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“Daniel and I never discussed what happened in that bedroom, my bedroom.”

“Oh,” said Dr. Humphrey as he probed a bit further, “Why do you think that is?”

“I didn’t know what we were doing, so why would I be inclined to discuss it with him?”

“Well, you had the presence of mind not to say anything. Don’t you think that constitutes awareness or – at the very least – guilt?”

“I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to make this about him and about sex. It’s not about that. I honestly had forgotten the entire incident until I started seeing you.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“I don’t know.”

Dr. Humphrey, a psychologist my parents’ had found through their insurance company, was the type of guy that you couldn’t help but like. He was the All-American man with his blue eyes, sandy blonde hair, professorial beard, and athletic build. His demeanor was always poised, and yet there was a pervasive and perpetual glint in his eyes, a hypnotic beam of light that radiated affection; all you had to do was confide in him and he would save you from your demons. I trusted him immediately. I told him things that I could never even admit to myself. He knew about Daniel. No one knew about Daniel. Daniel wasn’t real.

After the summer of ‘87 and the incident, Daniel and I never spoke – we were forbidden to do so. My mom never spoke of the incident or Daniel, my dad didn’t even know about the incident, and I blindly accepted that Daniel was a bad boy and I was a bad girl. What else was I to believe?

Now here I was, 12 years later, with my body in a conflicted state, somewhere between being entirely erect and slumped over on Dr. Humphrey’s blue leather couch. I was wearing my favorite pair of jeans and a translucent white tank top with a bleach white bra underneath – all, of course, specifically selected for this occasion. With my creamy white skin, long dirty blonde hair, perfectly shaped eyes, polite nose, and my soccer-toned legs, I knew that I could successfully distract any man that I wanted to, and today, like every other session day with Dr. Humphrey, I chose to focus all my efforts of distraction on him. He never verbally acknowledged my behavior, but that glint in his eyes spoke volumes to me. Maybe he was using nonverbal cues to give me the attention I craved, or maybe my efforts to seduce him were ignored for the sake of appearances, but either way I knew he feared and welcomed the sexual being inside of me. The reader should note that the sexual consummation of our patient-client relationship was of no interest to me. In fact, at the time, sex was nothing more than a routine act of ego-gratification, a pleasure of the mind only. I wanted him to want me. I wanted the power that comes from subjugating a dominant male.

“Colleen, I believe our time is up, but I want you to think about what happened last month. I know it’s painful to talk about, but I think there’s a connection between what happened and your childhood experiences with Daniel. You have a tendency to internalize the negative and that might be hurting you more than you realize.”

I hated thinking about what happened. What’s there to think about? I was raped, or at least that’s the only word I knew to associate with what had happened. What do you call a date gone wrong, a sexual experience that you don’t want but can’t stop? Is it rape just because you said no? Or do you have to actually fight back? I didn’t fight back. I said no repeatedly, I cried, I tried to push him off me, but that’s it. It happened. Dr. Humphrey didn’t know about this, nor did my parents. Last month I swallowed a myriad of generic advil pills to cope, and now I found myself in counseling at the behest of my devout parents.

“See you next time David.” My words were bespeckled with flirtatious expectation. My tone was suggestive, my body was alert, and my look devilish. I walked away with an air of accomplishment. I drove home, put on my pajamas, and numbed my mind with television. Everything was fine now. Little did I know that I was about to have a dream so life-like that it could only be true. A dream that was to expose all the secrets of that afternoon when Daniel and I played in the sun and returned to my bedroom to explore the unknown.

Below is my first pass at the start of a short story that has been in the making for years. It’s absolutely fiction, but inspired by a number of dreams and a few real life experiences. Since I’m using my blog as a publishing medium, I welcome feedback and promise to continue the story as soon as my creative juices return.

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School of Wonder

“I’m the doctor. You’re the patient. Now stop moving and keep your voice down.”

Daniel was over at my house, like so many times before, but this time we weren’t playing board games or rummaging through the backyard. This time we were in my peach-painted bedroom. My bed, perpendicular to the open window, was decidedly confused as was its sole occupant, me. I lay still under the pink covers with my Osh Gosh Bgosh overalls unbuckled and my blue tee pulled up to my armpits, revealing my pale white chest and navel to the pastel pink sheets atop my body and the intruding hand of a seven year-old boy, a hand that acted to separate the sheets from my skin. The door was closed and the air was thick with my unease.

With the pristine innocence of a six year-old girl I asked, “Why do we need to be quiet?” Daniel’s response was inaudible as he held the index finger of his right hand to his mouth. He motioned for silence and I acquiesced. What I didn’t know then was that Daniel’s hands, maneuvered by his male curiosity, were getting ready to explore the differences between my prepubescent body and his.

For me, six and sex were worlds apart. I wasn’t aware that my body parts were any different from a boy’s parts. A body to me was simply a vehicle through which I traversed the world. The naked body of a Barbie was my only frame of reference, but the only difference I could find between Barbie and Ken’s edenic state were Barbie’s boobs, which were nowhere to found on my body. So when Daniel stood beside my bed with his surgical tools, LEGO bricks and toy cars, my body was still but my conscience was turning a shade of ripe peach, not quite pink and definitely not blood red, but slightly exhibiting the first signs of guilt, of an awareness that something was not okay.

Before today Daniel and I had touched lips once in an experimental attempt at a kiss, and a mere replication of the behavior of our big kid friends and the adults on television. I certainly didn’t know to associate kissing with pleasure or touching with sexual desire. Those concepts were beyond my cognitive level of understanding. Daniel’s fascination with exploring an adult realm was perceived by me to be another game, like sticking our hands in dark crevices or holding our breath under water. It started with pure intentions.

The toy car, guided by the preciseness of Daniel’s hand, drove along the slight curvature of my undefined hips and skirted past the waistline border created by my overalls. Just as the toy car was inching closer to a garage of sorts, we both heard the unmistakable creaking of the stairs. We froze in terror as the steps on the stairs increased in volume and echoed throughout the two-story house. This time the steps would venture down the hall, past my room, and into the adjacent den. This time Daniel and I would have the presence of mind to pull down my blue tee, re-buckle my overalls, and re-make the bed. But this was just the first time and time would prove less fortunate for the both of us.