There was nothing to say about it
because who was to care? I wasn’t
the most loveable of offspring nor
one of the most talented, funniest
or outstanding, no doubt just
the sort of boy to be molested
when others were sleeping, or
at least pretending to.
I chose never to tell my parents.
They were too consumed with their
own problems anyway, and didn’t
care what I did or where so long
as I didn’t bother them with it,
my mother with her rotgut gin and
my father drowning himself in yoga
and meditation that he picked up
from a wild-eyed guru in India.
So, when the teacher approached
my uncomfortable bed I didn’t even
have enough sense to be concerned.
At first, he just wanted to know about
my dreams: were they bad? Did they
produce liquid and not to be upset
if they did; that was normal. I was
too embarrassed to say anything
so, he took that as permission,
I guess, because then he began to
touch me in unfamiliar ways. It
didn’t hurt so I paused, waited,
and then more was felt and it
was strange but not painful so
I let it go on and on until it became
regular, like a glass of water before
sleeping, another soporific.
Time passed and I forgot that and
much else. After all, I had family
issues to deal with in addition to
whatever happened in that dark
cell of a room. But nothing is ever
forgotten. We fool ourselves and
it wasn’t so bad, it didn’t hurt
until it did. It still does.