12/27/2023 0 Comments A story about my uncle thumbnail![]() A smart girl with long blond hair, Kim, was the captain. Before and after school, the safety patrol manned the crosswalks, stopping traffic and allowing kids to cross the street. I was a member of the "safety patrol" at my school, which meant that I got to wear a fetching orange belt and shoulder strap, a shiny badge and carry a flag. I knew that a Kotex touched a pussy, but I was clueless about menstruation. That was a half-truth, so I had no problem feigning naivety. All I know is that my mother has a closet full of them," I offered cheerfully. "And what is a Kotex used for," she asked. "What is this?" she demanded, holding a limp white pad in her hand. "I won't."Ī year later, I found myself in that same office, trying to look innocent and confused as to why I'd been called to visit Mrs. But only if you promise that you'll never do this again, okay?" I'm going to keep this, and I won't tell your mother, though I should. I don't even know what it is," I said, envisioning myself dancing around while trying to avoid the sting of a freshly cut "switch." "What do you think your mother would say about this?" the interrogation continued. "No ma'am," I lied, meeting her gaze squarely. "You don't know what this is?" she persisted. "It's just something I saw in a magazine." ![]() "What is this?" she wanted to know, eyes flashing beneath her arched eyebrow. Dolly Phillips, the elementary school's barrel-chested assistant principal. Dale ratted me out, eager, it seems, to prove his devotion to Mrs. That was my first brush with school authorities. "But what is it?" he pressed, turning the paper over and staring at the other side filled with words. I plucked up the dime-sized piece of paper and placed it in his hand as if it were a blood diamond. And like the sucker for attention and acceptance that I was, I couldn't keep it in my pants.Ĭarefully pulling it from the secret flap of my billfold, I whispered to Dale Hooper, one of my burlier classmates, "You can't tell any one. It promised to help elevate my status in the eyes of the other boys. Jennings might have been waxing stoically about the German mercenaries who fought during the American Revolution, but I was daydreaming about the treasure in my pocket. So I tucked it into my little child-sized wallet.Īt school the next day, the pussy wouldn't leave me alone. ![]() But whenever I looked at the ink smudge, I knew it was the forbidden fruit. Only the hairy v-shaped spot was left, hardly recognizable to anyone offered the chance to see it out of context. After considerable thought, I very gingerly tore the paper in such a way that I wound up with a tiny piece the size of an adult fingernail. But I couldn't quite figure out where I could keep a whole page. I carefully tore the page out of the magazine, intending to hide it somewhere so that I could gaze at the pussy in my leisure. Though impractical, you look around to see if there's a camera recording your reaction before snatching it. It's like walking in a grocery store and spying a $20 bill on the floor. I was mesmerized by the dark shadow between the centerfold's long legs, only to snap out of my daze moments later, sure that I'd be discovered. There it was, the hairy notch, which could only be the "pussy" referred to in hushed tones by the older, pimple-faced boy down the street. Unlike the tame "Playboy" my father stashed on the uppermost shelf of our laundry room closet, which featured a centerfold named Fran who very much resembled my mother, my uncle's magazine didn't stop with full breasts and the curve of an ass above a bear skin rug. "Don't you go through my damn drawers again!" "Those rubbers cost good money," he growled. Nothing could deter me, not even my father's cold stare when he caught me throwing what I thought were the world's best water balloons off the back porch. Neenaw's house wasn't exactly a treasure trove, but it was mostly virgin hunting ground. A scavenger of the first order, I was always looking for pocket change and anything else that might rest in a place not easily seen by a kid. ![]() I was a gangly 11 years old, a year before the Watergate hearings pre-empted the afternoon cartoons on television, when I discovered an uncle's girlie magazine during routine reconnaissance of my grandmother's hall closet.
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