This story contains mature or graphic content.
I didn’t realize how much I wanted all my stories to reflect how much I feel like a toy, not just to most of the men I’ve known, but to life, the establishment, fate, the universe as a whole. And after writing my first foray into brutal honesty, another reality reared its ugly head: what if someone wanted to know everything there was to be gleaned about my sexual peccadilloes, my years of bondage and naked servitude to masterful males, but not of my father’s perverse life lessons, his philosophy of familial love, paternal physicality, how real love between a parent and child is shown behind closed doors? So I came upon a warning system for those brave enough to continue on with me: In all stories dealing with molestation, my childhood and my abuses there will be an “M” in the title, e.g. “Pull Toys (M).” Everything after this will be about an incident of molestation that I remember. Now that you know, dear reader, you can stop reading and return to more pleasant pursuits, and having been informed about the “warning” system, you can now avoid any and all stories like this in the future. Onward!
Mommy wasn’t coming home. I was five or six and something terrible had happened, she was in the hospital, hurt real bad, and she wasn’t coming home. There had been an automobile accident and she was indeed injured very badly. This was in the early ’70s, and they kept her in the Kaiser hospital for a week at least, as they tried to put her back together as best they could. Luckily for her, she was in her early twenties, so her outlook for a full recovery was very good, but her pain was nearly unbearable; they sent her home regardless. After all, in the early ’70s, what young, recently married couple would have medical insurance? Surprisingly, they did have some through Dad’s work, but it was a pittance, and the rest was out of pocket. My mother’s mother whisked her home to her house, not home with us. After all, that would be cruel, to be in so much pain, stuck home with two small children and a young (partying) husband, and it was simply too far for Grandma to drive every day to take care of her. Everything was happening so fast, and was so confusing that I didn’t have time to be angry or sad, I was just shuffled from home to my other grandparent’s house and back again. The only thing I could think was I hoped that Mommy would get better soon. Daddy was nice, and sometimes even fun, but he acted silly with his friends. And there were the times when he touched me, or had me take off my clothes, and I didn’t want to. But he told me he loved me.
When Mommy finally came home we had a big party, just us four! She was always tired; and had to use a cane, her arm and her leg were both in casts, and she had these funny little wires that came out of her toes. When she wasn’t tired she was angry and she used to get really mad when my brother and I would “play” her toes, the corks on the ends looked so neat. But she slept on the couch in the living room because she couldn’t lie flat, and she couldn’t stand to be touched, not even by Daddy, it just hurt too much—cuddling up to him in bed at night was out of the question. But having her on the couch was OK with me, because it meant I couldn’t watch TV alone with Dad anymore. He’d go to tuck me in though, and stay in a little long, and Mom would call out his name from the living room, “Billlllllllll, come ’ere, I need my pill, what’s taking so long?”
