                        Bad Memories
              Copyright Nov. 20003, Frank McCoy
     
If you're looking for a nice sexy little story about little
girls who love sex, like I usually write, then skip this
one.  This isn't exactly a story; though it is about the
reality of what happens when little girls *do* learn to like
sex.  It's not a nice story.  Some of this tale might be
from two different experiences; I'm not sure.  Now, all I
know is that I remember it as all happening at the same
place; though there are inconsistencies in my memories of
oddball things like place-settings at the table, hallways,
and other minor details.  So, it could be I got the primary
location mixed up with something that happened later.  If
so, I apologize.  I especially apologize if it happens that
I seem to accuse the wrong family.  I'm now 60 years old,
and the exact details of what happened almost 50 years
earlier are not as good as they might be.
     
     I don't remember her name.  Actually, try as I might, I
don't remember for sure the family name of those I was
staying with.  It might be the one of the two names I *do*
remember; but I cannot be sure.  It bugs me though, that I
cannot remember *her* name.  She deserves more than that.
     
     Searching through my recollections of the time; it was
during one of those several times when Mother couldn't
handle us kids.  Whether that was because of troubles SHE
had (Mother wasn't exactly the healthiest person) lack of
income (Try raising 4 kids on the money you can make
cleaning floors.) or problems with us kids (We weren't
exactly angels.) I don't know.  At the time, it really
didn't matter; and this was just one more foster-home I was
staying at temporarily.
     
