I grew up in beautiful church. Domed ceiling, stained glass windows, full pipe organ. Rich red carpet and oak pews.
It is a place of beauty.
The church came into existence before the town in which it resides. The founder moved there in the late 1800s and decided to start a church, a draw to settlement. In a town with five churches, it is the oldest and most ornate.
This is where my family held our Thanksgiving day meal yesterday.
We have grown too large in numbers for any one member of the family to host the meal at a private home. Twenty of us, in total. No one has the space for so many bodies.
So, I suggested we have the meal in the basement of this church where I grew up, where I first met God, where I fell in love with Jesus - the large, southern, rose window depicting Christ at Gethsemane being a particular draw for me, where I was baptised and confirmed (the only one in our family to choose to confirm baptismal vows made on our behalf in infancy), and where I would often sneak out of Sunday school and hide behind the horseshoe-shaped island in the kitchen as I preferred to listen to the adult talk about important things rather than make shoe-box Garden of Edens.
This is the church where my grandfather grew up, where my grandparents were married, where my father was baptized, confirmed, raised in the faith, where my parents were married.
This is the first church I ever preached in. My maiden sermon as I sought and obtained official confirmation of my call to ministry.
So it was that yesterday, when Doc and I arrived and after we set out the few dishes we had contributed to the meal (the turkey, cheese, and a dessert), I gave him a tour of this church that I love.
My parents arrived and we began to warm the side dishes. My siblings arrived with their respective partners, children, and friends. Everything was finished warming, the kids were playing, small talk ensued. It was the best and most relaxed holiday meal I think my family has ever shared.
When it came time to clean up, my mother washed a few dishes, I took care to send the leftovers home with those who most needed them, cars were packed and most everyone drove off into the night.
There was a bit overlap with the group that has a standing Thursday night reservation in the church basement, but my father is familiar with them and I know a couple of the members in that group from other places in life.
Once the kitchen was otherwise cleared and the group had taken their seats in the fellowship hall, Doc and I carefully and very quietly snuck up the back stairwell, through the office, to the of the sanctuary, up another flight of stairs, into the balcony where there is a couch.
Stripping off my shoes, skirt, leggings and panties, I sat at the very edge of the couch as Doc removed his belt, pants and boxers. I took him into my mouth and enjoyed the feel and taste of him. Then, he leaned me back, knelt between my legs and fucked me in the church. And it was good.
We kept things short and because I'm incapable of having a silent or even quiet orgasm, and with the group meeting two stories below us, I simply marvelled in the way Doc feels inside of me.
It was a long-held fantasy brought to life, and I experienced a level of happiness that has never before been attained so close to any family function.
Perhaps come Christmas, we'll be able to find a few more quiet hours in the church, when it's empty and silent, and I'll finally be able to convince Doc to tie me to the altar before taking me. If I'm a very, very, very good girl and ask nicely.
And if that particular fantasy never comes to be, I'll be satisfied to relive this one in my memory for years to come.
Friday, November 28, 2014
Tuesday, November 18, 2014
A Big Confession
If you've come looking for salacious details about my awesome kinky sex life, you should probably skip this post.
The thing about pastors is, we're human, too. We're actually no different from the people who sit in the pews of churches. We just have a different view on Sunday mornings.
Any pastor who tells you they've never doubted God is either lying or has a faith not worth trusting, in my humble opinion.
Any pastor who pretends they never have evil thoughts is full of shit.
I am not a nice person, but I like to believe I am incredibly kind. If you want an explanation of the distinction, read this.
Today, I may not even be all that kind; in reality, as a child in early elementary school, I was not all that kind. I was angry and violent a lot of the time.
Things changed when I was ten. There are reasons for the change, but I'll not go into those now. Suffice it to say the rage and violence remained, but I chose to direct them inward rather than outward. It took a very long time for the violence to end and the rage to dissipate and healing and joy to take their place again.
Two years before the change, however, there was one boy in my third grade class. His name was Andrew. This is the only time in this blog I will ever use a real name.
I do not remember Andrew's last name, but I was mean and hateful and cruel to him. For many years now I've wished I could look him up, find him, and apologize for the way I treated him. I carry the shame of my childhood sins with me.
But that is not what this post is about. This post is about this morning.
