From: [email protected]
Subject: Nurse Jones eviscerates herself
Date: 23 Nov 92 19:48:35 GMT
From Nurse Jones,
[I wrote this after I lost my access to ASB. I don't even know if I
want anyone to see it, because it's pretty close to the bone for me.
Call it self-therapy. I suppose I could say I decided to post it
because it makes sense of some of the things I do.
I guess I could say that, and it would be true.
But the real reason I'm posting this is more complex. I guess you
could call it an urge to eviscerate myself emotionally. And I don't
know why. This is a part of myself that I want to drive an ice pick
into repeatedly, to destroy utterly until it stops moving. To pull it
all out in the sun and let it shrivel up. I don't know if writing
about it will do that.
Funny. This isn't something I want sympathy about. I just want to kill
it dead.]
June 10, 1992
This is something I didn't even tell Jay until after we were married.
I've never even told my mother. She wouldn't understand anyway; she'd
just be horrified. It happened to me as a child. I guess it has
something to do with my schizophrenic attitude toward sex. All the
while I was sending posts last year to ASB about Jay and Neets, the
loves of my life, I was dancing around this, unable to tell about it.
I'm going to try now. Maybe I'll be able to post it if I ever get
another account.
I was partly afraid that if I told it, you would think it was another
of those assinine pedophilic fantasies involving pubescent 12 year-old
girls.
I suppose I could write this as a piece of erotica. I may have the
skill, but not the stomach. At the time, I suppose it was erotic -- to
the extent that a young girl is capable of understanding eroticism;
now, as an adult looking back on it, I can only see it as very wrong.
I feel sorry for the young girl it happened to -- as if she somehow
wasn't me.
Well, here it comes, no windowdressing. Please, please, PLEASE, if you
are the type that is turned on by young girls, do NOT send me e-mail.
First of all, I am 29 years old now, almost 30, too old to be your
type. Secondly, for reasons that I hope will become apparent, my
present age is a minor issue compared to the fact that I am
resoundingly and vehemently still not your type.
Thirdly I would throw up. So please. Don't. This is hard enough. I
don't know why I'm doing it, even. Probably because I shouldn't. I'm
going to dissect myself, here, so pay attention.
Jay is the only real.person that I have told about this. Jay and now
my Turing Diary and a potential 99,000 ASB readers who, with a couple
of tactful and discreet exceptions, don't know the real.me. Actually,
I guess you *do* know the real me. You just don't know my name.
Funny. If you read this post you'll know more about the real me than
my mother does, and still you don't even know my name. Most of you.
That doesn't mean I haven't deceived you, but it's been a sin of
omission; so far everything I've posted (except, of course, my epic
poem on Dangerous Maggie) as been the truth, but there are a few
things I've left out. Things that are important to me. Today's post is
one.
It will just be one more bit of self dissection. Eventually, if I can
keep up my courage, all of me will be laid out in my posts, pinned
twitching like a frog on a waxed tray in freshman biology.
Today's post is just another pin. The pins get harder to push in as I
go on.
I think a lot about coming out. Maybe too much. So much that I don't
even know what it is anymore. Is it telling people your real name so
they can find you if they are determined? Is it meeting them face to
face? Is it making yourself so vulnerable to your boss, your friends,
and your family that there's nothing left they can use to hurt you? Or
is it telling others the inside things it hurts most to tell?
While I'm on the subject of coming out, which I guess is what I'm
doing, slowly but surely: now that a few of you have met me, however
superficially, I want to thank you for honoring my request, for
protecting me, for not revealing to the Net that you know me, and for
no better reason than that I asked. Soon it won't matter anyway, I
hope.
-*-
This is what matters:
I'm about to tell you my innermost childhood secret, so listen.
I had two cousins, a boy and a girl. Actually, I have a lot of
cousins, but these were a particularly nasty pair. Older than me, a
little two-person team of bullies and cheats. I guess they were fairly
typical children, but they were my cousins and my uncle was pretty
close to my mother so I saw a lot of them.
Years after it happened, the boy became a man and went to prison for
child molestation and sexual abuse of minors. Not of me. Of other
kids. He's out now, on parole, flat broke, doing unskilled jobs, with
multiple lawsuits hanging over him from justifiably outraged parents
who trusted a youth program with their children. But all that came
much later.