     I was 11 years old at the time; but had learned about
SEX about three years earlier.  My first experience was ...
Well, embarrassing.  It was with an older boy, and HE had
just been introduced to sex himself; and was trying to show
ME what fun it was.  Having been punished not a month or so
earlier, when my mother *thought* I was "playing with
myself" from my big sister's accusations; and forced to go
"confess my sins" to a priest, when I didn't even know what
I was supposed to be confessing, I was quite a bit leery
about touching myself in the genital area.  About a month or
so later, experimenting on my own, I found out just what all
the excitement was about ... But you can be damned sure I
didn't tell anybody in my family!
     When I was ten, I developed even more interest in sex,
found it a bit, but (again) you can be certain I never told
a soul in the family.  I knew better by then.  Even
masturbating was done on-the-sly, silently, and NOT in the
house.
     However, when I was 11 and being shuffled around in
foster-homes, I'm not sure the exact reason, but I stopped,
and *tried* to be a "good little Catholic boy"; and buried
sex so deep I almost forgot about it.  Almost.  The times I
remembered, I felt guilty for doing so.  Yep, a good little
Catholic Altar Boy ... Memorizing the Latin responses for
Mass so well I could probably make it through a Latin Mass
with all the proper responses today.
     "Et introibo ad atari Dei ..."  I will go unto the
Altar of God.  The god who gives joy to my youth.
     You get the idea.  The time was the early 60's, and
television was just becoming popular through the general
public ... Color Television had just been invented I
believe; but only the very rich had them.  Only the very
rich had TVs as big as 21"; and they all had enough knobs to
make a gadget freak freak.  They were also always getting
out of adjustment.
     When you're put into a foster-home, they don't put you
into the master bedroom.  In fact, you're usually lucky to
GET a room of your own.  Being a small kid, I usually would
fit in a small cot ... and in at least three places the
"room" I had was actually a closet off a bigger bedroom
where one of the "real" family members stayed.  In the one
place in particular, the closet (rather big closet) was
intended for the *guest* room.  I wasn't even allowed the
status of being a guest; but was hidden in a tiny room off
to one side.  I was forbidden to use the guest bed, bedroom,
or any of the fixings there.  My clothes and few possessions
were in a box at the foot of my bed, while my one "Sunday-go-
to-meeting" suit was hung up on the rod that normally would
be intended to carry the clothing of whoever stayed in the
guest room.  The blue suit was good ... But about two sizes
too small for me; as I'd grown fast in the previous months.
One nice thing the family there did for me, was see to it
that I got a new suit to go to Mass in ... when I wasn't
serving as an altar-boy myself.
     Both of the older boys in the house also served as
Altar Boys on occasion; though the oldest was in his last
year.
     One thing I learned quickly at most foster-homes, was
that you were proven guilty of *any* crime that happened,
once accused; and there was no defense allowed.  Foster-kids
(obviously) came from the scum of humanity, and the foster-
parents were there to, "make upstanding citizens out of
them" ... or kill the kids in trying.
     A piece of jewelry went missing for three days.  I was
accused of stealing it, because the last time it was seen
was when I was in the room (dining-room, off the living
room) where it was lost.  I was accused, spanked for
stealing, spanked *again* for lying about not stealing it,
and then punished for almost a week for not telling where I
had hid the thing ... something I in truth had never even
seen.
     About three days later, the item was found ... swept
under a sideboard or some other furniture in the room it was
lost, after (I assume) falling off the table where the owner
had put it.
     Instead of an apology, I had to finish my week's
punishment ... for lying about having the item, and, "Trying
to sneak it back to get out of being punished."
     Every protestation of innocence was met with *more*
punishment for *lying* until I learned well enough to keep
my mouth shut.
     Well ... You get the idea.  When the older kid goofed
up and damaged something, *I* got blamed ... AND punished
... and punished AGAIN, for lying about it.  I'll say this
for the kid ... when he came home later, he told that HE did
it.  So ... Did HE get punished for damaging the whatever-it-
was?  No ... HE got praised for, "Telling the truth."
     Me?  I *was* let off my punishment of being forced to
stay in my room for the rest of the day ... but was told,
that it was probably deserved punishment for what I *hadn't*
gotten caught at!
     To put all that in the proper perspective, you've got
to understand that even then I almost *never* lied; and
certainly not to get out of trouble.  Hell, up to then, I
almost never GOT into trouble.  I was a blue-eyed "innocent
little angel" and an altar-boy perfect type.  (Ick.)  I was
certainly far more the angel than either of their two older
sons ... Not that they were exactly hellions; but they
weren't any angels either.
     Besides the two older boys, they had one little girl (I
believe about 3 years old ... and SHE (on the surface at
least) seemed to be exactly the darling little angel her
parents thought she was.  Even though she was only three, I
must have spent many hours playing with her, with her toys.
By far the most pleasant person in the family to be with.
     One curious "punishment" they gave me once for some
minor infraction, was that I couldn't watch TV with the rest
of the family ... but was told to "read a book instead" as
if that was some onerous chore.  Once I found out the family
had their own private library of some rather GOOD books, I'd
often find myself reading them *instead* of watching the
babble-box.  This surprised them ... and yet pleased them.
It was one of my best ways of getting on their good-side,
doing something I *liked* to do.  It was hard to get into
trouble snuggled up in a living-room chair with a good book;
and a perfect excuse when something went wrong elsewhere; as
I'd obviously been reading all the while.
     Now it may seem like this family was *out* to abuse me,
find fault with me, and punish me for anything and
everything.  Yet this was NOT the case!
     I got the impression they were doing their damndest to
"Make a good citizen" out of me, no matter how I had been
previously raised.  I also got the impression, that at least
*some* of the previous foster-children had been real "hard
cases", straight from reform-school, who lied as easily as
breathing, stole without a second thought ... and worse
things yet.  I'll get to that later.  So, I was accused and
found guilty of being a foster-kid ... and all foster-kids
were liars, thieves, cheats, and worse-yet, by definition
... or at least until demonstrated "innocent" by activities
over several months.
     I mentioned a girl, didn't I?  During the two or three
months I was there, there were at least two or three *other*
kids, in and out.  I'm sure I was introduced to each ... But
damned if I can remember any details.
     The girl?  I know she was older than I was, by at least
a year, which would make her about 12; but little else
sticks in my mind.  I do know SHE had her own room to
herself, down the hall from where I entered the guest-room;
which bugged me a little at the time.  Other than that, she
somehow sticks in my mind as being *smaller* than me; though
I'm sure she must have been taller.  A thin blue dress, and
her wafting by me in a sweet smell of whatever perfume young
girls like her wear ... or was it her own sweet scent?  I'll
never be sure.  And that's about it, except for one day.
     About a month previous, *I* had been sent to my "room"
(closet) as punishment ... for lying again, about not doing
something I hadn't.  There I was, in a whitewashed room,
with nothing but a bed, four walls, my suit on the rack, and
a box of clothes to look at.  Four hours to go, until
"dinner time" when I would be let out.  Boredom incarnate.
     So ... I lay back on the bed (which I really wasn't
supposed to do ... I was *supposed* to sit in the box or
floor, and not make a mess of the bed, which was mitered and
boxed like a Marine or Hospital bed) and daydreamed.  With
one foot hanging over the edge, I swung it idly back and
forth ... until three people came banging up the stairs and
barged into my room, demanding to know what I was doing.
Hell, I had *no* idea what they were talking about!
     They left ... and I resumed my spot on the bed.  Three
minutes later they were slamming my door open again,
obviously expecting me to be up to something terrible and
evil.  Once again I was just sitting on the bed, wondering
what all the fuss was about.  They got me to explain exactly
WHAT I was doing on the bed (swinging my foot) and had me
demonstrate while one went downstairs to listen.  After
that, I was admonished to "Stop that!" as if it was the most
horrible and depraved thing ever.
     Laugh yourself silly, but it wasn't until close to
THREE hours later, that I suddenly realized exactly WHAT
they though I had been doing!  I turned hot, cold, and then
downright MAD when I realized they though I had been
*masturbating* on the bed ... And that somehow "I had gotten
away with it" by telling that I had been merely swinging my
foot!
     For the next several weeks I was under some intense
scrutiny that I never did figure out until long after I had
left.  One case in particular ... But I said I'd get to that
later.
     I don't know exactly *what* the girl did ... I was
never told.  It was obviously something sexual, she had
obviously also admitted to masturbation or something similar
... and I was a witness to at least *some* of the
punishment, because it was felt I needed to know what would
happen if *I* ever tried whatever-it-was.
     All I remember (and I *try* to forget every day) is
that the girl was beaten for something sexual in nature.
Something that SHE (up to then) had considered innocent.
     Most punishments I had received at that time were of
the "stand in the corner" type, or for the worst infraction
("stealing") a spanking with a belt.  The belt in question
was about two inches wide, and thick leather.  This may
SOUND worse than a thin belt; but believe me, if you've ever
been paddled with a belt:  Take the wide one!  It LOOKED
wicked, but when wielded with the tail-end, it just left a
welt.
     THIS was different.  This was no spanking, where the
kid is left with a red bottom.  This was a beating with the
buckle-end of the belt; and the aim wasn't to leave welts,
but to *damage*.  Of course, unlike with me, receiving the
licking on bare-bottom with my pants pulled down, they
didn't pull the pants down or dress up of the girl.  No,
they WHIPPED her, standing there in that same thin blue
dress, with the full strength that a 30-odd-year-old man
could apply to a belt against a young girl.
     Over and over and over again.  Each strike of the belt
being punctuated with words like, "You will NOT touch
yourself `down there' again!"  <WHAP!>
     Each and any protestation of innocence or even, "I
won't do it, I PROMISE!" would be met by yet *another* blow
of the belt.
     "You WON'T wear your clothes like that!"  <WHAP!>
     On, and on, and on, until the girl managed to escape
into her room.
     At this, *I* was sent into *my* room, as if it was
somehow partly my fault for observing this.
     But it didn't stop.
     For almost half an hour I heard cries and indications
of spankings or something going on ... For her room, while
down the hall, was just one partition away from mine.
     To my shame, I never said a word about what happened
that day to anybody.  Not to the foster-parents to complain
or even ask what the girl did.  Not to the social-worker who
checked up on us kids ... and was the one responsible for me
getting my glasses back.  Not to my mother.  Not to anybody
until today, when somebody forced me to remember and tell.
     The next day, I remember the girl standing in the
kitchen eating breakfast, while we all sat.  Her eyes were
black and blue, I could see bruises and welts  on her arms
and through the armholes and back of that blue/white dress.
She never said a word to me; essentially looking right
*through* me, as if I didn't exist.  And ... I guess I
didn't.  I found out that day I was a coward.  Nobody should
be treated like that for any reason.  Yet I didn't speak up,
for fear it would be ME.  No, not even a squeak, of, "What
did she DO?"
     It was a little over a week or so later that I left ...
for another foster-home ... This time, one I *wanted* to be
at.
     I only remember seeing her a couple of times in that
time ... and the beaten look I saw I will always carry with
me.  No life, no sparkle, no joy, only resignation.  The
next day, she was spanked again ... I'm not sure if for more
of the same reason, or for raising some kind of objection.
It wasn't the same type of beating, in any case.
     By listening to what was and was NOT said, I got the
fairly certain impression that she was punished for
something sexual; though it was never clear to me exactly
WHAT.  Something more serious than masturbation ... I think.
Maybe not.
     Now remember:  I had *just* figured out a week or so
earlier why they had gotten all uptight about my merely
swinging my leg on the bed in my room.  Up to then, I hadn't
had much of a sexual thought in several months.  After all,
I was *trying* to be a "good little Catholic Altar Boy" and
the masturbation and such fun I had learned earlier were
SINS!  Here I was hoping to be Confirmed.
     Well I was definitely reminded there was such a thing
as sex.
     
