When I was six, my dad and I moved out to Washington to live with his ex wife, L. My brother and sister on her side lived with her as well, though she honestly wasn’t that great of a mother. But I think, after a while, it grew too awkward having her many boyfriends over while her ex husband and his kid were there, so she asked us to move.
We moved around quite a bit, actually. First, roomating with two absolute slobs, then to a homeless shelter after finding that we just couldn’t take living with them. A few couches followed, but then, we moved in with L’s sister and her daughter.
Her daughter’s name was R, and she had a holy temper. She’d scream and shout when something didn’t go her way; the terrible twos and threes. But I always tried to be nice to her. R’s cousin H would come over a lot, and soon we became great friends, dissappearing to get away from the tantrums of that little kiddo. H was twelve at the time.
R’s mom would take her to daycare when she had to work, and H would watch me. My dad would leave around the same time R’s mom did, and so it was oftentimes just the two of us. We loved to build forts with blankets and sheets and couch cushions— she taught me how to make a mean blanket tent. We’d bundle up inside and she’d read stories aloud and we’d draw.
But one time, she was reading some dumb romance story, and it had gotten to a suggestive part. I didn’t understand it, obviously, so she tried to teach me. I guess it was consentual, letting her touch me and kiss me, but I didn’t understand the meaning of it until now.
And that started a pattern. We did this a lot. She’d ask me to touch her, and I would. And she’d touch me, though honestly it didn’t feel very good, and I always had a sickening feeling that we’d get caught. The first time I’d come into contact with somebody having an orgasm was in a plaid blanket tent in the corner of a messy livingroom with a girl that I didn’t love. I didn’t know why she was breathing so heavily or what was making her do that. All I knew was that she wanted me to touch her between her legs, where I remember being surprised that she was hairy and I wasn’t.
I think back on this incident a lot, and I hate that I remember it so well. But I’d always had good memory.
I’ve only ever told one person about it, in detail and crying over the phone. A few months later, when I brought it up in private conversation, she told me that she didn’t remember what I was talking about. It hurt my feelings a lot, because I happened to really like her. I didn’t tell her again.
I’m fourteen now. I’ll be starting highschool this September, and my mom told me that her freshman year was when she lost her virginity, so if I needed to talk, it was alright. I’m scared that it’ll happen, but I know that I’ll have a sense of the deepness of it all, and try to do it right, with somebody that I love; and only if I’m ready.
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