She is now looking out her own window. How can it be that the rhythm of the road outside fits the rhythm of the pulsing in her bruise, and throughout her body. A coincidence? A trick of her mind?She knows her father has gone quiet. She knows what she can feel underneath her. She knows it’s not his fault and it doesn’t mean anything. She doesn’t know whether he knows that.She wants someone to hurt her leg some more.Without vocalizing, without hoping anyone will see her, pretending the man whose lap she is sitting on couldn’t notice, she mouths the words to no one. ?Pinch me.?She imagines sitting in the church pew again, her mother choosing to exercise cruelty. Who cares why she is being pinched?She mouths it again, driven by the pleasant burning she feels around her vagina. She strains to turn her neck into the danger zone, far enough that she knows her father could see. The danger thrills her. ?Pinch me, please pinch me.?The swelling begins anew beneath her. She feels her father’s. The only one she made that I can recall is the change from calling her Mrs.Grace to Catherine. So as I approached my twentieth year I found that I not only loved Catherine in the companionable sense, I was also in love with her in the sexual, man to woman sense. I had no idea how to deal with these feelings. During my teen years, I had engaged in the usual sexual activities with girls, and had often to masturbate to relieve myself of Catherine inspired arousal, but none of this seemed to assuage my appetite for her. To my mind she was the “Real Thing,” all else a substitute for her. I told myself that the age gap was too wide for us to bridge. Catherine would think me ridiculous for harbouring such thoughts about her. My peers would laugh and my parents berate me. A slight change in my thoughts and attitude came about when I, together with two of my male friends, met up with Catherine as she was shopping in the high street. I had never spoken to any of my friends about Catherine,.
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