The thing about being a pastor is you end up on everybody's email list. Every church you've ever served, every church you've ever attended, every church you've ever preached at. They all get you on the roster, and the roster never gets cleaned out.
I received an email this morning from the church I grew up in. A young man passed away this weekend. He was thirty-four years old.
And I thought to myself that the world had become a kinder and gentler place with his passing.
This man was a year ahead of me in school. He was cruel to me. Not in the same ways I was cruel to Andrew, but in other ways. Constant torment and verbal abuse that was ignored by the adults in every setting.
He largely ignored me at church, but during the summers, he and his step-siblings would dunk me in the pool and hold me under water, they would taunt me about being an overweight kid from a dysfunctional and incredibly impoverished family. The lifeguards did nothing but tell me that if I didn't want to be picked on, I should go on a diet and not be so fat. The pool management said the same thing.
During the school year I only had interactions with him on the playground because he was a year ahead of me. That is until we were both transferred to a different school district some 20 miles away.
I tried to think kindly of him. He had a physical disability and came from a family not much different than my own, though perhaps slightly more well off. I didn't like the way he treated me, but I couldn't bring myself to be cruel to him. I couldn't bring myself to be cruel about him. Mostly, I just felt sorry for him, because I knew what had caused me to become an angry, bitter, violent five year old.
This all changed one day on the way home from school. There were three of us being bused from our district to the district up north. We rode in a white minivan with "SCHOOL BUS" magnets on the panels of the van.
This particular day, this boy had ridden to school, but he was nowhere to be seen in the bus on the way home from school. I asked about his very noticeable absence, and was told by the driver that he'd gotten sick at school and gone home early.
I genuinely hoped he was okay.
Then, the 25 minute ride home. I was grilled relentlessly about how I felt about this boy. I was goaded and picked at and pressured to say terrible, mean, hateful, hurtful things about him. Repeatedly I was asked, "But you really hate him, don't you? You think he's terrible, don't you?" These questions were asked by the third student and the bus driver, a woman in her late 40s.
I had never thought such things about him and I said so.
The onslaught of questions continued, but I heard a scuttling on the floor and looked under the seats. There he was, this boy of eleven, who had conspired to get me to say terrible things about him; there was the bus driver, a grown woman with adult children of her own, colluding to make a fool of me.
"It was just a joke," they said, trying to pass off their horrendous behavior as something we could all laugh about.
But it wasn't a joke when I pressed into saying thing I hadn't thought - until that moment; when it was demanded that I admit to feelings that I did not have - until that moment.
I wasn't so angry with this boy or our fellow student for their stupid and childish prank as I was with the bus driver, a grown adult who sought to humiliate me, who intentionally created circumstances and participated in behaviors designed to trap me into saying something they could use against me later, an adult who was supposed to be a safe person, who had insisted this bus was a safe space, and who violated that safety with trickery and abuse.
I exploded when I got home and screamed at her about what a vile and disgusting human being she was.
As for this boy and the third student, I cried a bit. I couldn't understand their betrayal. Weren't we all in this together? Hadn't we all been kicked out of one school to bused to another, one with more resources for "problem children" like us? Why was I the one singled out as the object of torment and insult? Weren't we all struggling with similar things?
The next day we had a new driver, the adult son of original driver who gave me an earful about how disrespectful my behavior toward his mother had been. I laughed in his face. Defending myself was not disrespectful. What she had done was disrespectful.
I read on the bus from then on and refused to speak to either this boy, the other student, or the new driver who continued to pick us up and drop us off for the remainder of the year.
But I never forgot that experience.
Some years later, while I was in seminary, the new pastor at my church mentioned that this boy, now a grown man, was in a facility, got precious few visitors, and since I was in the area often, it would probably be appreciated if I stopped by.
I never did. I didn't owe him anything.
This morning, I wanted to feel compassion. He's someone's son. He's someone's brother. He's someone's uncle. I thought briefly of sending my condolences to his family, telling them I'm sorry for their loss. But I'm not sorry.
And I do not feel compassion.
I feel relief, because my world feels a little safer and a little kinder without him in it.
The thing about pastors is, we're human, too. We're actually no different from the people who sit in the pews of churches. We just have a different view on Sunday mornings.
Any pastor who tells you they've never doubted God is either lying or has a faith not worth trusting, in my humble opinion.
Any pastor who pretends they never have evil thoughts is full of shit.
