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i kissed

If I may paraphrase a line from Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: strange memories on this somewhat-sleepless night in Kelana Jaya.

(That sentence sounds wrong, somehow, but I’ll keep it in anyway.)

I was trying to sleep (for the second time tonight) just now, and things were going well until I suddenly—and inexplicably—was reminded of some slightly-strange childhood memories, back when I was still short, fat (I’m still fat, mind you, but no longer that short) and pretty pathetic. Back when I wasn’t even in school yet (or maybe I was, I can’t remember. If I was, then it was definitely before I was in standard 3).

I was friends with a few older boys and we used to enjoy just hanging out and cycling and playing about. I can’t remember how I got to know them, but that’s not really important. Important thing is that I did. There was this one particular boy: I forget his name (Wan?), but I do remember being pretty close with him. He used to hang out at my house and we’d watch TV and indulge in some random videogaming. Notably Doom. Oh god, Doom.

On the whole, though, I don’t really remember many specifics of what we used to do.

Except, well:

Him pulling me (or, most probably, enticing me to join him) under my (as I recall, very heavy) blanket and, as the uncomfortability (fuck, is that even a word?) of being under a blanket with another human being on a hot, typically Malaysian evening began to get to me, kissing me, full on the lips. I tried to resist, but, really what was I to do? Stuck his tongue in my mouth, too. I could feel it, roaming around as if he was licking the insides of my mouth. He was totally dominant, and all I did was just . . . submit. And, all the while, he was moaning with apparent pleasure. Probably just an act.

This one other time, we were in the bathroom together (back then, I guess inhibitions hadn’t totally developed: we used to piss together) and he cornered me. Backed me up against the wall and, once again, kissed me. Hands on the side of my head, playing with my hair, locked lips, his tongue in my mouth. We had gone from lying down to standing up, and we had traded the hot, uncomfortable and dark confines of being under a blanket for the cool, slightly-wet confines of a bathroom, but the experience was the same.

Oral rape?

I couldn’t do anything. And, even if I could, I’m not sure if I would have done it. I was meek and naive. A perfect target, basically.

It was just those two times, and we were still friends afterwards, but I’m pretty sure my mother regarded him with much, much more suspicion after that (my brother had apparently walked in on the under-the-blanket scene and blew the whistle), constantly checking up whenever we were in the bathroom together. He began showing up less frequently, too. And in the end I didn’t even get the chance to say “bye” to him when he moved (particularly as he came to my house during the fasting month just before we were supposed to be breaking fast and my mother “shoo”ed him away). I still feel a bit bad about that, to be honest.

I don’t know why I felt like I had to get this out in the open. In all honesty it’s not something I think about often (for, I’m sure, understandable reasons) but there are moments when I’m reminded of those memories and I can’t help but, well, just . . . freeze. It does get to me, even if I doubt it’s made any sort of real lasting impression on my psyche. Certainly it’s not some sort of huge dark, depressing secret . . . but, and I think you’ll agree, it’s not particularly comforting either. Strange memories indeed.

I don’t think I’ve ever blushed while writing a blog post until I wrote this one. I admit, this isn’t something you tell just anyone but, well . . . I’ve made a habit of not really keeping many secrets about myself. And I’m somehow keeping it up.

Being violated: I know how it feels. Do you?

(I wanted to put a snide, sarcastic remark at the end here about how people will hate me now for, possibly, due to those experiences, being some sort of latent homosexual, but I’m not up to it. This was more taxing than I thought it would be.)

And, now . . . destination: sleep.

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