     I mentioned earlier that they had a young daughter in
the house.  It wasn't until YEARS later I figured out some
other things.  The girl and I would often play ... I would
make a handy babysitter, I guess.  We'd play in the
basement, with HER toys, and she made (for her age) a nice
partner.  Only about three or four, but smart as a whip.
     It wasn't until about three or four years later, that
some things that happened suddenly became clear:
     I wasn't *too* aware of it then, but every time, after
we had been playing (privately I thought) down in the
basement, the parents would quietly question MK about what
sort of games we had been playing.  From what I know *now*,
comments made at the time I didn't understand, the girl's
actions, and other things:
     I'm almost *certain* the child had been molested
before.  I'm almost equally certain she had *liked* it, and
wanted more!  I was just (luckily!) dumb enough, and
unsophisticated enough, that I never caught on to many of
her suggestions and actions.  I'm also certain her parents
KNEW this had happened ... and were using the child as a
TRAP, to catch me trying to molest the kid ... The furthest
thing from my mind at the time.  I was just glad to have
*somebody*, *anybody* to play with, so I didn't go out of my
head with boredom.  Besides, the kid was *smart*, pretty,
witty, and damn near everything I'd want in a child of my
own.  I always have liked kids.  I love to play with them,
talk with them be around them, take care of them, etc..  No,
it is *not* my fantasy to have sex with one ... all of my
stories to the contrary.  I raised one kid myself since; and
think I did a pretty damned good job of being a father.
Though I love my own kid, the girl in that house beat my kid
in looks, intelligence, personality, and almost every other
measure.  <Sigh.>  Some families get lucky.
     But I'm fairly sure that *sometime* in the past, before
I got there, some older boy had been playing sexual games
with the girl ... And I'm certain her parents at least
suspected it was happening.
     No wonder they were so uptight about me possibly
masturbating upstairs.  Geesh.
     Still, in that house, anybody *except* the "real
family" was always considered guilty until proven innocent.
     I wonder to this day, what they would think if they
knew some of the things their little girl did, that I
completely ignored.  (Now that I think about it, I'm not
certain if it was from ignorance or ice-cold fear.  For sure
I wasn't interested in her sexually.)  Would they beat her,
abuse her, ostracize her, and punish her, like they did the
foster-girl?
     I'll never know.
     The last time I saw the girl (foster kid) was about two
days or so before I left myself.  She was standing in the
corner of the dining-room, still being punished, and
ignoring everything that went on around her.  I hope I never
see the look in anybody's eyes that I saw in hers that day.
I'm quite sure that for the rest of her life, she was a
"good little girl".  <Shudder.>
     
