Everyone needs a Pooky

One of my earliest childhood memories, I realize now, set the stage for my personality and sexual prowess.  I was about five or six years old, and my best friend in the world was a boy, whose nickname was Pooky, who lived a couple houses away and was my age. Pooky and I were inseparable.  We did everything together, including peeing in the bushes underneath my mother’s living room window.  We both had  to pee. I was going to go inside and he said “Why? I can pee in the bushes, so can you.”  Immediately the alarms starting go off in my head – I was pretty sure there was a damn good reason I was taught to use the toilet. “But Pooky,” I said, “I’ll get in trouble if someone sees me.”  Pooky shook his head and said, “No one’s going to see you behind this great big bush – we’re up against the wall – come on, just pee.”  I had a decision to make – do I do what this boy wants me to do so as to not disappoint him (geez I just realized I set a recurring theme for all my failed relationships)) or do I maintain my integrity, holding steadfast to the morals my parents have instilled in me and make the right, decent decision and go inside to go to the bathroom?

So I pull down my shorts and my underwear (what, you thought I’d be a lady?), proceed to squat and wish, not for the first time, I had one of those things that Pooky has so I didn’t have to worry about splashing pee all over my feet.  No sooner have I finished dribbling do I hear in my mother’s scary run for your life voice, “OH MY GOD! You little shit! You get your ass in this house right now and Pooky! Go home!”  I then realize I’m facing one of the first major decisions of my life– do I run away or get inside.  I have to figure out which door I think Mom will be standing at so I can figure out which one I use to try to get to my room and lock the door before she beats the hell out of me.  Then I realize it doesn’t matter – there’s only one staircase to our bedrooms so I am flat out screwed.  So I do the next best thing – I start crying – ok, sobbing, walk through the door and keep saying “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Pooky told me to do it!”  It worked.  I’m pretty ensure I got spanked because we always got spanked but let’s face it – I was “healthy” a.k.a. fat – I could take a spanking.  One week of banishment later and Pooky and I were allowed to run around again.   Oh if only Mom knew what I was getting into….

Pooky and I played a game no one ever found out about; thank god because I think my Mom would have definitely broken a few spoons on my ass for this one.  I’d have to credit Pooky and the “tickle” game for helping to define my sexual personality.  The “tickle” game was something that most children probably play in some form or another.  It’s your basic naïve child-like body exploration that happens between boys and girls. Ours always took place in a line of trees or bushes or foliage – we knew we’d get in trouble if we were seen so we were always sure to hide from everyone else. We had neighbors between our houses and each yard was lined with pine trees or sunflowers.  Ample cover for doing something you know you shouldn’t be doing, but you just cannot resist no matter how many times you play it.  We would drop our shorts and underwear and the goal was simple – one of us had to stand there and let the other one touch, stroke and feel as much as we could stand it without laughing. (To this day, I still have to fight the urge to laugh when a man fingers me).  Pooky moved when we were about six or seven years old.  I cried my heart out – it was the first of many lovers lost.

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Tags: childhood, early sexcapades

This entry was posted on August 30, 2009 at 12:59 pm and is filed under Random tidbits and insight. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.