Chapter 2: The Itch

The beginning of a large story

While growing up, I did not realize how oblivious I was to the existence of others. I only truly connected with Marisa (my baby sister), Rachel Smith, and the Smith twins. Other than my sister, my home life consisted of an abusive asshole for a stepfather and a mother who stayed married to him.

The fact everybody and I were happy to ignore each other left holes in my knowledge of the changes puberty entailed. I understood boys and girls were different, but the details were not of interest to me. 'The Itch' aroused my interest in the particulars of how boys and girls fit together.

We lived in a three-bedroom apartment: the mom and step-dad in the master bedroom, Marisa in the bedroom next to theirs, and my bedroom was opposite the living room down a small hallway. The isolation of my room served Marisa and me well when the adults were arguing, which was a four-to-seven night a week event.

I discovered 'The Itch' on a night my mother and stepfather were participating in a much louder than usual argument. My little sister ran into her room to get away from them. I got my nightclothes ready and jumped into the shower.

Concentrating on how the hot water felt allowed me to tune out the yelling. I finished washing and was letting the heat take me somewhere else when my penis got hard. At twelve, I was not aware of my penis as THE male member. The most fun that it had ever been a part of was beating the Smith twins in a contest of distance peeing. I normally got hard in the shower, but there was more to it this time.

Not only did I get harder than ever, my penis seemed to beat with a pulse of heaviness. I stood confused and swaying with the rhythm of a racing heart.

The shower curtain was flung aside, and I jumped back while turning. My hands on the shower wall prevented me from falling, but barely.

"Aren't you done yet? You've been in here for a half hour!" my stepfather, drunk, yelled at me. I stared at him confused. He looked down at my crotch, which because of my position was pushed towards him. Inexplicably, he got angrier.

"Why are you hard?" he asked in a tight voice. Startled while trying to deal with the confusion of sensation flooding my body, I could not reply.

"What are you doing, Manny?" my mother asked, putting a hand on his shoulder. Her voice was controlled; I recognized the tone, their argument not over, which is why she followed him into the bathroom.

She looked around him and took in my confusion. Her face tightened with anger. She glanced down to my crotch. Her eyes held on my hard-on for a few seconds. She looked up to meet my eyes and smiled, somehow relaxing for the first time in as long as I could remember. It was a comforting and discomforting. Her action and reaction made me harder and increased my confusion. My stepfather had turned to her missing how her presence physically affected me. Her eyes were callous when she turned them on him.

"Get out!" she whispered, deflating him instantly.

There had been confrontations over Marisa and me, not a single one of which he won. Twice, my mother kicked him out for physically disciplining me. She did not bother to pack his things, just threw them out the closest window. They were the only times I saw her stand up to him in a meaningful way.

A different type of incident, involving Marisa, occurred the year before. Some of my uncles and their families were visiting from our country. To get everyone together, some of my aunts organized a family picnic. Everyone was having a good time until my mother and stepfather began arguing. The women moved away from them, while my uncles watched the escalating argument with disapproval. Usually my baby sister ran away from parental blowups, but this time she tried to stop it. My stepfather pushed Marisa aside to continue yelling at my mother. I moved towards them. Screaming, Marisa jumped between them again. He grabbed Marisa's arm and slapped her.

Later, my mother said I grabbed a large frying pan from a nearby picnic table and smashed it into his face. He let my sister go and fell down. I walked around her and got another swing in before one of my uncles tackled me. Two of them had to hold me down; the whole time, I was threatening to kill him if he ever hit my baby sister again. My uncle Ovaldo helped him up and guided him away from us. My aunt Esmeralda, who had pulled Marisa aside, brought her over to me. Marisa demanded very loudly that my uncles get off me and helped by pushing. When she had a clear path, she jumped into my arms and held on tight for a long time.

My stepfather learned painfully not to test my mother's resolve if it involved me; anything to do with Marisa always involved me.

In the bathroom, my stepfather looked between my mother and at me. He skulked out, slamming the door. My mother watched him before turning back to me.

"It's okay, baby," she said, smiling gently. "Finish your shower, and go to bed. Okay?"

I nodded.

