-old body didn't fit her adult body very well, so we had to put pillows under her butt so I could reach her properly. Presumably the same problem occurred with Donna, but I guess we didn't try the pillows option. My next memory is apparently from the same day: I'm in my bedroom with Donna. No visual memories here; it might be that it was nighttime and the lights were turned off; I have a sense of complete blackness, rather than just a lack of memory. I can feel Donna grasping my erect penis and saying, "Wow, you're hard," or something very much to that effect. That's all I remember. It's almost as though I fell asleep immediately. I wonder what really happened. I wish I could remember.

On a different day, Becky, Lori, and I are under the covers with her. She's naked, we're fondling her naked body at will while Edd sits nearby. He couldn't have actually been watching us, as we were under the covers. Or at least that's how I remember it. The only other real memory I have is of being angry that Becky and Lori were there, and at one point finding myself going after the same part of my mother's body as Lori was going after, and feeling angry toward her for disrupting whatever it was I was trying to do.

One night while they were alone in her locked room as usual, they called me in. I don't recall feeling like I was getting some great treat, but I think I must have felt that way. It definitely was a treat to be allowed into her room, to get her attention. He had me put my fingers into her pussy. She was doing Kegel flexes. He said something like, "Think how good that would feel to your dick." I still didn't know what he was talking about; sexual pleasure was a few years into the future for me. Possibly at the same time, or possibly on another night, I don't remember, he instructed me on how to lick my mother's pussy. He showed me her clitoris, but I didn't recognize it; it was decades later that I finally recognized a clitoris. He instructed me to "eat" her pussy like I would eat an orange. I took my best guess and ate my mother's pussy like an orange. As usual, he checked in with her level of pleasure while I did it.

He spent the night quite often, or at least I think he did. Now my memory isn't so clear, but he at least spent the weekend nights. One weekend night he had to go out of town or something, but he gave me instructions ahead of time. Sleep with my mother, have sex with her. I tried to: we were lying there in her bed in the dark. She was lying on her right side, facing away from me. I reached over and grabbed her left breast, and she said angrily, "Robbie, you're tickling me." I stopped what I was doing immediately--I don't recall clearly, but I think that I was extremely ashamed--but I have no memory of what happened after that. I must have gone to sleep. I don't really remember the feelings that I had at the moment, but when I feel terrible, overwhelming rejection like I did when my girlfriend broke up with me, I think that it must be similar to the way I felt that night.

I think that my mother really set me up that night. Obviously she didn't know that she was setting me up; she is a selfish idiot, but I don't think that she had it in mind to destroy me deliberately. But up until that time the only love I'd ever received from her was during these sexual molestation sessions. I think that I must have associated her approval with the sexual behavior I was enacting. I can see it very clearly now that in my adult relationships, I try to get approval from my partner primarily through sex, especially good sex, well-performed, skilled sex. When she rejected me like that, saying that I was tickling her, she probably cemented the idea that approval comes from good sex and disapproval comes from bad sex.

Strange: I hate being tickled, and I hate tickling people. This is noteworthy, because my daughter loves to be tickled and often asks me to tickle her. I've never asked myself whether my reluctance to tickle her is in some way related to my mother being angry that I was tickling her. I'll have to think about that one.