I don't waste much energy questioning the urge to write. I just follow that urge like a bloodhound with my nose to the ground and trusting. Always trusting the scent and the instinct. I rarely know where the urge is leading me.
The Story That Has Never Been Told
We were like leprechauns or shy woodland creatures the day you found us in the vacant lot. We were little boys and lost in our kindergarten world of make-believe. We chattered and played, emboldened by being alone.
There was a sound, and we saw you standing there. Like small animals, our instinct was to freeze and wait for you to make a move. Sometimes grownups say, “You shouldn't be playing around here,” so we waited to see if you were going to send us away. We waited to see if we were playing in the wrong place.
But we were in the right place, the perfect place in fact. You smiled and said friendly things. We could see that you were nice, so we opened ourselves to you. There was no one to stop you, no one to wave a hand and change the forces at play that day. As it turns out, we were exactly the droids you were looking for.
You started talking and somehow helped us to understand that it was right and good to pull our pants down, like yours were down, see? We obeyed because you were big, and grownups know what should be done. Sometimes what grownups say doesn't make sense, but it's best to obey them anyway because what they say usually ends up being right.
We pulled our trousers down awkwardly, like little boys will do, getting the underwear and the pants all rolled up together and stuck at the knees. And then we were all yours, the most delicate and rare flesh. Our penises were pinkish and tender, and they stuck out like little Vienna sausages.
You told my friend Joey that it would be fun to put the tip of his toy rifle into your bottom. You bent over, pointed, and urged him with nice words. You were so convincing, and it was hard to say no to a grownup. Joey was tentative and scared, but he obligingly poked a few times in the general vicinity, then ran giggling back to me with little steps because his pants were still down.
You moaned and rubbed your hands on your bottom and said it was the best feeling ever, and that's when you started to lose me. I knew that getting poked in the bottom couldn't feel nice. But you said it was nice. But it couldn't be nice. But you were a grownup, but you were lying, but you were a grownup man, but you were lying, and I was starting to know it.
Then you slid your hands into Joey's armpits and lifted him high in the air. You said, “Watch this; it's lots of fun.” Then you put his penis right in your mouth. It was a shocking and horrible thing to me; I thought you might be biting it.
Joey squealed, “It tickles,” and a bomb went off in my head. A powerful voice inside me said, “No. NO! This is bad, wrong, and a thing that should not be. This is not right, and it's horrible, and he should stop it. Run away. Run away as fast as you can.”
I clawed at my pants, trying to pull them up, but the underwear was all tangled, and I was pulling them as hard as I could. I was scared because I had done such a very bad thing as to stand there with my pants down, and we were probably very bad boys who were going to get in terrible trouble. Maybe God was even watching.
I had no way to make you stop. You were bigger and smarter, and you knew a lot of words. In desperation I turned to the only weapon I had. My voice. I shouted the worst, most terrible thing I could imagine. I shouted it as loud as I could in a high-pitched, little boy shriek.
“Joey, you stop that right now, or I'M TELLING!”
I couldn't shout at a grownup, so I shouted at Joey. “Joey, you come home with me right now, or I'm telling. I'm telling. I'm telling your FATHER on you!”
And you stopped. I don't know why you stopped, but you did. You put Joey down, and we ran, pulling up our pants and stumbling along. As we ran you grew bigger in my mind until you were a giant monster following us. I screamed and looked behind me, but you were gone.
When we found the street that led to Joey's house, my mother was just pulling up in her car. She opened the door and said, “I had a bad feeling. I had a terrible feeling because we don't really know Joey's family, and I shouldn't have let you play here since we don't know them.”
I got in the car and said, “Take me home because I'm in a place where I'm not supposed to be.” I told my mom and dad a little, enough to scare them, but not everything because I was ashamed at having been such a bad boy.
Then I locked the story up inside and never told anyone about it until I was grown myself. That's the way we used to take care of things like this.
I wonder about you, Mr. grownup man from the vacant lot. I wonder how many children you have hurt over the years. We must have been early in your journey because you spooked easily. I think the shrieking voice of a little boy with his pants down would not stop you once you settled into your game.
It's funny, but I think maybe it was you who first showed me the power of words. Your nice words had power over us. And it's interesting that when the chips were down I put my trust in my own voice. I think “I'm telling” was just the right thing to say because you deal in secrets. I just said the first thing that came to mind, and it still amazes me that there was power in my small voice.
If there was someone to give me hot and cold clues, I would weave through all humanity until I found you. I would say, “I'm one of the two little boys from that vacant lot in El Paso back in 1968." You probably wouldn't remember. I wouldn't hurt you, but I would have some things to say to you. Not mean things. Healing things. I have a lot of words now, and I've learned how to use them.
You can't believe how loud my voice has become.

rlp

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