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How do You Know you’ve Become an Old Woman

October 19, 2011

I have never been one of those vain women who are always shopping to make themselves look better.  In fact, I was quite surprised when in a conversation with my college friends circa 1979 about 6 years ago, they told me I was the prettiest among us college chums of about 6-10 girls.  You know how it is, some girls get married, some drop-out, or some move on to other schools or other areas, so there is always a core group of about 4 girls meeting one or two new girls and alliances change every few months.

My last ex-boyfriend (hopefully not the last) was still with me then, and naturally he said:  Erm… I am not surprised.  Your friends are all so plain looking that in comparison you are the best-looking among them.  Hah!  That’s why we’re no longer together.

So how do I know I’ve become an old woman?

  • – The first sign was when I lost that last boyfriend.
  • – I can’t wear high heels anymore
  • – I can’t breathe when I am wearing a brassiere, so I let those old boobies droop.
  • –  I prefer to ride a bus, I don’t want to drive a car because my knees sometimes hurt.
  • – The bus conductor charges me less for “senior citizen” discount, without my asking for it.
  • – When attending a meeting or a conference or having a group dinner, I can squeeze a young man’s biceps, or tap his shoulder without worrying what anyone would say.  
  • – When I am falling in line for something, some of the people ahead of me gives me the right to go on ahead.
  • – When I go to relieve myself, I check out first if the “water closet” or cubicle with the “wheelchair” sign is open so I can use that instead.
  • – I consider and check-out freelancing jobs with a “naughty” or adult content.  If you’re not doing it anymore and you’re too ashamed to go enter those blatant sex sites, at least you have an excuse that you’re doing it in the guise of work, as a professional.
  • – When I went to shop for underpants or panties last week  – that 17 year-old saleslady showed me the “big mama” panties.  I told her I am the “t-back” or “tanga” type customer and she smiled indulgently.  At least I got those hi-cut/hi-leg bikinis.

So now, I have my musings and my postings.  I have too many old clothes and I don’t have the heart to shop for new ones anymore.  I wear old rags and t-shirts with sleeves cut-off.  My pretty nieces and granddaughters consider me an eccentric “old biddy”.


Young Girls Playing with Young Boys

January 8, 2010

I grew up in a community of boys.  I am the only girl in a brood of five and my next door cousins are a family of six children, five of them boys.  The only girl in the family came around too late to play with, though.  I was already 10 when she was born.

I remember when I was six years old, I used to play with a male cousin who is a year younger than I am.  We will lock the doors, play on the bed and wrestle with each other.  He on top of me, petting and cuddling and  it was enjoyable because I remember us doing it all the time.  Our parents didn’t know because we locked the bedroom doors.  They thought we were innocently playing ‘hah” with dolls and little trains.

I think young boys and girls do feel sexual excitement even when they are still toddlers.  Sexual excitement seems to be there from infancy.

I remember an autistic young boy who was a son of an aunt living in another town far away.  She is a doctor, but she can’t do anything about his son’s autism – especiallyas this was during the 70’s.  Whenever I went visiting, the boy who was then 4 or 5 would go rubbing his little peepee on my leg like a love sick puppy, to the embarassment of his Mom.  The little boy was always so “horny” at 5 years of age.

My cousin who I used to play intimate games with –  died of tuberculosis in his late 20’s.

Child Abuse and Molestation

January 7, 2010

How many young girls, or for that matter young children who are now adults, have suffered abuse and sexual molestation and keeps it to themselves?  Since I learned to chat at 47, which now seems a lifetime ago, I come across a few of the girls talking that they had been victims of abuse.  It was easy to talk anonymously in chat having user names like maebenow, maebenever, never2late, never2early or never-at-all.

I remember having been abused when I was too young to even know what it was.  But I remember the sensations and I think I craved getting molested, because I went back to that house over-and-over in the pretext of playing.

He was a second cousin, living with aunts about half-a-kilometre away from us, in an old, dilapidated house.  I remember going back there when I was in my mid 30’s. when i was already living in a far-away town.  He was already dead, and the neighborhood has changed a lot.  No trace of our old playgrounds, where there used to be weeds, and tall grasses, and sometimes you go home all itchy and bitten by mites and ticks.  The backyards were still au-naturel, the insects still thriving and unpoisoned by the chemicals and weed killers that came out in the 80’s and 90’s.

I must have been 4 years old or 5 and he was about 16.  He must have had the raging hormones of adolescence.  During the late 50’s, parents were still strict and I would imagine there were not much young ladies to practice on.

I would go to the old house in search of my great aunt during the day.  I remember it as like the old house on the hill, in that movie about a hotel where the young man murders young ladies because his imagined mother (who has long been dead) say so when she talks to him in his schizophrenic state.

As is the wont of older ladies in those days, they go visiting in mid-afternoon, and boys are left at the house, and little girls go traipsing about in the immediate neighborhood.  The parents are never worried, there were not that many vehicles those days, and the immediate neighbors are often close relatives.

Maybe my mother was even gossiping with the older aunts under the shade of the backyard trees, so I find my way up the deserted house.  The young man-my cousin – would be there … and he would lock the door and feel me up.

I can still feel his hands working down my panties.  I would try to escape and end up crushed against the door, he having his way with me.  Exploring, and experimenting with his fingers.

I was not raped though, just molested.  I think he was still a virgin in those days.  Who knows?

Now he’s been  dead these many years, and his children are all grown.  I don’t know them because I haven’t been back there in a long time  — …