Welcome To My Nightmare: First Kiss

When I was six, I lived on an Army base near Mannheim, Germany. My father was a sergeant in the motor-pool (methinks), so our «housing» was military lower class «projects» type housing. The neighborhood, if you could call it that, was a collection of dozens of large apartment-buildings, four of five stories high with central stairwells and basements where the boiler rooms were with long halls of doors on either side going to storage rooms for the apartments above. This was where I kissed a girl for the first time, other than my mother or sisters; and I kissed her on her vulva.

She made me do it. She was older and bigger. The same age as my sister Teena, eight years old. I don't remember her name, but I remember she had long black hair and hairy arms (for a girl). With the help of my sister, yes, Teena, this girl and a few other younger friends of hers (i.e. the «girls» from the playground) lured me down into the basement and then told me I was their «prisoner» and forced me into a small room beneath the stairs. I started crying and pleading, but they wouldn't let me leave. Then they started telling me to do stuff, like pull down my pants and put dirt in my mouth.

My sister at some point told them to stop, but the hairy-armed girl was bigger, and was having too much fun it seemed. So my sister left, and I still remember to this day thinking that she was abandoning me to the whims of this pack of crazy girls bent on making me do things I was certain in my childish mind were going to kill me. But, she had only gone, running actually, to get my mom.

«Mom! Mom! Jet's being attacked in the basement!» she yelled when she got upstairs to the apartment (as my mother herself remembers it). (I)

But, before any rescue came the hairy girl and told me I had to touch her «pee pee» (or, whatever she called it) and she pulled down her panties and then pulled up her dress. It was the first time I ever saw «girl parts» and it terrified me! Mostly because of the way it was being shown to me (i.e. under duress). I told her, crying but too scared yet to scream, that I didn't want to touch it, but she grabbed my hand and made me do it. Then she said, «Kiss it!»

I started crying harder than ever. I must have thought that if I kissed it I would get some horrible disease for sure, like cooties. I resisted more than ever when she grabbed me to try to force my head down to her crotch, so she changed tactics.

She suddenly let me go and I coward away from her, still crying but relieved of the immedate danger, into the back of the little room. She said, «All you have to do is kiss it, then we'll let you go.»

«Promise?» I pleaded.

«Cross my heart and hope to die!» she said (or something to that effect at least; I don't remember exactly, of course.)

The prospect of freedom overcame my fear, and I agreed to her terms. I bent over and gave her a quick peck where she wanted.

Then she said, «Now you have to kiss her too!» pointing to one of her friends.

I realized I had been betrayed and begged for mercy, «Nooo! (sob) You said I could gooo! (sob sob)»

Just then my mother came tromping down the stairs. The girl quickly adjusted her panties and dress, and even tried to get my pants back up but couldn't before my mom homed in on my sobbing and came into view. As soon as I saw her I let out a loud scream of relief and terror all at once. I was relieved to be rescued from certain death, but now terrified of the trouble I was in with my mom!

I don't have any memories of what happened next. But, in my «psych' reports» years later, this incident was counted as one of «numerous» incidents where I had «sex with children». It didn't matter that I was the younger child, only that the other children were children, and I was a «sex offender». (This is the reason I created the picture of me at this very age, six, with the words «sex offender» branded on my forehead.) The reports typically read, «Mr. Duncan began having sex with other children at the age of six.» Or, something like that. None of the reports (or newspapers that got a hold of the reports) ever said that I was «attacked» and «molested» by older children from the age of six. But, they do sometimes make a big deal out of the first time I fondled a younger boy when I was twelve, Go figure.

[J.D. May 12, 2015]

Notes:

(I) This housing area had a reputation for being the «Bronx» of Army bases. Fights and «attacks» happened literally every day. My mother was even attacked once when she tried to confront another child's mother whose girl had squirted ink in my older sister's mouth on the «monkey bus» - which is what the kids called the school bus, because the driver just drove the bus and ignored the fights and mayhem that regularly occurred on the bus. It was far safer to walk the two miles or so in order to get to school.