November 22, 2001

A Story by cecegracen

Unfortunately my most memorable thanksgiving.

Embedded in me, leaking its venom is the truth. It stings and writhes inside, coursing deeper and deeper with each beat of my heart. Can what I recall truly be what happened or have I become delirious from the toxin? Oh God, what have I done? I’m taunted by the ingrained memory of the event. That memory, that haze has haunted me, tormented me and followed me daily. It has embodied my shadow, retelling the tale a thousand times in fragmented pieces. A bad dream that I don’t understand and I cannot forget. When I attempt to recall the entirety of the event, sections fade in and out like a fog. I am never sure that I have all of the parts to the puzzle. Have I completely pushed some from my memory in attempts to protect myself? Have I reshaped pieces to make them fit?

I was seven, and he was thirteen. That day was the first time we had ever met. His demeanor was foreign to me. Coming from an authoritative household primarily of girls, it was difficult to interpret this rambunctious pubescent boy. He was bold. His daringness was the manifestation of rebellion. His entire existence was a mystery to me.

Mother had told me he was my second cousin. That concept alone surpassed the extent of my understanding. I knew that meant he was family in some convoluted way. So why had I never met him or even heard of him before? After taking in all these unexplained factors, the only conclusion I could draw was that there has been a scandal behind him. Clearly there was some family secret involved. I have never liked secrets. Looking back and seeing that his absence was due to living in a different state is understandable. However, at the time l did not have much understanding of practical travel time and distance. I thought he obviously had to be tied up in some family fallout. I was convinced that juicy gossip encompassed him.

Though the thought of an untold scandal was pressing on my mind, the promise of make-believe fun had a stronger pull. In no time my sisters, cousins and I were merely playing pretend. As usual dinner interrupted our game. We took a break for food, pictures and listened to relatives catch up. However, we soon resumed our previous activities of chasing off villains and banding together via a common cause. We played for hours. Eventually, the games became dull and most were ready for a snack. I lingered behind, for a reason still unknown. My cousin lingered as well. I am unsure of his original intent for lagging behind, perhaps there was none, however he soon found one. He turned to me and asked if I would care for a back massage.

My sisters and I used to trade off massaging each other’s back. We took the saying “You scratch my back; I’ll scratch yours” quite literally. It was only fair if you did a service for me, gave a back rub, then I should repay the service, give a back rub. So if my cousin was offering to give me a free back rub I would be a fool not to take it, right? What I did not realize is that there is always a price to pay. He began by rubbing my back over my shirt then slowly, casually, sliding his hand under my shirt.

When my sisters and I would massage each other’s backs, we would often have our shirts off and meticulously covering the necessary bits. The purpose behind this was to allow for maximum massage coverage and the copious amounts of lotions and powders used to not soil our tops. So when my cousin asked me to remove my top I thought it only the natural routine for receiving a massage. I was however concerned that he might accidentally see my chest. To remedy this, he provided me with a sheer hot pink scarf to cover me. In my naivety, I did not think it possible for him, my older cousin, to have ulterior motives than protecting my innocence.

After a few more minutes of the back rub, he told me that I would be humorous if we moved into the closet. When I asked why he explained saying if anyone walked in then we could pretend that we weren’t there. So we relocated to our secluded area for to better remain unannounced to intruders. He then furthered to say that his mom was a massage therapist, and she had taught him classified techniques. These set of skills, he said, were not mundane rather they were the essence of relaxation- the pinnacle in the mitigation of muscle tension. If I could keep his secret then he would give me this special massage.

We moved to the closet and the top secret massage began. I laid on my stomach as he rubbed my back. He rubbed the nape of my neck, lower, to my shoulder blades, lower, to the small of my back, lower, to the dimples at the bottom of my back, lower, to the top of my pant waistband… lower, under my panty waistband. He spent some extra time there. “Go ahead and roll over. I will get your stomach,” he said. The same routine. He started just above my navel, lower, to my waist, lower, to my hip bones, lower, to the top of my pant waistband… lower, under my panty waistband. He paused and held the scarf around my torso. “This is getting in the way why don’t you take it off.” Was that okay? People aren’t supposed to see that part of me, right? He saw my hesitation. “It’s fine; we’re family.” He helped by untying the scarf. Again he went through the routine, only starting an inch higher this time. Each time through he would start higher and end lower. After several times through with focused attention at the start and finish he said “Let’s undo your pants button. Just so you can be more comfortable. ” He helped by unbuttoning my pants. “Don’t worry I know just what to do. I’ll take care of you,” he said as he slid his hand across my bare stomach and down to my undone button.

