Authors: John Raptor
She and the Bunny stand in the darkness of the garage, next to each other, like circus freaks. The Oldest Woman in the World and her Man-Sized Pet Rabbit.
“I love you, Robert. I want what’s best for you. I
know
what’s best for you. That’s why you had to be punished. For folly is bound up in the heart of a child, but the rod of discipline drives it far from him. Do you remember that? That’s Proverbs. You should read the Scriptures more often, Robert; it’ll protect you against the harlots. For all Scripture is breathed out by God and profitable for teaching, for reproof, for correction, and for training in righteousness, Second Timothy 3:16. Jesus loves you, Robert. And so do I.”
I turn away from her, stare out at the golden fields…feel the wind through my hair, against my sweat and blood and shit. I realize my boxers are back on, covering my shame…I don’t remember when that happened.
My legs are caked in blood.
I swallow.
Pain still throbs in my groin, piercing and hot.
And I say, “Thanks, Gramma,” and start limping down the gravel road.
Behind me, I can hear the garage door slowly closing on its track.
I don’t look back.
…30 YEARS AGO (1979)
When I was twelve, I didn’t have too many friends because my Gramma rarely allowed us to leave the house, unless it was to go to church school, prayer meeting, or it was Sabbath. “We” were strict Last Day Adventists and considered Saturday to be the day god rested from creating the world and thus god’s holy day, much like the Jews, except “we” loved Jesus and were saved by his blood (unlike the kikes). Gramma hated lots of people: Catholics (“Babylon! Apostate! Antichrist!” she would declare), blacks, Muslims, Sunday Worhsippers (a.k.a. pretty much all Protestants), women, children, liberals, gays and dykes and trannies, but especially me and my sister.
I remember when some of the guys at church school (a brick box in the middle of nowhere; attendance: 20 students, grades 1 - 8) found a porno mag lying in the grass during recess. They were taking it all in: tits, pussy, ass. Young-boy eyes feasting upon lady-parts they had never seen before.
None of those guys liked me either. They all thought I was a faggot because I didn’t like playing sports and couldn’t catch a ball to save my balls.
I usually hung out with the girls and got a lot of shit for it.
“You hang out with those girls and you’ll grow a big fat vag,” one of them told me (I think his name was Brady).
I couldn’t identify with them (the guys). They were mean and angry and aggressive. They’d beat me up for not being as angry and mean and aggressive as they were: throw sand in my face, spit on me, kick me, hit me, squeeze my testicles…one time, one of them (don’t remember which one) tea-bagged me. When we played floor hockey during PE, it was always boys vs. girls, but the guys told me I had to play on the girl’s team because I didn’t have a wiener. The teacher agreed and made me goalie, so the guys could use my face as target practice. I often had welts on my lips, cheeks, and forehead; my shins, thighs, and arms. The teacher wouldn’t allow me to wear padding. He hated me just as much as the guys; he was one of the guys. Told me I was too quiet and if I didn’t want to get beat up, I should be more assertive.
When I told Gramma about being bullied at school, she said, “Boys and girls are neurologically different, Robbie. Girls are empathetic cunts and boys are aggressive and ambitious. You’re a boy, so toughen up. Quit being a cunt and fight back.”
“But I don’t want to be mean, Gramma.”
“Too bad. The world is mean.”
“If boys are mean, how come I’m not mean?”
“Boys aren’t mean, numb nuts. They just have a hard communication style. They believe in discipline instead of coddling. Girls are too nice. They encourage weakness.”
“But I
want
to be nice, Gramma. Does that mean I’m a girl?”
She slapped me hard in the face. “You have a widdler, don’t you? You’re a man. Now quit bitching and start acting like one!”
The day Brady found the porno mag, I did what Gramma told me: I became one of the guys.
***
The guys were sitting near a tree, gathered around a moist mag that had been lying in the dewy grass (at least, I hope that’s why it was moist), out of sight from the teachers (there were three teachers: two grumpy bitches and a fat, mustached dickhead—
my
teacher). When I walked by (to go talk to Ashley and Madison about whatever), Brady called to me: “Hey faggot, get over here.”
Even though they treated me like shit, I was too nice to not hang out with them sometimes and be their punching bag. The abuse was ignored by the mustached fuckhead by relabeling “verbal abuse” as “they’re just busting your chops” and “physical abuse” as “rough housing.”
Boys will be boys.
But I obviously wasn’t one of the boys; I was their bitch. (Neil was the second bitch on the totem pole. The guys would rag on him—hit him in the balls, call him queer and faggot—and since I was bottom bitch, Neil would take his anger and humiliation and rage out on me.)
“You ever see one of these, faggot?” Brady held up the mag, and I felt myself stiffening when the image hit my eyes. A woman with her legs spread, touching her gaping labia.
“Wow, I think the faggot actually likes it?” one of the other numbskulls said.
On the next page, a woman bent over, revealing her ass and labia from behind.
I felt flush. I had never seen anything like it.
Naked women…right there. In front of me.
“That’s one hot bitch,” I said, trying to sound tough, cool, whatever the fuck.
The guys all laughed.
“Right on, Robbie. You do have a willie after all.”
I had never bonded with these boys before, but all the sudden, as we looked through the porno mag and scoped tits and ass and pussy, I was one of them.
It felt…good, in a way. To be accepted by these Neanderthals. But also, empty. I didn’t actually believe anything I was saying, and regretted saying it. Things like:
“I’d love to shove it up her ass.”
“Wish I could make that whore take it in the mouth.”
“I want to violate that cunt’s cunt.”
I was always shy (another weakness, according to Gramma), so the boys couldn’t stop laughing when they heard me (quiet Robbie) saying such vulgar things.
