The boy named Kenny was adopted by my uncle and his wife “before he was even born”.  And my aunt loved him madly, almost as much as she disliked me.  Kenny was four years older than me, though, at 15 he was already man-sized.  The first time I can remember him touching me was shortly after I went to live with them; I was six.  It was the usual doctor thing that some kids do – “Lie down on the table and let me examine you” and he did.  Listened to my heart, looked me over, pulled down my panties.  And that was that, for awhile.

When I was about 7 or 8 years old, he pulled me into the cornfield and told me to take down my shorts.  He knelt between my legs and performed oral sex on me.  I think he was practicing.  He did this whenever he wanted to, on and off until I was about 12.  Then one day, he knocked me down to the ground behind the cornfield and told me to open my mouth.  I said no.  He held a large hand over my nose and mouth, suffocating me, until I gave up and took his penis into my mouth.  I remember gagging and crying and trying to beg.  He told me it was payback for all the times he had performed oral sex on me.  After that first time, he showed up regularly in my bedroom at night, to sit on my chest, with a hand towel, and fuck my mouth.

He was the one they loved, gave everything to, doted on, fed ‘good’ food, bought nice clothes for.  So, no, I never told.  The one time I told on my uncle I was beaten for lying on him.  I knew without a doubt I might be killed if I told on Kenny, either by him or by my aunt.  The last time he forced himself on me, I was 16 and then it was intercourse but this was only that one time and then never again did he touch me.  I think I made him ashamed.

When I was 32 years old, I wrote him a 12-page letter, front and back, and outlined all of my grievances.  When he wrote back that he was “only a child” when this happened and that he was a victim of my uncle as well, I returned with my own answer…”My 12-year-old daughter knows better than to molest an 8-year-old.  And when she’s 16, she’ll know better than to molest a 12-year-old, and when she’s 20, she’ll still know better.”  He never responded.  And we never saw each other again.

Kenny died a few years back, without us ever having spoken of our correspondence or our lives.  When I tried to find him last year and learned of his death, I was surprised to hear from his girlfriend that she has a box of stuff he wanted me to have, personal items, jewelry and such.  Funny how time hasn’t erased the wounds or the depth of emotion that I still feel for him.  He was as much my savior as my tormentor.

And life goes on.


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