Posted in Insight, Sexuality

Not Rape, but not right

I was 16 when I met Richie at the restaurant on the water where I was a junior hostess and he was a busboy.

Richie was quiet, and soon to be handsome, and two years younger than me so it was safe to flirt and fan his adoration.

He was a summer kid so when September rolled around, he returned to wherever he lived while I remained at the shore and grew up.

A handful of years later, when I was the manager of the restaurant, our paths crossed again.

Richie was big and strong now, still quiet, and definitely handsome, but no longer “too young.”

We were at a gathering one night, circling each other as we drank and laughed with friends. It was a small apartment and so the party spilled into the bedroom which is where I had migrated with him.

One by one people left the room, and soon I found myself alone with Richie, standing in front of each other, as he leaned down for a kiss.

Vallotton/detail, visipix.com

It was our first kiss. And it was weird. Like some kind of time warp. How had we become adults, let alone peers?

But there was something else.

A prickling up my neck.

He was leaning in too hard.

He was too quiet.

Too drunk.

I glanced out into the livingroom and into the kitchen and my stomach tightened. Where had everyone gone?

Richie began driving me toward the bed.

I tried a joke to shift the mood, but the Richie who I knew wasn’t there.

I felt my stomach sour. I knew immediately that if I didn’t think of something fast, I was about to be… raped?

“Not here, let’s go to my place,” I said, hoping to wake him from whatever spell he was under.

It worked.

Richie stumbled out of the apartment into my car and rode with me up town. He climbed the stairs and he got into my bed.

Whoever he had been at the party was gone; and now he was only generous and gentle.

But I felt dirty.

I’d never felt like that before.

Afterward, I slipped on what was once my mother’s silk nightgown, the one my grandmother gave her to wear in the hospital after my birth.

I stepped out onto my small porch and sat down in the rain until it soaked me through.

Richie came out looking for me.

“Is everything okay?” he said.

“I’m fine,” I said, offering what I could of a smile.

25 years have passed since that night, and I can still feel the rain on my skin, and the humiliation in my belly.

~

Do you ever wonder what makes you write something, all of the sudden, that happened long ago? And then you see this CLICK HERE. And you know. We’re all connected.

~

Click here for my blog on women’s voices.

Click here for my blog on women & the mystery.

Posted in Mid-Life Mama, Nuts & Bolts, Sexuality, Teens, Tweens

Parents PRIVACY!

Sarah from

get born magazine

posted this query on facebook today:

I always scoffed at the idea of the parents’ bedroom being “sacred space, but as my kids grow, they get better at invading every facet of my life. I find that I need a retreat more and more. My solution has been to thoroughly clean my bedroom – removing all the kid paraphernalia – and lock my bedroom door whenever I haven’t invited the kids in. How have you created a private space in your life? Or have you?!

I direct readers to my marriage blog where I answer this question for my husband and me~

Enter Here:

(no kids allowed)

Mustache Time!

Kelly Salasin, February 2011

Posted in Fragile Life, Insight, Mid-Life Mama, Milestone Moments, Sexuality, Teens

Cool Mom (NOT!)

While I generally do not wear my heart on my sleeve, I’m definitely not the “cool” mom that I thought I would be.

My own mother ran “cool.”  I only saw her flinch–twice.  The second time was when I went back to college after Christmas break.   She stood there on the lawn with my young sisters in each hand.  I think she might have been crying.  Maybe it wasn’t about me.  Maybe she wanted to leave too.

My own son just finished his freshman year–at high school.  All along, I’ve enjoyed witnessing his growth–even those terrible twos–and even the turbulent tweens (most of the time.)

Modersohn (visipix.com)

As an added bonus to each new stage of his development is my gain of greater independence. (That’s a good thing for a mom who needs lots of time for thinking her own thoughts.)

But even an independence-loving mom like myself isn’t immune to the pangs of separation. Even if my brain says that it’s a beautiful thing to watch my son grow up, my body has its own interpretation–and my body apparently doesn’t know how to play it “cool.”

Boecklin/detail/visipix.com)

Like the other night when I witnessed my 15 year old move in toward a girl for the first time.

She was seated on a chair, and he sat down on the arm beside her–and then, (and this part was in slow motion) I watched him tilt his shoulder toward hers so that their bodies brushed as his arm dropped alongside her back.

This physical expression of affection blossomed from innocent days of swimming and tennis and talking (and in between, Facebooking.)  It was a nice thing.  It was sweet.  It was good.

Then why did my spine recoil?  Why did my face contort? Why did my breath catch?  And why did I so transparently shudder, turning away to steady myself, that I caught the attention of her uncle who observed my whole internal drama which was meant to be private?

Schiele (visipix.com)

Not “cool.”  Not cool at all.

And now I understand:

The mind, in its linear fashion, can appreciate change–but the body is timeless inside.

That 15 year old young man is still the baby that grew within, and the infant who suckled at my breast, and the boy who held my hand and beamed up at my eyes–promising to live with me forever.

This folding of time makes me dizzy.

Dizzy and transparent.

And that’s so not cool.

Kelly Salasin