He wrapped his arms around my chest and pulled me closer. I’d like my hugs and kisses back if that’s okay.” “Well, I’m not a stupid teenager anymore. “Though if you’re naughty enough, I might still spank you.” He teased. “Well, once you became a teenager, you made it quite clear to me that you didn’t like hugs and kisses anymore.” My dad explained. What I said was true though, those past few weeks, all those interactions had been initiated by me, not him. “Even when I was naughty, at least you’d still spank me.” “We use to cuddle all the time and you never kiss or hug me any more.” I explained, trying to make it sound more innocent. I felt his muscles tense up and realized my question might’ve sounded a bit naughtier than I had intended. “Are you afraid to touch me?” I asked him. I was not very interested in what he was watching, but it was better than the uncomfortable position of before. I had turned a bit more this time, placing my back against his chest. I made sure he did not have the remote nearby, so he had no choice but to place his hand somewhere on me. The next time I did it, I waited again until he was watching something that interested him enough to stay seated even while I crawled into his lap. It wasn’t very comfortable, but it was all I’d be getting for now.
I leaned to the side, resting my head against his chest. He was holding it to keep his hand occupied, not knowing what else to do with it while I sat on his lap. I knew he wouldn’t use that as long as the game was on. He had one hand behind my back and the other was holding the remote. Probably thinking that I would get bored of it soon enough, he let me be. I wanted to see if I could still fit.” I explained. “I remember sitting on your lap all the time when I was little. “Sitting on your lap.” I replied cheekily. “What are you doing?” He asked me, not taking his eyes off the TV. I sat down sideways on his lap, using his arm as back-support. He was sitting in the corner, leaning back with one arm on the arm-rest. I was wearing black panties beneath a too large t-shirt, they were lace and covered only a small part of my backside. One night, several months after that last week of summer, my dad was watching sports from the sofa. Just hugs and kisses weren’t enough though. Perhaps I was, but he was mixing up cause and effect. He did not say anything about this either, except that I ‘seemed happier’ those days. I hugged him too, when he did something for me, when I’d done something that made him proud or just because. I kissed him before I went to bed, when I was about to leave or when he said something nice about me.
I kissed my father again, just like I used to when I was little. I don’t think we ever touched unless accidentally. I kinda felt I’d gone too far, that last week of summer. So I do.Didn’t seem an option at the time. If they don’t, then may stern justice prevail over mercy.Īs for me, I remain straight to this day, though I occasionally spice up my sex life with homosexual encounters. Life is messy, but I had to pick myself up from the dirt and live. If perceptions diverge, then these distinctions should be acknowledged in educating young males about their gender privilege. I would like to merely question the perceptions of penetration upon male and female bodies, and also upon white and colored bodies. I share my experience not to challenge the authenticity of rape traumas or condone the atrocity of perpetrators. The global obsession with chastity seems driven not only by evolutionary biology of genital infections and paternal uncertainty, but by the patriarchal structures that sought to ensure male domination over female bodies. In contrast to Dionysian Greeks, Christians espoused sacrosanctity of the body and paranoia over organs of pleasure, while also preaching confession and forgiveness. I don’t think the ancient Greek philosophers and Japanese samurais who were anally penetrated as boys developed lasting psychological traumas. But I suspect that the intensity of psychological distress may be culturally amplified. I don’t presume to know what it feels like to dwell in a woman’s body and psyche. I did not go through the gauntlet of sterilizing medical and legal procedures. I returned to the Mother Teresa House the next day.
The world is not all roses, and the crooked timber of humanity will deflower you if opportunities arise. Curled in a ball and still high, I passed out.įor whatever reason, I haven’t been scathed. I shared what had transpired with fellow Americans at the hostel, and they sympathized by offering more weed.