Finding the Creative Hand of God in the Strangest Place, a Sexual Experience of a Five Year Old Boy (Sexually Explicit)

After shutting the trap door behind us, “A” suggests we pull our pants down so we can examine each other’s butts.

FINDING THE CREATIVE HAND OF GOD IN THE STRANGEST PLACE, A SEXUAL EXPERIENCE OF A FIVE YEAR OLD BOY (Sexually Explicit)

The secrets of the universe are hidden in the details of our experience. – Pete

By Roger A. “Pete” Peterson

It’s summertime, 1948. I’m 5, almost 6 years old and my family lives on Dow Avenue in Lewiston, Maine. My brother Dicky and I are at a friend’s house not far from ours. My friend’s sister, “A”, is there also. She’s older than her brother but younger than Dicky, who’s 2 years, 9 months older than me. It’s a warm summer morning and the four of us decide to play “Doctor” in the attic above the barn attached to their house.

We enter the empty attic through a trap door in the floor. Large particles of dust are floating in the air, illuminated by the midmorning sun shining through the large window ten feet or so beyond the landing of the attic stairs. After shutting the trap door behind us, “A” suggests we pull our pants down so we can examine each other’s butts. We all agree and “A” picks me first to examine her butt. With my pants down around my ankles, I shuffle over behind her. Bending over she rests her elbows on her knees to expose her behind.

Nervous and excited about seeing “A’s” anus and vagina, I get down on my hands and knees to take a good look. I’m Immediately confronted by the strong smell of feces. The odor is so strong, it’s nauseating. How disgusting, I think, hasn’t anyone ever taught her how to use toilet paper? Is she too lazy to use it? How did I get into this mess? How can I get out of it without offending her and disappointing the guys? Suddenly, I notice how much my knees hurt from pressing on the hard wood floor, and how much my back and neck ache from arching them to get a good look at “A’s” anus.

As if sensing my profound mood change, “A”, angrily wiggles her butt in my face as if to say, “Stop looking at me that way!” Then after a short pause, another, more gentle wiggle seems to say, “Look at me this way!” The first wiggle erases the negative, judgmental thoughts and feelings from my mind while the second one replaces them with a totally new set of thoughts and feelings. I suddenly feel proud of “A” for not using toilet tissue to wipe her butt off after going to the bathroom, and the smell of her anus is now pungent and inviting, like nectar from the Gods! How can this be? How can my mind switch from negative thoughts and feelings about my experience to positive thoughts and feelings so quickly? Is “A” a magician? In an instant, I’ve gone from being a Master Fault Finder to being a Master of Appreciation! Even the pain in my knees has disappeared.

For an instant I visualize “A” going to the bathroom and like some wild animal goddess, closing her anus tightly several times to remove any lingering residue. She then stands up to go about her daily activities, spurning the compulsive butt wiping behavior of others. As this image fades, my attention is drawn to the delicate folds of skin around the entrance of her anus and I wonder how the surrounding skin and the ring of muscle (anal sphincter) can expand and contract so much, and with such dependability when we discharge waste. What an ingenious mechanism to be so delicate, flexible, and strong at the same time!

The skin around “A’s” anus looks moist and darker than the surrounding skin and I’m curious as to whether it’s natural pigment or fecal residue. As I wonder about this, I notice I’ve developed a sensitive, rock-hard erection. Suddenly, I’m struck by the impulse to grab “A’s” hips and bury my face between the cheeks of her ass. I want to tongue her anus clean to both express my joy and admiration for her, and see if the color around her anus is natural pigment or moist residue left over from her last bowel movement. The power of this impulse almost overwhelms me but I stop short of committing this act because it goes beyond the bounds of our original agreement. I feel quite sure the boys would be shocked by this behavior and there’s no telling how “A” would react, even if she found it pleasant. I’m only five but my reaction seems natural given the circumstances. How intriguing!

Widening my attention, I notice the smooth, blemish free skin of “A’s” buttocks. It’s so pink, translucent, and alive! Curiously, I look for shafts of hair I know must be there. After a careful search, I find one delicate hair poking out of an almost invisible pore in her skin. Mesmerized, I wonder what it’s like inside the tiny pore in. Then, What’s it like inside her skin, I wonder? Feeling like I’m about to leave my body to enter the pore in “A’s” skin (See: Inside Ivy), I’m shocked back to reality by “A’s” grandmother as she bursts the trap door open, catching us by surprise. In one sweeping glance she takes the scene in and then locks her focus on “A”, bent over with her pants down, and me crouched down behind her with my face near her butt. “What are you doing, you nasty, nasty children! Pull your pants up and get in the house you two!” she yells at “A” and her brother. She then  points in the general direction of our house and commands Dicky and me to “Go home!” After pulling our pants up, we cautiously shuffle past her. She looks at us sternly and says, “I’m going to tell your mother on you!”

Several hours later, “A’s” brother calls to tell me his grandmother and sister have gone shopping and he wants me to come over. Shaken by the morning’s events we both want to talk about it. Stealing a cigarette and some matches, we dejectedly crawl under the front porch of the house through the dust, picking our way through rusty cans and broken glass as we go. Finding a clear space we lean against the rough, cold granite of the cellar wall. My friend lights the cigarette, takes the first puff then offers it to me. I inhale the smoke and gag. It burns my lungs and tastes awful! I can’t imagine why anyone would smoke such a thing unless they felt depressed or scared like us. I hand the cigarette back to my friend with the comment, I hope your grandmother doesn’t tell my mother about what happened this morning. I don’t know how she’d handle it. Then my thoughts turn to my mother because she smokes like a chimney and drinks a lot with my stepfather on weekends.

