Innocent Sex

I'm getting closer to beginning the point I'd thought to write here today, but I think I'll first slip in one more little girl story. I have a lot of little girl stories to tell and I want to philosophize a bit about harmful cultural attitudes toward young girls and their "innocence": but right now what I just said above prompts me to rattle off briefly a simple enough little episode that I don't believe I'll ever forget. Why? Because nothing really happened.

The following story took place far away, in a German-speaking part of another country. My anonymous "Bonnie" therefore becomes "Heidi."

I went to Europe with my wife and son. We'd be visiting Hilary's family and Hilary family's family. We borrowed the car and drove down into big ski country. Man, there's nothing for an impoverished mountain man like yours truly to drive among the Alps, see nothing but clouds, then suddenly, protruding above a break in the clouds, blocking the top of the sky, to see a mountain so mountainous it might as well be a cartoon. We'd driven a distance and were way the hell over on the Austrian side of the southern Swiss Alps. Wildhaus. Unterwasser. The day was spoiled only by my screaming at Hilary's paralysis on the steepest slopes. She was petrified. I wanted to ski it. But to ski the steep you've got to be looking, thinking, facing downhill. Shoulders square to the valley, you wipe your skies back and forth across the fall line to check the pure acceleration. Face away from your fear and you're in real danger. A panicked companion was like an anchor around me, endangering me, and doing her no good. At the bottom of the slope I felt something foreign happen to my body. Fortunately there was a fiberglass outhouse nearby. Foreign food, foreign water, high elevation ... I don't know. But I got the shits at a very bad time. Wound up throwing my briefs down the chute. It's New Year's Eve, a celebratory dinner will be waiting for us at the relatives': all I'll want is the one thing I won't get: privacy, a shower, and my own wardrobe. Sure enough, we get there, and go straight in to dinner. Oh, please can't I go wash my ass, change my clothes, deodorize myself? Nope. And of course the relatives don't speak English. At the time I didn't speak or understand more than one word of German. I'm a guest best heard from least. So I grin and bear it and hope that anyone offended will steer me to the shower without my asking. Still naked under my ski pants, I sit as far from everyone as I can.

One little problem. One little eight year old problem. The relatives had a daughter. The day before Heidi wouldn't leave me alone. Little girls often take a shine to me. Whether I'm twenty, thirty, or sixty doesn't seem to make that much difference. I don't know why. Some not very friendly friends, jealous as hell, bewildered, once explained that it was because I look like a prick. Skinny, with this funny bare face. Sticking out like a glans. Heidi's mother, her grandmother, my mother-in-law are all forever telling her, in German of course, to lay off me. My wife was in the room. My two year old son was there. What was I supposed to do? Grin and bear all this cuddly female attention. That night she goes up to bed. Comes shrieking back down the stairs, stark naked, red as a lobster from the bath. Heidi does a little dance and then spreads her ass open right at me. The family's former embarrassment now looked amateur. They grabbed her, covered her, and bustled her away, apologizing to me, my wife, my mother-in-law. I'll say this: Heidi could have done that Coppertone ad where the dog bites away the cherub's bathing suit bottom.

OK, now it's twenty four hours later. I'm sitting off by myself, very conscious of wearing no underwear, very conscious of how completely vulnerable I am if I get another attack of the shits, hoping to Christ I don't stink ... and Heidi comes over and squirms up onto my lap. She wiggles the ass she's shown us everywhere. I'm doing a little squirming myself, trying to be discreet, trying to keep her butt, which seems as intelligent as a heat seeking missile, away from my all too freely flapping dick. No such luck. Sprongggg! Now I've got to try new contortions so she doesn't impale herself on it. She squirming. I'm squirming. I'm not offering her a very stable platform on which to squirm, so he puts her hand down: I'd thought to steady herself.

Come on. The girl is only eight years old. How can she ... What can she know? Sorry: the girl had radar. No fumbling. No half-miss and then correction. Her hand goes straight to my dick, closes around it. She calms down for a moment, gives one last wriggle, jumps off me and sprints back to her scolding grandmother. I'm thirty or so years old. I sat there blushing like a banshee. I'm blushing now as I write this. God forbid I had to stand up for any reason. Heidi jumped off me leaving my dick pointing straight down my left pants' leg. I have to bend forward at the waist so it doesn't lift my trousers too visibly. Just leave me doubled over till it goes away. Otherwise I'd have to carry the table in front of me. As though that would conceal anything.

Note

This story gave me an experience I hadn't anticipated and wouldn't have predicted. I was arrested and spent a little time in jail. As my landlord explained upon my return: "They saw they had made a mistake, but, being who they are, they can't say so." The lawyer had explained that to me in different words: a short sentence in effect means Not Guilty. Nevertheless I was incarcerated among murderers, drug dealers, thieves ... and a host of political undesirables. For a bit I shared a cell with a fellow who ran his empire from his cell and had been doing so for seven years. Phone calls to his sister saw that his 40,000 acre cattle ranch, his fleet of boats, his several million dollar homes in the US ... all ran smoothly and profitably. With him as my roomie I saw traffic of Cubans, Colombians ...
My cellie received a picture album in my presence. First the inmate is shuffled from here to there, there to here: then his property follows. So all of us in his new fail got a glam at his album, which proved to feature a host of underage girlfriends: adorable Hispanics bare-assed in the surf: every pussy clean-shaven. (Ugh.)
I felt prompted to tell the above story. These guys don't don't me. They don't know if I'm here for overnight, or am doing a dime. Shuffle, shuffle. I'm sure non-acquaintaintance is deliberate on the part of those who want no plots. Anyway, the guys listen in a sort of uneasy truce: till I said the girl in the story was eight years old: every single visitor, and my cellie, exited as a man.
(It's not always up to an inmate when he can go where, but we were in a "clear" time, when movement is permitted, the cells unlocked.) When my cellie returned, after a time he looked at me disapprovingly. "What's the matter with you? You can't tell a story like that in jail. These guys will KILL you!"
What? The story was completely innocent. No? On her part, and on my part. But you'd have to actually listen to the story, allow the facts to emerge, to know that.
So. I was assured that jailbirds are particularly intolerant of child molesters. They're proud of their intolerance and have no patience for the facts.
Like the post-9/11 US in determining who and what is a "terrorist."

As Clevinger explained to Yossarian, "They hate Jews."
"But I'm not Jewish," said Yossarian.
"It doesn't matter," said Clevinger, "They hate everybody."