Finding the Creative Hand of God in the Strangest Places,

The Sexual Experience of a Five Year Old Boy

The secrets of the universe are hidden in the details of our experience.  Pete

By Roger A. “Pete” Peterson

It is summertime, 1948, and I am 5, almost 6 years old. We live on Dow Avenue in Lewiston, Maine. My brother, Dicky, and I are at a friend’s house not far from home. My friend’s sister, “A”, is there also. She’s older than her brother but younger than Dicky, who is 2 years, 9 months older than me. It is a warm summer morning and the four of us decide to play “Doctor” in the attic above the barn attached to the house.

As we enter the empty attic through a trap door in the floor, I notice large particles of dust floating in the air illuminated by the midmorning sun shining in through the large window ten feet or so beyond the head of the attic stairs. After shutting the trap door behind us to be alone, “A” suggests we start by examining each other’s butts. Once we agree to this, it becomes a matter of who will be first to examine “A's" butt.  It is decided I will be first. “A” turns at an angle to the light and pulls her pants down. We do the same and I hobble around behind her while she bends over and puts her elbows on her knees so I can get a good look at her.

Excited by the prospect of seeing “A’s” anus and vagina, I get down on my hands and knees to take a good look. Immediately I am greeted by the smell of her anus, which is devastating, almost nauseating.  For some perverse reason, I start looking for evidence she wiped her butt after going to the bathroom but find none. “How disgusting,” I think, “hasn’t anyone ever taught her how to use toilet paper? Is she too lazy to use it?  How did I get into this mess? How can I get out of it without offending her and disappointing the guys?” Suddenly, I notice how much my knees hurt from pressing on the hard wood floor, and how much my back and neck ache from arching them back to get a good look at “A’s” anus.

As if sensing my profound discomfort, “A”, angrily wiggles her butt in my face as if to say, “Stop looking at me that way!” Then after a short pause, another, more gentle wiggle seems to say, “Look at me this way!”  While the first wiggle erases the negative thoughts and feelings from my mind the second one replaces them with a totally new set of thoughts and feelings. Suddenly, I feel proud of “A” for not using toilet tissue to wipe her butt off after going to the bathroom, and the smell of her anus is now pleasant and inviting, like nectar from the Gods! How can this be? How can I switch from being a master fault finder to being a master of appreciation so quickly?

In my mind’s eye I watch as “A” completes her earlier bowel movement and like some wild animal goddess, closes her anus tightly several times to remove any residue. Then she stands up to go about her day, spurning the compulsive butt wiping behavior of others. As this mental image fades, I wonder how the ring of muscle surrounding her anus (her anal sphincter) can expand and contract so much. As I study the delicate folds of skin around the edge of her anus, which allow it to expand and contract. I am amazed that skin can be so thin, flexible, and strong at the same time.

The skin immediately around “A’s” anus looks moist and darker than the surrounding skin but I can’t tell whether it’s natural pigment or fecal residue. As I wonder about this, I develop a sensitive, rock-hard erection. Suddenly I want to bury my face between the cheeks of her ass and tongue her anus clean to both express the joy and appreciation I feel for her, and to see if the color around her anus is natural pigment or liquefied residue from her latest bowel movement. The power of this impulse threatens to overwhelm me but I decide against it because it goes beyond the bounds of our original agreement. Even though I’m the youngest person here, how will my companions react to this aggressive, unchildlike behavior?

My attention widens to take in the skin of “A’s” buttocks. Curiously, I look for shafts of hair I know must be there. In the process, I notice how pink and alive her skin is, it seems almost translucent. Mesmerized by the magic of my experience, I discover the first delicate shaft of hair poking out of a tiny pore in her skin. The hair  is so delicate it is almost invisible. As I admire it I wonder what it's like inside this pore of her skin. What is it like inside her skin? Feeling as though I am about to leave my body and enter her pore and skin, I am shocked back to the reality of the attic by “A’s” grandmother as she bursts up through the trap door to catch us by surprise. In one sweeping, commanding glance she takes us all in and focuses on “A” with her pants down, and me, crouched down behind her. “What are you doing, you nasty, nasty children! Pull up your pants and get in the house you two!” she yells at “A” and her brother. Then she points in the general direction of our house and commands Dicky and me to go home. As we cautiously shuffle past her, she looks at us and angrily says, “I’m going to tell your mother on you!”

Several hours after this traumatic experience, “A’s” brother calls and asks me to come over. His grandmother is gone and he needs someone to talk to. We've both been shaken by the morning’s events and want to make sense of it so we steal a cigarette and match and dejectedly crawl under the front porch of his house through dust, rusty cans, and broken glass. After we find some semblance of comfort leaning back against the rough, cold granite wall of the basement, my friend lights the cigarette and takes the first puff. Then he offers it to me. I inhale the smoke and gag. It’s awful! I can’t imagine why anyone would smoke such a thing unless they are depressed or angry with themselves. I hand the cigarette back to my friend with the comment, "I hope your grandmother doesn’t tell my mother about what happened this morning.  I don't know how she'd handle it.” Then my thoughts turn to my mother because she smokes like a chimney and drinks a lot with my stepfather on weekends.

In my mind’s eye I watch her vacuum the carpet with her Electrolux vacuum cleaner, and scrub the linoleum kitchen floor with a mop. She always has a cigarette dangling out of the side of her mouth while squinching her nearest eye up against the rising smoke as she leans over to do her work. Why would she do such an obnoxious thing to herself? What disturbs her, and other adults, so much they have to distract themselves with behavior that causes so much discomfort and pain, like smoking cigarettes and drinking alcohol? I’ve seen more than once that alcohol leaves people with hangovers and, too often, smelly diarrhea.

Taking one more puff off the cigarette to remind myself of how awful it is, I hand it back to my friend who puts it out. Together, we crawl out from under the porch as depressed as when we crawled in. What we did in the attic seemed to be a natural act of self discovery but smoking a cigarette was just plain awful! What’s wrong with this world?