“You know what, Robbie? You’re alright,” Brady said.
They asked me why I hung out with girls so much if I was such a cool guy.
“I want to get
some
, duh. Why else would I hang out with bitches?”
“But the bitches here are fucking ugly,” Brady said. “All ones and twos.”
I stammered, froze. Didn’t know what to say. My face burned. Oh God. I was turning red like the bashful weak fuck I really was.
I couldn’t admit that I actually liked hanging out with the girls because they talked about stuff instead of kicking around balls and beating the shit out of each other like goddam animals.
That was weakness. That meant I was a cunt…I mean, a girl.
And girls were empathetic and nice, which was bad. I couldn’t be any of those things if I wanted to survive in this shithole world as a boy.
So I said: “Pussy is pussy. It’s all the same in the dark.”
Brady laughed.
I continued to hang out with the girls, under the guise that all I cared about was their pussy. And some of the other guys started hanging out with the girls too. And we acted different around the girls. We put on our nicest smiles and cleaned up our language and were real sweet on them.
But when it was just the boys, we’d trash talk them. Talk about how they were nothin’ but pussy, how they were fuckin’ bitches (nothing too original; that would require more than two brain cells to rub together). Brady bitched that he tried to kiss Abigail, but she refused to put out.
Brady called her a “retarded bitch” (I assume because she had dyslexia) and a “fuckin’ whore!”
“How can she be a whore if she doesn’t put out?” I asked.
“Oh, she puts out. Just not for me. She puts out for her daddy. And for her daddy’s friends. I bet she takes two dicks in her pussy at the same time.” He put two fingers through a cupped hand and laughed.
I laughed too (but inside, I felt sick).
Boys will be boys.
***
Brady hid the porno mag in his locker, and we agreed that’d we’d all share it. Each day, one of us would take it home. Brady got it for three days in a row because he was the one who found it. Second-bitch-on-the-totem-pole Neil didn’t think that was fair, but Brady threatened to make him first bitch if he didn’t shut his fucking mouth (not precisely in those words).
I took the porno mag home on a Tuesday, hidden between the pages of my Bible textbook (the guys thought it was a hoot). And that night, after supper and devotions, I holed up in my claustrophobic box-of-a-bedroom and cracked the text open. I could already feel myself getting hard. My nerves tingling with ecstasy.
The porno mag.
Such a thing of beauty for a 12-year-old boy. Not only the stepping stone to his manhood and the acceptance of his male peers, but…naked ladies!
I flipped through the pages, salivating over the still-images of big breasted blondes in their birthday suits bent in various poses.
My face flushed as my eyes caressed the heaving breasts, shaven vulvas, and big shapely asses.
I found my favorite spread: a tight shot of a girl’s vulva (from below), her fingers between the lips. B.g.: her long blonde hair thrown back in ecstatic pleasure, her other hand squeezing a breast. The nipple hard and erect.
I humped the bed as I stared at the image and burnt it into my retinas for later consumption.
The bed springs squeaked and I tried to slow my pace, fearing my Gramma would hea—
Footsteps. In the hall.
I quickly hid the porno mag under the sheets and sat up with my Bible text.
Gramma Wilkins entered the bedroom, glowering at me.
You been lookin’ at the girls, Robbie?
Panic.
No.
Those girls are demons. Harlots and whores. Jesus said to even think about one of them whores in a lustful manner is as bad as adultery. You don’t want to be a sinner, do you, Robbie? I know you’re at that age now, that age when them girls are going to start lookin’ pretty, but you better keep out of their snatch ’less you want your widdler to rot off. Those whores and harlots have sex diseases, Robbie. They may be pretty on the outside, but inside, they're pure nastiness. The book of Revelation says the whore rode the Beast. You don't want to be the Beast, do you, Robbie? There’s a special place in hell for the Beast and the False Prophet. Ordinary sinners will just burn up and die, but the anguish and suffering of the Beast and False Prophet shall go up forever and ever. You do not want to be a Beast, Robbie. One of them ornery Beasts that fucks harlots in the backseat of their sports car and ends up with a soulless fornication child. Right now, you have a soul, Robbie, but you can lose it. Those harlots are incubi and they’ll suck your soul right out through your widdler. They’ll infect you with their diseases. They might even try to convince you to take them to one of them baby-killing factories if your silly willy breaks the condom.
I won't do any of that dirty-nasty stuff, Gramma. I promise, I promise. I want to be pure for the Lord.
Now Robbie, don’t lie to me. Lying is a sin, and liars burn slower and hotter, along with adulterers and gossipers. Thou shall not bear false witness, number nine.
Gramma tossed a pair of stiff boxers on the bed.
I found a pair of your shorts in the laundry bin, Robbie, and there’s a peculiar stain on them. You mind explainin’ that stain to your dear ol’ Gramma? What would your mama think? Your sweet ol’ mama who ripped her insides apart to bring you into this cesspit world, who withstood the degradation of sexual intercourse to bring forth your existence? Thank Christ she's dead.
I don't know where that stain came from, Gramma. I don't know.
You goddam well know where that stain came from, you little shit! You’ve been touching your widdler! You’ve been defiling the Holy Temple of God with impure thoughts and actions! Is this the way you repay the woman who raised you and fed you and clothed you…by degrading yourself? Your poor dead mother must be rolling in her grave. Is this why she died, Robbie? Is this why your father killed her by not being man enough? So you could act like a goddam animal? We might as well have evolved from monkeys like those nasty-evil scientists say if impure imps like you wallow in sick fantasies and spray your seed all over the place! That seed is meant only for the womb of a woman to whom you are married.
Gramma shoved the boxers in my face, grinding my lips against the stiffened, crusty fabric.
See this stain? SEE IT!?
Crying.