I am not a nice person, but I like to believe I am incredibly kind. If you want an explanation of the distinction, read this.
Today, I may not even be all that kind; in reality, as a child in early elementary school, I was not all that kind. I was angry and violent a lot of the time.
Things changed when I was ten. There are reasons for the change, but I'll not go into those now. Suffice it to say the rage and violence remained, but I chose to direct them inward rather than outward. It took a very long time for the violence to end and the rage to dissipate and healing and joy to take their place again.
Two years before the change, however, there was one boy in my third grade class. His name was Andrew. This is the only time in this blog I will ever use a real name.
I do not remember Andrew's last name, but I was mean and hateful and cruel to him. For many years now I've wished I could look him up, find him, and apologize for the way I treated him. I carry the shame of my childhood sins with me.
But that is not what this post is about. This post is about this morning.
The thing about being a pastor is you end up on everybody's email list. Every church you've ever served, every church you've ever attended, every church you've ever preached at. They all get you on the roster, and the roster never gets cleaned out.
I received an email this morning from the church I grew up in. A young man passed away this weekend. He was thirty-four years old.
And I thought to myself that the world had become a kinder and gentler place with his passing.
This man was a year ahead of me in school. He was cruel to me. Not in the same ways I was cruel to Andrew, but in other ways. Constant torment and verbal abuse that was ignored by the adults in every setting.
He largely ignored me at church, but during the summers, he and his step-siblings would dunk me in the pool and hold me under water, they would taunt me about being an overweight kid from a dysfunctional and incredibly impoverished family. The lifeguards did nothing but tell me that if I didn't want to be picked on, I should go on a diet and not be so fat. The pool management said the same thing.
During the school year I only had interactions with him on the playground because he was a year ahead of me. That is until we were both transferred to a different school district some 20 miles away.
I tried to think kindly of him. He had a physical disability and came from a family not much different than my own, though perhaps slightly more well off. I didn't like the way he treated me, but I couldn't bring myself to be cruel to him. I couldn't bring myself to be cruel about him. Mostly, I just felt sorry for him, because I knew what had caused me to become an angry, bitter, violent five year old.
This all changed one day on the way home from school. There were three of us being bused from our district to the district up north. We rode in a white minivan with "SCHOOL BUS" magnets on the panels of the van.
This particular day, this boy had ridden to school, but he was nowhere to be seen in the bus on the way home from school. I asked about his very noticeable absence, and was told by the driver that he'd gotten sick at school and gone home early.
I genuinely hoped he was okay.
Then, the 25 minute ride home. I was grilled relentlessly about how I felt about this boy. I was goaded and picked at and pressured to say terrible, mean, hateful, hurtful things about him. Repeatedly I was asked, "But you really hate him, don't you? You think he's terrible, don't you?" These questions were asked by the third student and the bus driver, a woman in her late 40s.
I had never thought such things about him and I said so.
The onslaught of questions continued, but I heard a scuttling on the floor and looked under the seats. There he was, this boy of eleven, who had conspired to get me to say terrible things about him; there was the bus driver, a grown woman with adult children of her own, colluding to make a fool of me.
"It was just a joke," they said, trying to pass off their horrendous behavior as something we could all laugh about.
But it wasn't a joke when I pressed into saying thing I hadn't thought - until that moment; when it was demanded that I admit to feelings that I did not have - until that moment.
I wasn't so angry with this boy or our fellow student for their stupid and childish prank as I was with the bus driver, a grown adult who sought to humiliate me, who intentionally created circumstances and participated in behaviors designed to trap me into saying something they could use against me later, an adult who was supposed to be a safe person, who had insisted this bus was a safe space, and who violated that safety with trickery and abuse.
I exploded when I got home and screamed at her about what a vile and disgusting human being she was.
As for this boy and the third student, I cried a bit. I couldn't understand their betrayal. Weren't we all in this together? Hadn't we all been kicked out of one school to bused to another, one with more resources for "problem children" like us? Why was I the one singled out as the object of torment and insult? Weren't we all struggling with similar things?
The next day we had a new driver, the adult son of original driver who gave me an earful about how disrespectful my behavior toward his mother had been. I laughed in his face. Defending myself was not disrespectful. What she had done was disrespectful.
I read on the bus from then on and refused to speak to either this boy, the other student, or the new driver who continued to pick us up and drop us off for the remainder of the year.