I felt he deserved some kind of punishment when I heard about it. I've
heard they don't like child molesters in prison. I was unmoved by the
thought that he might end up cellmates with the biggest Black Panther
in the slammer. And don't ask me to explain this, but I also felt
sorry for him. I can see that he got started as a child, just
experimenting with sex the way children do; maybe he wasn't able to
grow out of it.
But that would be intellectualizing what happened. My midwestern
parents never mention him. I'm sure they see him as an adult pervert,
plain and simple, open and shut, and they're 100% right. He IS a
pervert. Not the way Jay and I are, not the way the net.people are,
but in a real way. A way that makes him sick. He started out fairly
normal, and he became ... diverted from normalcy. Maybe he was normal
as a child, but now he's ... different ... inside, where it counts.
It's just that in this one case, although I don't know him now, as an
adult, I knew the boy, I know his history, and I know there is this
kid somewhere inside him that years ago went down a path, a very wrong
path, and now the adult can't deal with where it led him -- but he
knows no other path.
On the other hand, he should have stopped when he was old enough to
know better. He's not insane. He knew the difference. When he did this
to me, he was still a child himself. AS a child, he was pretty, almost
angelic looking, but a cruel child, often hurtful. Sneaky, though. He
was always a blue-eyed smiling cherub whenever adults were around.
When he did this to me, he didn't intend to hurt me; I don't think he
ever meant to hurt anyone in this way. But he should have stopped when
he was old enough to understand what he was doing.
He should have stopped.
I was a fairly typical kid, too, I guess. I played with these
unwholesome little creatures and felt honored to be a member of the
club and grateful when they didn't bully me.
They were the older and the stronger, so they acted like little
gangsters. I was younger and weaker, and acted like a prostitute. I
guess that's the way it has always been with kids. And nations.
Employment, business, politics, international foreign policy, right on
up the ladder.
I guess it's hardwired, as Jay would say.
One night when my parents were having a party out in the living room,
these cousins introduced me to my first orgasm. My midwestern parents
had never -- have never -- mentioned sex to me. Not once. I learned
how babies are made that evening in the back bedroom. The kids were
actually fairly well informed on the subject.
I had no earthly idea what an orgasm was. They called it "diddling."
We do it all the time, they said. They made me feel like such a fool
for not knowing all about this really neat phenomenon.
They showed me. When they started on me I said, This is no big deal,
and they said, Just you wait. I had an orgasm, and it was a wonderful
feeling, as I remembered it the next day, but at the time, just before
it happened, it was very disturbing. New, frightening, and out of
control. The closest thing I had ever felt to it was pain, although it
clearly was different. I treated it like pain, though, and tried
halfheartedly to push his hand away, but he told her to hold me and
she did, by the wrists, while he ... diddled. I squirmed to get my
wrists free -- not so much to stop him, but because I was a cautious
child: I wanted to be ready to stop him if this new sensation got out
of hand and turned into it's closest cousin, real pain.
So I fought them weakly, uncertain of whether I even needed to fight,
and the sensations came and took me anyway. It seemed to go on
forever, and I lost interest in fighting back. I remember giving up,
abandoning myself, and at first being vaguely amazed that my body was
convulsing, moving on it's own, then amazed that I didn't care, and
finally just amazed.
Afterward he didn't stop, and I was too new to this game to know when
enough was enough. I was through the good part, but he just kept on
and on until I was really sore and the pleasure did in fact merge with
pain. I was very quiet about it, so maybe he didn't even know if I had
had an orgasm yet. They stopped when I started crying.
Then we turned on the television and watched Popeye the Sailor. I
remember Bluto was dressed as a pirate.
And I remember that the next day I thought about it and made
enthusiastic plans to do some of this diddling business by myself
later, but I guess something happened to the memory. They say you
block out these things until you are ready to handle them; maybe
that's what happened. A few years later parts of the memory came back
and I remember thinking at the time that I had been really stupid to
forget all about this wonderful thing my body could do.
Been diddling ever since.
