Thursday, June 12, 2008/March 15, 2010
CHILD SEXUALITY
By Philip Cairns
Copyright 2010 by Philip Cairns
Once, when I was a teenager,
In the last century,
I was walking down Yonge Street,
Near the Eaton Centre,
On a clear, spring day.
I had probably just seen a movie
Since I went to a lot of films, in those days.
I came upon a drunken bum following a blonde woman and her young son,
Down the street.
(I want to call her Verna.)
Verna looked in her early 30s, I recall.
The little boy was maybe 7 or 8.
(I’ll call him Bobby
And the wino, Rabbit.)
Verna was holding Bobby’s hand and fleeing from Rabbit,
Who was saying lewd and obscene things to Bobby.
Rabbit was describing sexual things he wanted to do to Bobby,
And chuckling, fiendishly.
Verna was aghast, needless to say, and speechless.
“Oh, oh, you’re a horrible man,” I think she said,
As she rushed up the street in broad daylight.
I was truly shocked, I must admit.
I, myself, was maybe 16 or 17
And had certainly fantasized
About doing these naughty, sexual activities
With boys my own age and young, handsome men,
But had not had much experience,
Except for a few furtive, sleazy gropings
In dirty cinema washrooms,
The kind that used to play a triple bill
Of second run movies,
Like “Paranoia” starring Carroll Baker
And “Hang ‘Em High” with Clint Eastwood and Inger Stevens.
Never, before or since,
Have I seen such a shocking, incredible incident on the street,
Such as the one with Verna and Bobby and Rabbit.
Verna is probably 70, by now.
Rabbit has been dead for several decades.
Verna sent Bobby to a child psychiatrist
To try to cure him of his nightmares.
Now, Bobby drinks at home in his empty house
And sends child support payments
To his bitter and angry ex-wife.
What repercussions did this incident have,
Which happened way back around 1970?
I imagine Bobby didn’t know what Rabbit was talking about,
And Verna maybe only liked the missionary position
When she and her husband made love twice a month.
Five years later,
When I was fully grown, and skinny and beautiful
And miserable and fucked-up,
I used to cut the hair of a pretty,
Mediterranean-looking woman named Marie.
She lived in a perfectly located house in downtown Toronto
With her 3 year old, curly-haired son, who was totally adorable.
I would pick him up and hold him
And we would talk because I really liked him
And I think the feeling was mutual.
One day, Timmy,
(I can’t remember his real name)
Told me about something that had happened in the park.
I didn’t understand what he was talking about,
So I just said, “Isn’t that nice!”
And let him blather on.
Marie rented out rooms, in the house,
And wore tons of silver bangles on her wrists,
And always looked like she was ready
To take a walk on trendy Queen Street West.
As I cut her black, gorgeous hair,
Marie was upset and freaking out about Timmy.
Some older boys had forced him to suck their cocks
In the park, the day before.
“I don’t care if he turns out to by gay,” she said.
“I just don’t want him to be forced to suck dick, now.”
There was another woman in the room.
We tried to reassure Marie
That no permanent damage had been done to Timmy.
But nothing we said seemed to calm her down,
Not even the joint that was passed around.
A year or so, later,
Marie was arrested for running numbers, over the phone, for a bookie.
She stopped being my client, sometime after that,
And I never saw her again.
I have no interest in having sex with children.
Children, however, are sexual beings.
I remember being 5 years old, at the old house.
My best friend was Johnny,
Who lived across the street and was pretty and blond
And also 5 years old.
We were in his basement, one day,
Before I started going to school,
(I always hated school),
While his mother was vacuuming.
We were lying on the floor,
On the soft broadloom,
In the 69 position,
Fondling each other and fingering each other’s butt holes.
His mother asked us, later, what we’d been doing,
But I’m not sure if we were caught in the act.
I can’t remember.
After all, it was over 50 years ago.
We were 2 innocent 5 year olds
Exploring each other’s bodies.
When I was a teenager,
I sold Fuller Brush items, door to door, one summer.
I went to one house and this bleach blonde woman
Opened the door and said my name.
It was the butt-hole boy’s mother.
She invited me in and I met her 2 grown children,
The ones I hadn’t seen in 12 years.
Johnny was very cute
And I would have enjoyed fingering his butt-hole,
One more time.
But, of course, I couldn’t say that.
I was still in the closet,
So I probably wouldn’t have admitted such a thing to myself,
Let alone him.
Sex is such a simple and complicated thing.
One sticks an organ in a wet orifice
And one or the other person, hopefully, has an orgasm.
It’s very cut and dried.
Child sexuality is a whole other kettle of fish.
It pushes people’s buttons, that’s for sure.
Most people don’t even want to talk,
Or even think about it.
But it happens.
Johnny is probably bald now and pays hookers to finger him,
Because his wife, long ago, said, “No more sex,”
Before she got hooked on pills and booze and depression.
His mother probably has a drool-cup resting under her chin
And a pair of dirty diapers under her soiled house dress.
Johnny visits once a month,
Hiding his baldness under a baseball cap,
And his paunch under a baggy t-shirt.
