I had my first sexual experience when I was 6 years old. Yeah, I know what you’re thinking: “Yeah, right!” But it’s true. To be honest, the singular “experience” should actually be plural “experiences,” because I can recount 5 distinct partners, and know of 3 others that I might have had an encounter with. Of course a sexual experience at 6 doesn’t consist of much. I was still a pre-pubescent creature after all. We’re talking about some brief kisses, light touches, and tight squeezing all driven by an insatiable curiosity to know more about our bodies. Especially this curious pleasure-producing appendage, which we adults call a penis. Even my budding sexual appetites could only go so far to overcome the limitations of my own biological development.

               So these early adventures weren’t nearly as scandalous as one might think. They obviously did not include penetrative intercourse. Due to this and other details, some would argue my use of the term “sexual” in describing these happenings, saying that we were “too young to know what we were doing” and that what we “were doing, hardly constituted sex,” that we were instead “just playing Doctor with each other.” I would accept that my early experiences would not meet some people’s qualifications for having had “sex,” but I know what these encounters meant to me and how they felt. (For those of you that have not detected the lack of apology in my tone, they felt good… VERY GOOD.) Furthermore, we knew exactly what we were doing.

               I suppose that the word “partner” should also be qualified. I use the term to describe the 5 individuals that I know I had recurring experiences with, between the ages of 6-7. Before you start raising arguments against my use of the term, I concede and am willing to substitute the word “playmate” for “partner.” I do this not just to further infuriate the more conservative readers, for no doubt I succeeded in doing that with the first line. No, I use this term in describing a particular young man. (Redundant, no? Another hint to those not paying attention: I’m gay!)

               This particular young man was the same age as myself. His name was Shane and he sat near me, in the next row over to the right, in Mrs. Ryder’s 1^st grade class. Ah yes, 1^st grade: I can remember the writing assignments on the big newsprint tablets with the Indian on the cover. I can remember Mrs. Ryder’s hair was always extra-red, for having had too much dye poured on to cover the gray of her true age. While she went to great lengths to conceal her hair color, she made no efforts to disguise the disdain she had for the students. She had a short temper and shrill voice and was the kind of teacher that still swatted the hands of disobedient students with a ruler, back before doing so would automatically see a teacher and the school system in court.

               Despite the inhospitable environment we found ourselves in, Shane and I developed a pleasantly flirtatious repoire from across the isle. If memory serves, Shane, often wore jeans and a slightly worn flannel or dirty t-shirt. He had brown hair that was just long enough to get in the way, which means that it had personality. His skin was soft, tanned, and smooth. Of course, I never touched him. At least I don’t think I did… No, all of these details were gleaned from a distance of 4 feet. I know that you’re thinking one of two things right now, or both: “This guy’s a pervert. Just listen to the way he’s talking about a six year old boy!” and/or, “This isn’t going anywhere. I mean, you didn’t even touch him!” To these thoughts I respond, “Yes, I am pervert, and an artist. Which means I get to have fun with my deviancy in ways you can only dream about, and you will love me for it. Oh, and I should say that I left my attraction to children back in childhood.” I describe these events to you in my present voice as they are relayed to me from the thoughts of a six-year old boy that was once me… now just a memory in my head. To the latter I say, “Just be patient!”

               So, where was I? Oh yes. Shane. So Shane and I, no longer content with just staring longingly at each other across the expanse the of ammonia-scented tile between us, at some point decided that an exchange was called for. If our budding romance was to move ahead, demonstrations of our commitment had to made. We had to expose our true feelings for each other… by whipping out our dicks in class. Of course to us, they were the more innocent pee pees or weenies, as opposed to the more intimidating dicks, cocks, or penises. (Hot enough for you yet, fuck-o?) And so it was, that for a time Shane and I would rush through our assignments so that we’d have time to flash each other and grope ourselves in the middle of class… and it was good. My recollections of these beautiful moments are still incredibly potent for me: brimming with the lust and longing for what was so close... hungry for more of this unknown world.

               Of course, the world I speak of is forbidden to children. “Remember how bad your sex organs are!” “Don’t touch!” “That’s your naughty place!” “The dark place, where the sun don’t shine!” “It’s evil!” (As I am writing this I wonder to myself a moment and ponder a world without that conditioning. What would that be like?)

               The end came unexpectedly for us. There we were minding our own business when Mrs. Ryder started yelling at us, ruining a blissful moment, our last together, and replacing it with fear and guilt. At lease that’s what I remember as she yanked us out of our seats and drug us into the Principal’s Office. 

To Be Continued…