Little Bill

I should be packing for a business trip to Las Vegas. But I’m not.

There are times when I wonder if I’d be more interesting if I were less sane. Perhaps if I’d been one of those kids who went away to summer camp every year, or if organized religion had gripped me and led me to believe that an all-knowing, all-seeing invisible man in the sky loves the world and yet punishes it, perhaps then I’d be justifiably fucked up. My parents aren’t even divorced, even that would give me stories to tell, or perhaps explain the few times I falter in life.

But I don’t. Not really. Except for this one. It’s a little bit graphic so you might not want to continue.

I remember a wood-paneled apartment with that beaten-down nappy green carpet which might have only been vacuumed once which seemed to be a staple of many neighborhood apartments where I grew up. I remember Velvet Elvis hanging on the wall.

I remember his name was Mike and he was the older kid in the neighborhood who didn’t play with his own kind. I didn’t know why at the time. I do now. He might have been older in body but certainly wasn’t in mind. I remember being invited to his home. I remember his father being at work. I don’t remember him having a mother.

It was the promise of porn, and the big-boobed naked women which came along with it, that lured me there. I remember the suggestion that we take off our clothes. I remember thinking nothing it not being a big deal in my mind at the time. I can recall comparing my young body with his post-pubescent anatomy.

Here’s where the memories get foggy, I don’t know many of the details. I know that he touched me. I know I never touched him. This much I know for sure. There was no kissing. But there was touching. There are more details but they’re best not shared with the public.

I remember that I was never forced to do anything, I just didn’t know any better.

Needless to say I stopped hanging out with him soon after that day. I don’t really know what happened to him after that. I saw him a few times in the coming years but didn’t think much of it until recently. Much of it had been blocked from my mind.

Now, I wasn’t really raped. I suppose I was molested. I don’t know. It’s interesting though, now, to look back upon it. At the time I was rather innocent and didn’t think anything of him. I just thought he was kind of weird, and what we did was weird.

Sometimes I wonder how I’d react if I were to see him again. Would I even recognize him? Would I be angry? Indifferent?

Anyway, that’s my one story.