But I never forgot that experience.
Some years later, while I was in seminary, the new pastor at my church mentioned that this boy, now a grown man, was in a facility, got precious few visitors, and since I was in the area often, it would probably be appreciated if I stopped by.
I never did. I didn't owe him anything.
This morning, I wanted to feel compassion. He's someone's son. He's someone's brother. He's someone's uncle. I thought briefly of sending my condolences to his family, telling them I'm sorry for their loss. But I'm not sorry.
And I do not feel compassion.
I feel relief, because my world feels a little safer and a little kinder without him in it.
Sunday, November 9, 2014
It's a Good Thing!
When I was five years old, I ran my first science experiment. There was a little boy, a kindergarten classmate of mine, who always came to school with sleepy seeds caught in his eyelashes.
I could never understand this. How could he not get up and rub the sleepy seeds from his eyes when he awoke each morning? Wasn't that what everyone did? How could he not? Just the feel of sleepy seeds caught in my lashes and the corners of my eyes was enough to drive me crazy.
One day, I determined to see what this was all about. So, I got up and did not wipe the sleepy seeds from my eyes. This took a lot of effort on my part. But I had to know.
It took four days, but eventually I found out. After four days, the sleepy seeds had migrated from the inner corners of my eyes farther and farther and farther out on my lashes. Until I woke up on that fateful fourth day and could not open my eyes.
The sleepy seeds had glued my eyelids shut. It took a blind walk to the bathroom, feeling my way along the wall, and a washcloth wetted with hot water and held to my eyelids to soften the sleepy seeds and wipe my eyes clear before I could see again.
I've wiped sleepy seeds from eyes every day since. Some twenty-eight years worth of sleepy seeds removed, washed away, cleared from the corners of my eyes each day.
After sex, Doc always jumps out of bed and gets cleaned up. It was a conflation of his habit and my science experiment at the age of five that ran rampant through my brain this week while Doc and I were having sex.
And I started to giggle. Now I had been having a terrible couple of days - sparked by a sign of a pink ribbon with Mickey Mouse ears on the side of a hospital as I drove down to Doc's Friday night.
This reminded me of a time during seminary when I had a misunderstanding with a friend. She had made a remark that confused me and the more I sought clarificaiton, the angrier she became with what she saw as my intentional obtuseness.
This memory led to a downward spiral of thought - remembering all of the times people have assumed I was affecting stupidity or confusion to derail conversation or frustrate them. People assume that because I'm brilliant, I must always get everything and thus no question could possibly be genuine.
This deeply and very negatively feeds my perfectionism. This spiral continued until I found myself washing Doc's whites on Saturday afternoon because I had overflowed my tampon and left a spot of blood the size of a grain quinoa on his bathroom rug. All I could think was, "Doc is going to break up with me if he finds out!"
Also, it's just good manners. No matter how small the stain is, if you get menstrual blood on someone's bath mat, you should throw it in the wash. With bleach.
At dinner, Doc asked about my downward spiral. I told him about everything. Except the bath mat.
After dinner, while we watched a bit of tv, I had a couple of mixed drinks - orange juice and chocolate vodka.
When we headed to bed, I thought about Doc cleaning up after sex each time. It made sense this weekend, but I was curious about every other time. And somehow, I connected this to sleepy seeds.
I began to giggle.
Doc stopped. "What?" he asked.
"No, it's okay," I tried to tell him as I giggled more. "I just.... It's a good thing," I gasped, trying to compose myself. I burst into giggles again. "I'm thinking about your penis!"
Suddenly, the absurdity of this hit me. I'm pretty sure no man on earth is going to hear their partner say, "I'm thinking about your penis" while giggling maniacally and think it's a good thing. I began to laugh harder.
"It's a good thing," I tried to say. "I just wondered," I gasped for breath, "if you didn't clean up right after sex," laughter overcame me again, "would your urethra be glued shut!?" I lost it. I couldn't stop laughing. It was just all too absurd.
Doc lost it, too.
My giggles had killed the mood. "I'm glad you're laughing again," Doc told me, "but it's just not sexy."
And I imagine his words are universally true. There's probably not much in life less sexy mid-coitus than a partner laughing hysterically while saying, "It's a good thing! I'm thinking about your penis!"
