I was fingered once on my back, in front of the maize cobs that waved in my mother’s backyard. I remember itchy grass and an uncomfortable feeling that something was poking somewhere I did not want it to be; something dry and scratchy like what a scarecrow boner must feel like. Only the guy doing all the work wasn’t a scarecrow.
I remember that I thought I loved him and every time I remember that I deeply regret it. In spite of the love or whatever it was that I felt, his finger wouldn’t go through. After huffing and puffing valiantly in a bid to not hurt me, he asked, ‘Are you…ok down there?’ I didn’t have the vocabulary to say so at the time, but I feel like I was either thinking ‘Maybe you should be doing more to get more so you can get in more’ or, ‘Is this entirely necessary? Can we just make out?’
But we had long since passed the making out stage. I sighed and pulled my pants back on. We stood up. ‘You should get that checked.’ I shrugged. I knew I was perfectly capable of doing by myself that which he couldn’t do well. Then we walked into the house and my mother put a glass of orange juice in his vagina-stained hands.
I smiled with that secret.