My cousins never mentioned the incident, and it only happened once,
unless my mind is still playing tricks on me. Over the years the
angry, pretty little boy became a man, and he seemed to lose his
anger, stop being a bully; he became a withdrawn but polite fixture at
family gatherings. As he grew older, he lost his innocent and angelic
look, but he kept his youthful features. Instead of aging he came to
resemble a debauched child, with the big eyes and small, pretty
features that look somehow wrong on an adult. His eyes had a curious
clear directness -- he always looked straight at you and cocked his
head in a way that gave the superficial impression of honesty -- a
look that elicited trust from adults. But I had seen him burn a
caterpillar to death under a magnifying glass with that same reptilian
expression. His eyes gave out nothing, betrayed no emotion, not even
mild interest in families or reunions.
Then his mother died, my uncle remarried and died, and I haven't seen
my cousin since. My uncle left everything to his new wife, who
remarried and left nothing to her stepchildren, my cousins, the
terrible twosome. They were effectively disinherited by the sequence
of marital arrangements. I did see the daughter once, but she was
older, married, and hard-eyed. She had much more interest in trying to
borrow money from my parents than in talking to me; she never
acknowledged what she and her brother had done to me. Later I heard
dark hints that her brother had had some close brushes with the law
over his "little problem." It became one of those things the family
never mentioned.
It wasn't until after he had gotten caught and been in prison for a
year that I had a another sudden flash of insight -- or memory
recovery -- and made the connection between his felonious behaviour
pattern and my first orgasm. So it would hardly be fair of me to
suddenly sit up now and say, "Omygod, I've been molested!"
I mean, if he had grown out of this behaviour and never been arrested,
I would think of it as just another childhood incident. So to be fair,
I can't blame him for anything. He introduced me to a wonderful
sensation. I would have preferred that someone like Jay had made the
introduction, or that I had learned diddling theory and then taken up
applied diddling on my own, but there you are.
It's done.
Besides, I'm not even really sure it was a trauma for me, even though
I seem to have blocked it out. I mean, when the memory came back and I
suddenly remembered about diddling, my first thought was to kick
myself for having forgotten about it, and then to go and try it.
That's hardly what a traumatized child would do, is it?
Is it?
Unless there's more to the incident. A part I don't remember. I hope
not, but my memory has obviously played at least one trick on me...
Anyway, now I'm coming to another realization, an insight I've had
thanks to ASB and Jay. Obviously, I associate helplessness with sex.
Being *made* to have an orgasm in spite of myself is a major part of
my inner -- and now outer -- sex life. The erotic content of the
restraint, the embarrassment ... Jesus, now that I think of it, maybe
even my readyness to go without pubic hair for Jay.
Maybe I'm trying to recapture that moment -- a moment that, for better
or worse, is a part of me.
Maybe my cousin diverted me down some contorted side path that has
left me stranded in my own baroque sexual backwater, an arabesque of
perversion on the fringes of normalcy. Maybe I have taken that one
moment and elaborated it into an entire sexual lifestyle. And here I
am. Writing to ASB. The only place I can go public and not be thought
a freak. A psychological cripple.
And is Jay taking advantage of a cripple? Of course not. He didn't
know about this when we started into bondage. Even I hadn't made the
connection. If there is one.
Maybe I've just been shaped by this incident and Jay, by my great good
fortune, happens to fit that shape. I never felt I had been seriously
hurt, but how would I know? Maybe I am one of the walking wounded. If
so, why do I feel lucky to be the way I am? Maybe you just don't feel
scars once they have healed.
I would so much prefer to think of it as a choice I was free to make
rather than as a pathological response to a budding child molester.
But I yam what I yam.
[Nurse Jones leans back from her keyboard and says to
herself, "There, that wasn't so bad now, was it?" If she
smoked, she would have a cigarette and stare at the screen,
thinking about her next self-dissection.]
Nurse Jones,
diddling while
Rome burns.
The Projectionist's Nightmare
This is the projectionist's nightmare:
A bird finds it's way into the cinema,
finds the beam, flies down it,
smashes into a screen depicting a garden,
a sunset, and two people being nice to each other.
Real blood, real intestines slither down
the likeness of a tree.
"This is no good," screams the audience,
"This is not what we came to see."
Brian Patten
I know you're not like that audience. It's just a poem....
On to the next posting
Back to the Nurse Jones Index