Women make me uncomfortable. Don't misinterpret what I say, other men can do things to make me uncomfortable, but women have inherently made my stomach churn, for all the wrong reasons. It probably has something to do with my hyper sexual mentality which may or may not be connected to the period of molestation I had undergone as a two year old but I - Made an eyebrow raise with that one? Before I bite into that juicy nugget of a recollection I want to say this. When I was in seventh grade, I stumbled across
The Second Sex by Simone de Beauvoir. I remember thinking to myself holy shyt this book is thicker than a Harry Potter novel and I still wouldn't read through one of those (no offense to J.K. Rowling, I can't wait to have drafts of this book get rejected by twenty dozen publishers only to get recognized as an avant-garde piece of literature by a committee of fancy a$$holes no one knows the names of save for some ladder climbers and even bigger fish who appoint those a$$holes) much less slog through philosophical text to make an attempt to understand women. I will say this about The Second Sex: It is painfully clear that that book does not offer an end-all-be-all solution to unlocking the female psyche. Sorry, it just doesn't. I know it doesn't because men are still moving ass backwards as a gender in regards to understanding women. Women don't even understand other women (unless of course that's simply another ploy/false narrative they initiate to keep men further confused, conspiracy theories and Socratic dialect we will also address later down the line).
I remember pre kindergarten. Most people don't believe me. My mom does though as I can recall the blue-green color of the bathtub in our short-lived apartment on Rugby Road, in Brooklyn. I was about one year old when we moved out so I definitely started forming memories before that, and presumably after that. I was two years old when I recieved my first kiss from a girl. She was six. What was she doing in the same classroom as me and other two year olds? Well she was the headmaster's daughter and she molested me. I recall her dragging me out of class on the flimsy excuse that her father wanted to see me (which eventually I suspect the teachers caught on to, as towards the end of the year our hook ups became less and less frequent) where she would then shove me into a closed or cramped space and violently mash faces with me for extended periods of time. Maybe I enjoyed it, but according to law, developmental science, behavioral studies or which ever jargon term is being used to justify and quantify awful human action I was not in a position to decide whether it was an acceptable thing to have happen to me. Of course I was nowhere near the age of consent and this wasn't a peer I was engaged with. Kids play with other, sure, but this girl was four years my senior. I have a strong intuition that what she knew what she was doing was wrong.
That's a pretty heavy paragraph. My first encounter with morality was at three. We were sitting at our desks completing some early English Language Arts worksheets. I had been doing my best faux script impressions (which I find a little ironic as now I hate cursive) in an attempt to seem more mature. Lunchtime had come around and my mom and her boyfriend had packed me a homemade peanut butter and jelly sandwich with chocolate milk in one of those protective sippy cups. You know which one I'm talking about, where it has a flat surface as to prevent spillage but can be changed out for one with the whole opening, so you could actually drink it without spilling it all over yourself because you're a clumsy-ass three year old? Anyway I was enjoying my sandwich with relative peace when the class clown chose to strike up a conversation with me. I still can't recall exactly what we were talking about, chances are it was nothing of significance, but I felt the crumbs from the bread go down the wrong hole in my throat. I won't Google it to seem all scientific because I didn't know what that tube was called then and I don't really care about naming it correctly now. You know what I'm talking about though. I started to choke pretty intensely. I couldn't breath and this fukking a$$hole who I think was four years old wouldn't shut the hell up about the nothing that he was talking about. The memory of not being able to inhale when all I wanted to do was inhale sticks with me to this day. I really sincerely believed whatever this short journey had been was coming to a close, and I was kind of OK with that.
I think the girl knew she was wrong. When I finally graduated to elementary school, the grades were split up by two years to a floor. The basement had kindergarteners, the first floor had first and second graders, the second floor had third graders and the third floor had fourth and fifth graders. I only ever saw her one time during the off transition from nap time to recess and she smiled and winked at me - only to pretend like I never existed after that. Make of these recollections as you will. I'm sure inevitably a couple of you will claim I'm lying, a couple more will play armchair psychologist, while others may be worried about inconsequential details. To all those aforementioned I want you to remember that opinions are like a$$holes. Everyone has one and yours stinks.