I could never understand this. How could he not get up and rub the sleepy seeds from his eyes when he awoke each morning? Wasn't that what everyone did? How could he not? Just the feel of sleepy seeds caught in my lashes and the corners of my eyes was enough to drive me crazy.
One day, I determined to see what this was all about. So, I got up and did not wipe the sleepy seeds from my eyes. This took a lot of effort on my part. But I had to know.
It took four days, but eventually I found out. After four days, the sleepy seeds had migrated from the inner corners of my eyes farther and farther and farther out on my lashes. Until I woke up on that fateful fourth day and could not open my eyes.
The sleepy seeds had glued my eyelids shut. It took a blind walk to the bathroom, feeling my way along the wall, and a washcloth wetted with hot water and held to my eyelids to soften the sleepy seeds and wipe my eyes clear before I could see again.
I've wiped sleepy seeds from eyes every day since. Some twenty-eight years worth of sleepy seeds removed, washed away, cleared from the corners of my eyes each day.
After sex, Doc always jumps out of bed and gets cleaned up. It was a conflation of his habit and my science experiment at the age of five that ran rampant through my brain this week while Doc and I were having sex.
And I started to giggle. Now I had been having a terrible couple of days - sparked by a sign of a pink ribbon with Mickey Mouse ears on the side of a hospital as I drove down to Doc's Friday night.
This reminded me of a time during seminary when I had a misunderstanding with a friend. She had made a remark that confused me and the more I sought clarificaiton, the angrier she became with what she saw as my intentional obtuseness.
This memory led to a downward spiral of thought - remembering all of the times people have assumed I was affecting stupidity or confusion to derail conversation or frustrate them. People assume that because I'm brilliant, I must always get everything and thus no question could possibly be genuine.
This deeply and very negatively feeds my perfectionism. This spiral continued until I found myself washing Doc's whites on Saturday afternoon because I had overflowed my tampon and left a spot of blood the size of a grain quinoa on his bathroom rug. All I could think was, "Doc is going to break up with me if he finds out!"
Also, it's just good manners. No matter how small the stain is, if you get menstrual blood on someone's bath mat, you should throw it in the wash. With bleach.
At dinner, Doc asked about my downward spiral. I told him about everything. Except the bath mat.
After dinner, while we watched a bit of tv, I had a couple of mixed drinks - orange juice and chocolate vodka.
When we headed to bed, I thought about Doc cleaning up after sex each time. It made sense this weekend, but I was curious about every other time. And somehow, I connected this to sleepy seeds.
I began to giggle.
Doc stopped. "What?" he asked.
"No, it's okay," I tried to tell him as I giggled more. "I just.... It's a good thing," I gasped, trying to compose myself. I burst into giggles again. "I'm thinking about your penis!"
Suddenly, the absurdity of this hit me. I'm pretty sure no man on earth is going to hear their partner say, "I'm thinking about your penis" while giggling maniacally and think it's a good thing. I began to laugh harder.
"It's a good thing," I tried to say. "I just wondered," I gasped for breath, "if you didn't clean up right after sex," laughter overcame me again, "would your urethra be glued shut!?" I lost it. I couldn't stop laughing. It was just all too absurd.
Doc lost it, too.
My giggles had killed the mood. "I'm glad you're laughing again," Doc told me, "but it's just not sexy."
And I imagine his words are universally true. There's probably not much in life less sexy mid-coitus than a partner laughing hysterically while saying, "It's a good thing! I'm thinking about your penis!"
Monday, November 3, 2014
Witches' Hats and Candy Dishes
Friday, being Halloween, Doc and I had a rousing evening planned, watching a bit of TV and handing out candy to the trick-or-treaters. Doc pulled out his wizard's hat and I bought a purple and black witch's hat and we had a wonderful time.
The first group of kids started showing up mid-dinner. Doc and I alternated between answering the door. When the fifth group of children arrived, they asked, "How many can we have?" I told them, "Take what you'd like," anticipating that good manners would dictate restraint. Three children quickly emptied the candy dish of what had moments before been nearly four bags of fun-sized candy bars. Well, okay then.
We refilled the dish and when the next group asked how many they could have, I told them they could have one or two of each kind. I wanted to tell them, "Please demonstrate a culturally appropriate level of restraint in your choices, acknowledging that more children are certain to arrive," but I was sure they'd just stare blankly at me.
