From: bobandcarole@aol.com   
      
   Story: Bad Memories   
      
   by bobandcarole   
      
   If you're looking for a nice sexy little story about little   
   girls who love sex, like I usually write, then skip this   
   one.  This isn't exactly a story; though it is about the   
   reality of what happens when little girls *do* learn to like   
   sex.  It's not a nice story.  Some of this tale might be   
   from two different experiences; I'm not sure.  Now, all I   
   know is that I remember it as all happening at the same   
   place; though there are inconsistencies in my memories of   
   oddball things like place-settings at the table, hallways,   
   and other minor details.  So, it could be I got the primary   
   location mixed up with something that happened later.  If   
   so, I apologize.  I especially apologize if it happens that   
   I seem to accuse the wrong family.  I'm now 60 years old,   
   and the exact details of what happened almost 50 years   
   earlier are not as good as they might be.   
      
         I don't remember her name.  Actually, try as I might, I   
   don't remember for sure the family name of those I was   
   staying with.  It might be the one of the two names I *do*   
   remember; but I cannot be sure.  It bugs me though, that I   
   cannot remember *her* name.  She deserves more than that.   
      
         Searching through my recollections of the time; it was   
   during one of those several times when Mother couldn't   
   handle us kids.  Whether that was because of troubles SHE   
   had (Mother wasn't exactly the healthiest person) lack of   
   income (Try raising 4 kids on the money you can make   
   cleaning floors.) or problems with us kids (We weren't   
   exactly angels.) I don't know.  At the time, it really   
   didn't matter; and this was just one more foster-home I was   
   staying at temporarily.   
      
         I was 11 years old at the time; but had learned about   
   SEX about three years earlier.  My first experience was ...   
   Well, embarrassing.  It was with an older boy, and HE had   
   just been introduced to sex himself; and was trying to show   
   ME what fun it was.  Having been punished not a month or so   
   earlier, when my mother *thought* I was "playing with   
   myself" from my big sister's accusations; and forced to go   
   "confess my sins" to a priest, when I didn't even know what   
   I was supposed to be confessing, I was quite a bit leery   
   about touching myself in the genital area.  About a month or   
   so later, experimenting on my own, I found out just what all   
   the excitement was about ... But you can be damned sure I   
   didn't tell anybody in my family!   
         When I was ten, I developed even more interest in sex,   
   found it a bit, but (again) you can be certain I never told   
   a soul in the family.  I knew better by then.  Even   
   masturbating was done on-the-sly, silently, and NOT in the   
   house.   
         However, when I was 11 and being shuffled around in   
   foster-homes, I'm not sure the exact reason, but I stopped,   
   and *tried* to be a "good little Catholic boy"; and buried   
   sex so deep I almost forgot about it.  Almost.  The times I   
   remembered, I felt guilty for doing so.  Yep, a good little   
   Catholic Altar Boy ... Memorizing the Latin responses for   
   Mass so well I could probably make it through a Latin Mass   
   with all the proper responses today.   
         "Et introibo ad atari Dei ..."  I will go unto the   
   Altar of God.  The god who gives joy to my youth.   
         You get the idea.  The time was the early 60's, and   
   television was just becoming popular through the general   
   public ... Color Television had just been invented I   
   believe; but only the very rich had them.  Only the very   
   rich had TVs as big as 21"; and they all had enough knobs to   
   make a gadget freak freak.  They were also always getting   
   out of adjustment.   
         When you're put into a foster-home, they don't put you   
   into the master bedroom.  In fact, you're usually lucky to   
   GET a room of your own.  Being a small kid, I usually would   
   fit in a small cot ... and in at least three places the   
   "room" I had was actually a closet off a bigger bedroom   
   where one of the "real" family members stayed.  In the one   
   place in particular, the closet (rather big closet) was   
   intended for the *guest* room.  I wasn't even allowed the   
   status of being a guest; but was hidden in a tiny room off   
   to one side.  I was forbidden to use the guest bed, bedroom,   
   or any of the fixings there.  My clothes and few possessions   
   were in a box at the foot of my bed, while my one "Sunday-go-   
   to-meeting" suit was hung up on the rod that normally would   
   be intended to carry the clothing of whoever stayed in the   
   guest room.  The blue suit was good ... But about two sizes   
   too small for me; as I'd grown fast in the previous months.   
   One nice thing the family there did for me, was see to it   
   that I got a new suit to go to Mass in ... when I wasn't   
   serving as an altar-boy myself.   
         Both of the older boys in the house also served as   
   Altar Boys on occasion; though the oldest was in his last   
   year.   
         One thing I learned quickly at most foster-homes, was   
   that you were proven guilty of *any* crime that happened,   
   once accused; and there was no defense allowed.  Foster-kids   
   (obviously) came from the scum of humanity, and the foster-   
   parents were there to, "make upstanding citizens out of   
   them" ... or kill the kids in trying.   
         A piece of jewelry went missing for three days.  I was   
   accused of stealing it, because the last time it was seen   
   was when I was in the room (dining-room, off the living   
   room) where it was lost.  I was accused, spanked for   
   stealing, spanked *again* for lying about not stealing it,   
   and then punished for almost a week for not telling where I   
   had hid the thing ... something I in truth had never even   
   seen.   
         About three days later, the item was found ... swept   
   under a sideboard or some other furniture in the room it was   
   lost, after (I assume) falling off the table where the owner   
   had put it.   
         Instead of an apology, I had to finish my week's   
   punishment ... for lying about having the item, and, "Trying   
   to sneak it back to get out of being punished."   
         Every protestation of innocence was met with *more*   
   punishment for *lying* until I learned well enough to keep   
   my mouth shut.   
         Well ... You get the idea.  When the older kid goofed   
   up and damaged something, *I* got blamed ... AND punished   
   ... and punished AGAIN, for lying about it.  I'll say this   
   for the kid ... when he came home later, he told that HE did   
   it.  So ... Did HE get punished for damaging the whatever-it-   
   was?  No ... HE got praised for, "Telling the truth."   
         Me?  I *was* let off my punishment of being forced to   
   stay in my room for the rest of the day ... but was told,   
   that it was probably deserved punishment for what I *hadn't*   
   gotten caught at!   
         To put all that in the proper perspective, you've got   
   to understand that even then I almost *never* lied; and   
   certainly not to get out of trouble.  Hell, up to then, I   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-Win32 v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)