(Copyright held by the author, May 1996)
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I think I handled it pretty well, especially considering how it just sort of came at me out of the blue. Jan, my kid, thinks I overreacted. Jan is 12.
Anyhow, it was the second Friday in May, the day the unexpected heat wave - mid 90s - engulfed much of the Northeast, and rolling brownouts swept much of New York City. The brownouts did something weird to the computer system in my office, so the boss just told us all to start the weekend early and not bother coming back from lunch. We were grateful, but except for that very reasonable and considerate gesture, I wouldn't have walked in on them.
I caught the PATH to Hoboken and NJ Transit to Ridgewood. It's a nice town with a low crime rate, good schools and the kind of neighbors who look out for each other - in this case, just a little too much.
We had a nice two-bedroom duplex in an 18-unit complex about five blocks from the NJT railroad station, which was a real break, since it meant I could walk to the train, which meant a big cut in the car insurance, not to mention monster savings at the gas pump by virtue of many fewer visits.
The complex was rectangular, with a pool and patio inside the box. Each apartment had its own entrance, as well as sliding doors opening onto the common area. There were a few other single parents in the complex, all but one of the female variety, and half of the other residents were divorced women. I'll be completely honest, here: That was definitely a factor in my choice of residence. A single parent has to take the duties of raising a kid - especially a bright, attractive and precocious one like mine - seriously, which meant I didn't get much of a chance for serious socializing, if you catch my drift. And it was inevitable that some of my neighbors of the distaff persuasion might, from time to time, get a little bit needful and decide to seek a little company with the quiet guy who was so devoted to raising his kid and never really hit on anyone. The Nice, Safe Guy.
So, anyhow, I walked in the door around three, a full three hours earlier than usual, and I was completely unsurprised to neither see nor hear my lone offspring in the living room or kitchen or dining room. After all, it was a gorgeous (if overheated) school day in May, and Jan might be at cheerleading practice - co-captain of the junior varsity - exploring the video store or simply hanging out with some friends at the Burger King or - more likely - Veterans' Memorial Park. I shucked my jacket, undid my tie and was about to hit the fridge for a nice, cold Heinekin to join me by the pool when I noticed the clothes on the living room floor.
That was odd, because Jan was astonishingly neat for a 12-year-old - for anyone, really - and quite fastidious. Seeing the crisp jeans and the yellow tee-shirt - which were due for replacement soon, because Jan, at 12, was growing awfully fast, all of a sudden - on the floor made me frown in surprise. Doubly so because they hadn't been there that morning, when I left for work. So Jan had come home, tossed the jeans and shirt on the floor and - what?
I started toward the little spiral stairway that led to the second floor - and the two bedrooms and the master bath. Then I saw the other tee-shirt, the big, loose green one emblazoned with the white logo of CONWAY'S FITNESS CENTER, hanging haphazardly on the banister. And, for the first time, another possibility occurred to me.
Y'see, our next-door neighbor had a shirt like that - several, in fact - because our neighbor was an aerobics and fitness instructor at Conway's. And Marty's build definitely reflected hours and hours of daily workouts, a fact that Jan had quietly remarked upon to me. Combined with the sleek, almost chiseled features and big, very blue and very piercing eyes, it was quite clear that Jan had noticed all sorts of things about Marty - and understandably.
What I, the ever-vigilant father, had noticed most, however, was that Marty's gaze kept flickering to my kid whenever my attention appeared to be elsewhere. Apparently, when they thought I was elsewhere, more than a gaze had flickered.
I imagine any parent fearing his child is molested knows that feeling in the pit of the stomach, the icy tightening that seems to tingle right through your bowels and make you fear you're about to loose control of your sphincter. And the rage, the awful rage, the rage that you know has to be contained. In my head, I kept hearing the mantra we learned at that company-sponsored workshop - companies had to sponsor it because none of the school districts would permit it - on child abuse: Your concern is your child. Do not further traumatize your child with violence, imprecations or shouting. End it, make sure it doesn't happen again - but be a good parent and protector for your child.
But when I reached the second floor landing and saw Jan's bedroom door open, the bedcovers in total disarray, the bed empty except for the A-cup bra - and heard the shower running in the master bathroom, I wanted to do murder. I crept toward the bathroom door.
Do not further traumatize the child.
My hands were trembling. Marty was 10 years younger than me and very obviously in great shape, but I was easily 30 pounds heavier and in pretty good shape, myself, plus I had boxed in the Navy. The temptation to bust in and hurl just one good, from-the-floor-up uppercut to that disarmingly dimpled chin was difficult to resist.
Do not further traumatize the child.
I kept hearing the words in my head. Then I could hear a soft moan through the door.
"Oh, yes, baby, suck as hard as you can."
Marty's voice, throaty and clearly aroused.
"It tastes yucky with the soap - "
Jan's childish voice. I could almost see those full lips pout. I didn't want to see the image conjured by my child's words. Yet I felt the rush of furious blood to my head and clenched fingers.
"Of course - I'm sorry, baby."
Baby??!!? The sick bastard was calling my kid baby?
"But it felt so good - see how hard it got. Anyhow, let me get you all soapy and clean - "
"Ummmm - I like it when you soap me up." A pair of giggles, followed by a sharp exhalation of pleasure. "Hey, what're you - "
"Hang on to the bar. Betcha can't guess what's next?"
Jan: "Sure I can. We did this the first time. But shouldn't we wash the soap off so there's no irritation to - "
.... There is more of this story ...
Anal Sex /