Two a piece it became.
And it was a LOT of fun.
I thought I was going to get a completely free pass this year and I was stoked!
You see, I was assaulted on Halloween by a stranger some years ago. This does not factor into my daily lived experience. I get a little jumpy during the month of October, and while I've been a bit anxious this month, recognizing early on what was happening has largely short-circuited my PTSD response. This is awesome.
I thought I was going to get a completely free pass this year.
Still, I brought my oldest stuffed animal with me - a stuffed raccoon I've had since I was six.
I thought I would get a free pass this year.
And then the last group of trick-or-treaters arrived. They were older boys, on the verge of manhood. The could have been in high school or even early college. And they were aggressive.
They opened the storm door to its widest point, they leaned into my personal space. As I leaned back slightly, they leaned into the foyer, their chests entering our home as they leaned past and around me. "What did you have for dinner?" one asked.
I panicked. I was terrified. I knew that I could call for Doc and he'd come immediately. But I didn't know if my level of anxiety was related to this being Halloween, or the really creepy mask one of the boys/men was wearing, or if there was a legitimate threat as they leaned into my personal space and our sanctuary.
"We had spaghetti for dinner," I responded, trying to keep it light.
"Do you have any left?" the one to my left asked, leaning farther in and bouncy on the balls of his feet.
"Sorry, no," I laughed nervously, just wanting them to leave. "Happy Halloween." I started to pull back and close the front door." But they wouldn't leave. They just stayed half-way in the house, half-way out, leaning their torsos over the threshold. They reached out and everything in me screamed to just drop the candy dish and run to Doc.
They grabbed more candy and once their hands were free of the entry door, I closed it tight and headed back to the living room, not even bothering to check that they were gone.
I curled up against Doc and rested in the safety of his embrace while we watched TV. When the show we'd been watching ended, I turned off the outside lights, closed the shades over the sidelight and locked the front door. It was late enough that we did not expect more trick-or-treaters.
Doc and I retired for the evening. Teeth brushed, I lay in bed naked awaiting him.
When he came to bed, he kissed me, touched me, stroked my legs, breasts, genitals. He stroked my hair. I smiled. I smiled the whole we embraced and kissed and touched. I smiled because I felt connected and safe and good. I smiled because I really believed I'd gotten a free pass this year.
Doc entered me and I smiled and kissed him and touched him.
Doc touched my hair at the nape of my neck.
"Please! Don't! Stop! Not that. Please, don't pull my hair," I begged as panic came swift and intense.
I would not get a free pass this year.
Doc stopped immediately. He took his hand from my hair. "Are you okay?" he asked, concern deep in his voice.
"Yes," I said. "You can continue. Just...please...please do not pull my hair."
Doc continued and did not touch my hair again.
"Is it okay if I turn you over?" he asked.
"Ummm.....let me think about it," I said, still feeling unsure of myself. I was so afraid if I couldn't see him I wouldn't be able to stay connected to the fact that I was with him. I said his name over and over and over and over in my mind. "I'm with Doc. This is Doc. I'm safe with Doc," I told myself. When I had calmed myself enough to feel present in the moment again, I told Doc he was more than welcome to turn me over, so long as he didn't touch my hair.
"It's okay," he said. "We can stay like this."
"No, really," I told him, wanting to make sure his needs were met and knowing I could be okay now. "We can change positions."
"It's okay," he said again. "I'm happy to stay like this."
And it was wonderful.
Then, Doc said, "You can get your witch's hat and wear it if it'll help."
I laughed. I laughed and I laughed and I had a hard time not giggling. "Just you saying that made everything perfect," I told him.
"I'm serious," he said. "You can get it if you want!" And he was serious. It would not have bothered him a bit.
But I love being beneath him, his body moving over mine, his arms around, my legs around his waist, stroking his shoulders, back, and buttocks while he fucks. My witch's hat was in the other room, and I did not want to stop for a moment, let alone move from beneath him and leave our bed to retrieve it.
Next weekend, though, I'm definitely wearing the hat.
The first group of kids started showing up mid-dinner. Doc and I alternated between answering the door. When the fifth group of children arrived, they asked, "How many can we have?" I told them, "Take what you'd like," anticipating that good manners would dictate restraint. Three children quickly emptied the candy dish of what had moments before been nearly four bags of fun-sized candy bars. Well, okay then.
