I’ve always been envious of the sharp dressed stud at the lunch table that was able to keep the conversation going by telling life story after life story.
More often than not though, neither his nor my parents were around; they were off working.
I vaguely recall one of the first times it happened. Kevin and I were sitting on the living room couch playing video games as his parents came close to let him know they were going to work.
I thought nothing of it until after the door was closed and a half hour had passed. I was on Kevin’s bed, laying down, face up, fully clothed; watching this grotesquely unkempt boy stand over me and say, “Let’s make love” before throwing himself on me and performing the obvious.
To avoid being more graphic, there was no penetration.
The main factor that compelled me to keep this secret for as long as I did was an irrational preoccupation with what normal was. I asked myself, what would be the normal thing for me to do here? Should I even tell my parents? Am I supposed to fend for myself?
Even Kevin could tell was something wasn’t right; every time we were “done”, he would urge me not to tell my parents nor his. Every time I would ask him why he was doing it, he’d get kind of nervous and provide a unfulfilling answer.
It was a power game, I suppose, in which I had the power of uncovering Kevin’s heretofore secret folly. Mine and Kevin’s parents were the outsiders, and given the nature of what was going on and their perceived responsibility to raise us right, it was in their best interest to become insiders. It was a rape situation without the rape.
I’m glad I told my parents eventually, and I’m also glad that no physical damage occurred, but I wish I could know how Kevin is now. That’s the only part left unresolved. Is he OK?