She looked at my crotch again. Her lips crafted a mysterious smile before she turned and walked out. I stood there, even more confused about the world around and inside me. Finally, I turned the water off and stepped out of the shower. I was still needy but did not know what to do so I tried to ignore it.

I put on my pajamas and t-shirt and walked to my bedroom. I lay on my bed trying to go to sleep but was almost trembling with restlessness. Every time my dick relaxed a little, the image of my mother's smile when she looked at my groin hardened it again. I tossed and turned until I ended up pressing my dick against the mattress.

Given my ignorance, it had to be instinct that made me grind my hips into the bed. Once I started though, the need and weight grew but towards a conclusion. I grabbed my pillow tightly and squeezed my eyes shut, continuing to rub dick against the mattress. The image of my mother staring my dick and her smile haunted me. I rubbed harder as in my mind she reached towards me with her hand at hip level.

My mind and body fragmented from each other. I grew lightheaded as all existence focused on my dick. I shook uncontrollably and bit the pillow as pleasure exploded from my dick, emptying me of everything else.

My mind rejoined my body, and I gasped for breath. As the pressure inside me eased, I turned over. I closed my eyes and fell asleep.

I did not have the knowledge to name what had happened, so called it 'The Itch'.

It became a part of my bedtime routine. I repeated the same steps every night for months: the shower, relaxing in the hot water after washing, the hardness of my dick, lying on my stomach, my mother's smile and her hand reaching, the rubbing, and 'The Itch'.

After the shower confrontation, my mother behaved differently towards me. She had dominated nearly every aspect of my life, but when I stood my ground now she allowed me to do what I wanted. I did not notice the change for months. When it finally registered, I wondered what would happen if I pushed instead of just standing my ground.

Another consequence was my stepfather becoming actively venomous towards me. When my mother took him back after the second time she kicked him out for hitting me, we declared a silent truce of ignoring each other. The shower scene pushed him to verbally abusing me every chance he got. He also tried to use paying special attention to Marisa as a weapon. I did not understand why he broke the truce, but his added attention to Marisa could not affect me. My sister was happier, and it made the situation more tolerable than the truce had.

Aspects of the bedtime routine I observed religiously changed when I began to consider challenging my mother's authority. The rubbing on the bed got slower, allowing me the time to build my first fantasy. The images changed to her touching me, bathing me, holding my center. The fantasy made 'The Itch' bigger, more pleasurable, more draining.

Like with everything else, my mother was the heart of my burgeoning sexual awareness. I do not know where we would have gone if I had continued down that path; probably nothing would have changed except some things coming sooner than they did.

Something did derail me though.

My godparents took me in when my mother immigrated to the States. I was five years old before she sent for me. Since I barely had memories of her, she did not expect it to be an easy adjustment. Hoping I would meet kids my age and be exposed to more English, she signed me up for swimming classes the high school ran as a community summer program.

The twins and I met at the pool. Sean and Patrick Smith came from money, which other people described as a fortune. The twins should have had nothing to do with a public summer program, not to mention, they were excellent swimmers. Their father signed them up hoping the exposure to other kids would help them outgrow being so 'twinish'.

The twins were more oblivious to everything not them, than I was to anything not me. Sean and Patrick not only finished each other's sentences, they had identical thought streams. For some reason, I always treated them as one person and almost expected them to gang up on me if we played together. We became instant partners in fraud when our parents merged agendas. To some extent our parents were successful in their goals, I learned English faster and the twins allowed someone into their outer circle. To the world, the twins and I were best friends; but for us, it was about loyalty, protective presence, and silence. To maintain the facade, I made almost daily treks (my mother driving me) to their house to play. They lived in a mansion; there were LOTS of toys, and a pool in the backyard, making it an enjoyable play environment. I was even awarded a 'scholarship' to the same private grammar school the twins were enrolled in.

The twins' father had been unnoticeably sick when we met. He died the summer before 'The Itch'. I spent a lot of time at the mansion, more for their mother, Rachel Smith, than the twins. The twins were cold, even towards her, so everyone cast me in the role of comforting presence. My mother drove me to the mansion every day for months after Roger Smith died. When the daily visits were no longer necessary, I still spent a half hour talking to Rachel whenever I visited. She and I were friends, to the extent a twenty-seven year old woman and an eleven-year-old boy can be.