We refilled the dish and when the next group asked how many they could have, I told them they could have one or two of each kind. I wanted to tell them, "Please demonstrate a culturally appropriate level of restraint in your choices, acknowledging that more children are certain to arrive," but I was sure they'd just stare blankly at me.
Two a piece it became.
And it was a LOT of fun.
I thought I was going to get a completely free pass this year and I was stoked!
You see, I was assaulted on Halloween by a stranger some years ago. This does not factor into my daily lived experience. I get a little jumpy during the month of October, and while I've been a bit anxious this month, recognizing early on what was happening has largely short-circuited my PTSD response. This is awesome.
I thought I was going to get a completely free pass this year.
Still, I brought my oldest stuffed animal with me - a stuffed raccoon I've had since I was six.
I thought I would get a free pass this year.
And then the last group of trick-or-treaters arrived. They were older boys, on the verge of manhood. The could have been in high school or even early college. And they were aggressive.
They opened the storm door to its widest point, they leaned into my personal space. As I leaned back slightly, they leaned into the foyer, their chests entering our home as they leaned past and around me. "What did you have for dinner?" one asked.
I panicked. I was terrified. I knew that I could call for Doc and he'd come immediately. But I didn't know if my level of anxiety was related to this being Halloween, or the really creepy mask one of the boys/men was wearing, or if there was a legitimate threat as they leaned into my personal space and our sanctuary.
"We had spaghetti for dinner," I responded, trying to keep it light.
"Do you have any left?" the one to my left asked, leaning farther in and bouncy on the balls of his feet.
"Sorry, no," I laughed nervously, just wanting them to leave. "Happy Halloween." I started to pull back and close the front door." But they wouldn't leave. They just stayed half-way in the house, half-way out, leaning their torsos over the threshold. They reached out and everything in me screamed to just drop the candy dish and run to Doc.
They grabbed more candy and once their hands were free of the entry door, I closed it tight and headed back to the living room, not even bothering to check that they were gone.
I curled up against Doc and rested in the safety of his embrace while we watched TV. When the show we'd been watching ended, I turned off the outside lights, closed the shades over the sidelight and locked the front door. It was late enough that we did not expect more trick-or-treaters.
Doc and I retired for the evening. Teeth brushed, I lay in bed naked awaiting him.
When he came to bed, he kissed me, touched me, stroked my legs, breasts, genitals. He stroked my hair. I smiled. I smiled the whole we embraced and kissed and touched. I smiled because I felt connected and safe and good. I smiled because I really believed I'd gotten a free pass this year.
Doc entered me and I smiled and kissed him and touched him.
Doc touched my hair at the nape of my neck.
"Please! Don't! Stop! Not that. Please, don't pull my hair," I begged as panic came swift and intense.
I would not get a free pass this year.
Doc stopped immediately. He took his hand from my hair. "Are you okay?" he asked, concern deep in his voice.
"Yes," I said. "You can continue. Just...please...please do not pull my hair."
Doc continued and did not touch my hair again.
"Is it okay if I turn you over?" he asked.
"Ummm.....let me think about it," I said, still feeling unsure of myself. I was so afraid if I couldn't see him I wouldn't be able to stay connected to the fact that I was with him. I said his name over and over and over and over in my mind. "I'm with Doc. This is Doc. I'm safe with Doc," I told myself. When I had calmed myself enough to feel present in the moment again, I told Doc he was more than welcome to turn me over, so long as he didn't touch my hair.
"It's okay," he said. "We can stay like this."
"No, really," I told him, wanting to make sure his needs were met and knowing I could be okay now. "We can change positions."
"It's okay," he said again. "I'm happy to stay like this."
And it was wonderful.
Then, Doc said, "You can get your witch's hat and wear it if it'll help."
I laughed. I laughed and I laughed and I had a hard time not giggling. "Just you saying that made everything perfect," I told him.
"I'm serious," he said. "You can get it if you want!" And he was serious. It would not have bothered him a bit.
But I love being beneath him, his body moving over mine, his arms around, my legs around his waist, stroking his shoulders, back, and buttocks while he fucks. My witch's hat was in the other room, and I did not want to stop for a moment, let alone move from beneath him and leave our bed to retrieve it.
Next weekend, though, I'm definitely wearing the hat.
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