In my mind’s eye I watch my mother vacuum the carpet in the living room with her new Electrolux vacuum cleaner and scrub the linoleum floor in the kitchen with a mop. An ever-present cigarette sticks out the right side of her mouth as she bends over in labor. To keep the rising smoke from getting into her eye, she twists her mouth around to the right unnaturally and turns her head to the right while squinting her right eye. Why does she put up with something as obnoxious as cigarette smoke? Why does she, my stepfather, and their friends drink alcohol and get drunk on the weekends? I’ve seen alcohol lead to fights and give people terrible hangovers. I’ve also seen how heavy drinking can produce smelly diarrhea.

I take one more puff off the cigarette to remind myself how awful it is and hand it back to my friend who also takes a final puff before putting it out. Together, we crawl out from under the porch as depressed as ever. What we did in the attic was exciting and seemed to be a natural act of self discovery but smoking a cigarette was just plain awful! What’s wrong with this world?

Although we (my mother, stepfather, three brothers and me) only lived on Dow Avenue for a year, it was an eventful year for all of us. (See: What I Learned in Catholic School) My biological father died after I turned four and for a year, before my mother remarried, she had, with the help and encouragement of one of her sisters and her sister’s husband, purchased and run a grocery store in Mechanic Falls, Maine. After mom married my stepfather, we moved to Dow Avenue in Lewiston, Maine. Besides my experience in Catholic School and the experience described above, during that year on Dow Ave., I had to wear mittens to prevent me from chewing my fingernails down to the quick. The big event, though, was the day I burned the barn down.

It happened quite innocently, really. One day my older brother Dicky took me down the hill towards the creek so we could enter the area under the barn where some old, loose hay was stored. He pulling some matches out of his pocket and told me he had been trying to light the hay on fire for some time but it wouldn’t burn. To demonstrate this, he lit a match and stuck it into the hay. Sure enough, it wouldn’t burn. This piqued my curiosity, so the next day I went under the barn to try it myself. Wouldn’t you know, it caught on fire as soon as I stuck a match to it. I tried stamping it out with my foot and then my jacket but the flames just kept getting bigger and bigger. In a panic I ran to the house and asked my mother for the broom. She asked me what I wanted it for and in desperation, I said, I want to sweep the driveway, which was lame because it was dirt and cinder rocks. She challenged me on that point but I was insistent and she finally relented, letting go of the broom.

Once out of sight, I ran to the room under the barn. The flames had grown significantly in my absence and I started beating them as fast and as hard as I could with the broom. Then, I heard a scream. The woman who lived in the house across the creek from us had come out to the porch to hang some clothes. She saw me wildly beating the flames under the barn and screamed my name. She told me to get out of there then ran into her house to call the fire department and my mother. Realizing I was fighting a losing battle and knowing I was going to catch hell for it, I ran out of the barn and around behind the house. The living room window was unlocked so I climbed in as the fire trucks began arriving, their sirens sounding loudly. Pulling the couch out from the recess in the wall, I climbed in behind it and pulled it back in behind me.

Neighbors began arriving at the same time as the fire trucks. Meanwhile, from my hiding place behind the couch I could hear my mother crying and screaming my name from the kitchen doorway facing the barn. I was nowhere to be seen and she was totally distraught as any mother would be. On my hands and knees behind the couch, I didn’t know what to do. For what seemed like a long time she screamed and cried while the neighbors tried to comfort her. Then, after a moment of awkward silence one of the women tending her exclaimed “She’s fainted!” I couldn’t take it any more! I had to let her know I was still alive. As I entered the kitchen, I saw my mother slumped over in a kitchen chair in the middle of the kitchen with several neighbor women standing around her. She was unconscious from the shock of losing one of her sons. The women tending my mother looked greatly relieved when they saw I was still alive and shook her to wake her up. Walking up to her, I put my arms around her and told her I was sorry. She was so happy and relieved to see me, she hugged me tightly and started crying all over again while I apologized to her what happened.

When the Fire Chief heard I was alive and inside the house, he came in and asked me to step outside. He wanted me to tell him what happened. I told him how Dicky couldn’t get the hay to burn because it was wet and musty, so I thought I’d give it a try the next day by myself. Low and behold, it burned for me. When I realized I couldn’t put the fire out with the broom and the neighbor across the creek screamed and ran into the house to call the fire department, I told him I panicked and ran out of the barn to find a place to hide. Finding the window in the living room open, I hid behind the couch until I heard my mother had fainted. After warning me about the danger of fire, he said he thought I had learned an important lesson and that I wouldn’t do that again. I agreed with him and he let it go at that after saying he was glad I was alive. He was a nice man and I apologized to him for the trouble I caused.

That night I expected to get a beating from my stepdad because he used the barn to store many valuable things. Everything in the barn had been destroyed, including a racing sulky and some harness for his race horse, Easter Cash. But all he did was look at me with a combination of shock and relief in his eyes. He was clearly upset about losing so many expensive things but, in deference to what my mother had already been through, he kept quiet. I think he was also relieved I hadn’t died in the fire like everyone first thought. Was any of this related to the death of my biological father a year or so earlier? I don’t know; he was a very distant person and I didn’t feel close to him. He didn’t hug us, he didn’t hold us, he was just there.

Copyright 2007, Roger A. “Pete” Peterson

http://diaryofamystic.com

We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience. – Pierre Teilhard de Chardin

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