Late at
night on a bus trip, the author was seduced by Jim Jones (pp. 72-73):
“You skin looks so smooth,” he
blew his words into my ear.
Night floated down upon us, the
worn and tired travelers fell silent, drifting off into sleep. Now, as he leaned down, I smelled something
foreign on Father’s warm breath – alcohol!
How terribly strange. It couldn’t
be. Father had taught us that it was bad
to drink. It was capitalistic. As socialists, we always had to have our wits
about us. His arm brushed my breast as
he sank into the cushioned seat next to me.
“I wanted you today, when you
came to the podium.”
My stomach began to swirl and
churn. Father released the seat lock and
reclined his chair into the row behind us.
He wanted to see if his son Stephan, who was seated behind us with his
girlfriend, was already asleep... Having
made sure no one was observing him, Father brought his seat back to the same
level as mine. My head began to throb as
he touched my leg, my thigh. Unable to
think, afraid to breathe, I sat very still.
Father’s unsaintly hand began to massage my thigh.
A shudder worked its way up from
deep within me while Father’s hand kneaded my flesh. My mentor’s fingers inched inward. What was he doing? I didn’t want this...
As Father’s hands continued his
bidding, the shame of his touch uprooted my very foundation. I was not sure which one of us I hated
more. Perhaps I was being tested. Yes!
Yes, perhaps this was only a test.
Pushing the metal button on the top of my jeans, Father’s hand then
rubbed my stomach softly...
. . .
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