Things We Don’t Talk About When We’re Grown

I was four years old when I met one of my first ‘boyfriends’. Let’s call him K. His name doesn’t matter. He was sweet and gentle with golden-white curls. We held hands and paraded round the Kindergarten playground. And the grown-ups asked us if we were getting married. ‘Yes’ I replied.

At his house there was an old futon couch that converted into a bed. We climbed inside, squeezing our tiny bodies between the frame and the mattress so that all was dark and enclosed. I thought something might happen. Something was supposed to happen when two people were alone. But it didn’t.

Later that year, I hit K. in the eye with a plastic spade. (It was an accident that immediately filled me with terror at my own strength and stupidity.) I tried to trick his friend into kissing me on the lips. I pretended we were characters in a children’s cartoon — who, in my mind, were in love — though I knew we were not.

I don’t know how old I was when I first realised one could take pleasure in terrorising another living being — I might have been four or five. Our bathroom had no skylight or windows. I took my younger brother’s friend by the hand and led her there. Then I closed the door. The bathroom went pitch black, as I knew it would. And she began to panic. But I held onto the door handle. I held onto the door handle and felt a frisson of excitement run through my body. Fortunately, my mother heard the little girl’s cries and came charging up the stairs to give me the punishment I deserved. I recall the incident even now. And it fills me with fear.

I was six years old when I had my first crush on a girl. Let’s call her L. Her name doesn’t matter. She had long, immaculate hair — like a swath of black silk. She’d turn her head and it would catch the light, revealing shades of brown. I’d spend recess patiently teaching her English. And she’d sing this delicate little laugh when she began to understand the meaning of a word. I adored her. I just didn’t realise it. She was my friend.

It was about the same time that I first felt sexual pleasure. Not with a person. With a piece of children’s play equipment. In a children’s playground. With children everywhere and teachers just round the corner. And I didn’t exactly know what I was doing. I just knew that I wanted it. And it had something to do with a woman in a white dress. I held her in my arms. She was safe and I was happy. I never told anybody because, somehow, I knew it was shameful. But I did it anyway. I wasn’t ashamed enough.

I was about eighteen when I met my life partner. Let’s call him M. His name does matter, but so does his privacy. He has flecks of white in his mousy brown hair. We travel the world together. People ask us if we’re getting married. ‘No’ I reply.

Once, M. had an accident. A car knocked him down, smashed his body across the windshield, rolled him over the roof and down to the ground. He called me from the side of the road. I held onto the phone and felt a frisson of pain pass through my body. I recall the incident even now. And it fills me with a protective fire. I would beat doors down to rescue him from the dark.

I don’t exactly know what I’m doing. I just know that I want this. I hold M. in my arms. I am safe and we are happy. And part of me is missing but I hold on anyway. Perhaps I’m not brave enough.