     I've been beaten up, abused, raped, left-for-dead,
accused unjustly, whipped until the whipper couldn't lift a
hand, and other nasty things during a life of both wonderful
times and horrible experiences.  One of the worst, was being
beaten by four men while in the service, waking up hours
later half-naked and *used*.  20 years later, a pain in the
back was diagnosed as the result of bruising I received that
day.  I'd take any of that, all of that, and more, to never
see what I saw that day happen to one little girl I can't
even remember the name of.
     Not that we were friends.  I doubt I'd exchanged more
than a dozen words with her beforehand.  But it's not *fair*
to be treated like that, just for being human and a sexual
being.  It's not fair.  It's not fair.  It's not FAIR!!!
     
     Since then, I've learned that what I saw that day isn't
as uncommon as I thought at the time.  Girls, it seems, are
often punished for being sexual, with the supposed intent of
"protecting them" from "sexual predators."  Ick.  The idea
being that if the girl likes sex, then she'll go looking for
(and find it) and that beating the kid almost to death is
somehow *better* for her than taking a chance on her
actually having-sex and learning to like it.
     I've heard of girls who were raped and abused, getting
*similar* treatment from their own parents ... as if it was
THEIR fault they got raped!
     This is sanity?
     This is humanity?
     This is right?
     
     I think not.
     But:  It does however, seem to be the commonly accepted
reasoning that many people buy as being "the right way" to
bring up children.
     
     No.  I don't remember her name.  For years, I've tried
to forget all of this; though I have mentioned it as a
comment before, several times.  I've just never told the
*whole* story before now.  I think I was trying to forget.
I had almost succeeded.
     But it's not fair to HER, or her memory, or to those
like her.
     I still cannot forgive myself for not speaking up for
her back then.  I had chance after chance ... and like the
coward I was, I kept my mouth shut.
     Would *she* forgive me?
     I don't know.  I'm not sure I ever would, if I was her
and knew.
     I'll have to live with that, the rest of my life.
     This story, is my apology.
     