The wolf and red riding hood. Was I truly deceived by him or was I too ignorant and foolish to notice the danger? How could I miss something so obviously wrong? With each manipulation of my muscle came a manipulation of my psyche. He was not simply doting on me because I was his younger cousin. Did I surrender my innocence or was it taken? Did I lead him on, encourage this to proceed? In the future what would this do to him? What have I done to him? I breathe these questions every day. Its acid scorching my lungs, my throat, me.

He put on a pair of gloves he found in the room. Wordlessly he lowered my zipper and put his gloved hand into my pants. The pants of a seven-year-old. The pants of his younger cousin. His tentacle of a hand skimmed the surface of my cotton covered privates. After sufficient investigation, he boldly ventured into uncharted territory. He slipped his hand under my panties and began a more thorough investigation. This seemed to exhaust much of his massaging energy because after a time spent focused in that location he needed some revivement. “It’s your turn.” He said and handed me the gloves. If he spent time and effort attempting to make me feel relaxed then I should repay the favor. It’s only fair.

It was my turn he said. I put the gloves on, and he guided my hand to his crotch. After unbuttoning and unzipping his pants, he again took my hand and led it beneath his boxers. Releasing my hand, he said “Now you do what I did. Stroke it.”

I tried my best to mimic the techniques he had used on me. To rub the right way, touch the correct spots. My efforts were to no avail. I could not seem to duplicate to his satisfaction. To remedy this problem, he said he had to show me again. Only this time to better instruct he must take off the glove. This stipulation seemed strange and questionable. Again upon my hesitation he said “It is completely fine. We are family. This is what close families do. This is what professional massage technicians do.” Since he was almost twice my age, I thought surely he must know more than I. I trusted that he would not lead me astray.

“Lower your pants and underwear just a bit so that I can massage you better… Lower… Here just let me do it... There that’s good.” He stopped when everything was just below where it should be. Just below the reason for wearing any covering. Just below my innocence. Plunging his bare hand into my exposed region, he began his second exploration. He probed for a long time. He did not talk to me or even look at my face. He intently studied my topography. Examining this and that. Finally, it was my turn to show what I had learned.

As I reached for the glove, he said, “No, do it like I did.” I was timid. Unsure of where to begin. He helped by lowering his pants and boxers. This action did not assist me in knowing what to do. It only proved to confuse me more. I knew what he had done to me but where was I to begin on a man. Everything is different. Everything is intimidating. He took my hand and placed it on him. Flesh to flesh. I had never been this intimate with anyone, ever. Was this even intimacy? Is this what I should expect in the future? When someone wants intimacy, it is forced through deceit and manipulation.

Up and down, back and forth I moved my hand. I hoped that I was not a disappointment. I tried to understand the skill set. Tried to grasp any understanding of the technique that I could. It was like speaking a foreign language. I could copy the words but could not comprehend the meaning behind them. The meaning was just above my reach. This top secret massage held more meaning than I could have ever guessed. I knew the motions were close; the movements were similar, but there was something more that was beyond me. He reached the point of enough. It was done.

After a long massage with intricate learning stages, it was done. It was over. My education of the male anatomy grew exponentially that day. Who knew that men felt the way they did. Who knew that when you are a really close family you give top secret massages. I had expected a short lived back scratch instead I got stripped, examined and then instructed on the ways of reciprocation. I thought I was getting a free back rub instead I paid dearly in multiple ways.

I had believed that family was synonymous with safe. That family would uprightly guide you and protect you. Not guide you to the warm places of manipulation and not prey upon naivety. This event shook my foundation in a detrimental way. How much of this was my fault and how much was his? Was any of this his fault? I should have seen through the lies, seen the obvious deceit. How could I be this stupid? I allowed a man to penetrate my sacred places. My virgin mind and body were defiled. He aborted what comprehension I had of normalcy. Scraped free the base I had lain, shredded what I had known to be true and left an etching of confusion. I never said no, I never said stop, I never put up a fight. I traded myself for a free back rub. What else will I give up? I gave my understanding of intimacy, boundaries and security away.

The nightmare was not physically what took place but psychologically what was torn loose, rattled, marred and erased. This demon nips at my heels at every occasion, taunting me, reminding me of my iniquities, my shortcomings. Lord, is there no rest?