Before I start did you hear of the US woman getting
allergic to her husband in the same room? Tobacco smoke half a mile, pizza a
100 yds etc. The poor woman came up in life threatening hives if he touched
her. It’s a rare oodly doodly disease. No it’s not, it’s a psychosomatic
allergic reaction. An expert NLPer would cure it in an hour. I hope she finds
one. Anyway I was fourteen in a skiffle band. We won a competition and appeared
on TV briefly but due to me our blues number had a vaguely Chinese intro.
Nevertheless I’m proud if of it. A guy around forty offered to be our manager
and the use of his empty factory in the evenings to practice. Once there he
invited us one at a time, I think three of us, to join him in a small room where
he had thoughtfully spread newspaper on the floor. After a brief chat about not
telling anyone he wanked us off. Takes all sorts. Maybe he was Reichian.
Wanking was not unknown to us fourteen year olds and coming was its usual
pleasure. Nevertheless it didn’t feel right so as there were three of us we
compared notes and told him to shove it after two or three times. So what
exactly was the sexual abuse? I presume it would be seen as such. Coercion by
an adult but no force and coming was its usual pleasure. But it was secret and
outside that transparent wall of secrecy he had created it would be transformed
into something distasteful. That was the abuse, a form of bonding behind closed
doors. He had lured us into holding a shameful secret that’s taken near sixty
years to tell. Basically I just want to be on trend. But seriously it was that
transition from secrecy that was the abuse by creating a sort of either/or
discontinuity with my ordinary life. The wanking was neither here nor there.
Since then I won’t be coerced into anything secret I can’t proudly share with
anyone. Luckily the lasting effects are minimal; just don’t spread newspapers
on the floor.
