Are you ready for Chapter 2?

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Let's do this shit, yo!

CHAPTER 2: Eating out Nana.

So there I was, a naive seven year-old boy staring into his Nana's crotch. I didn't know why but she had put one of my mom's famous sour cream cupcakes right between her legs and told me to "take a bite, honey." I was repulsed. But I'm even more repulsed now that you think this part of the story is true! What's wrong with you? Don't look at me like that. You don't think this shit is funny? Well you can suck my dick, Nana! Okay, honestly, I don't even find any of this funny. I was just trying to make you comfortable before I do the exact opposite to you. Are you ready? Here's the real story.

CHAPTER 2: Perusing with Nana.

So I'll make this quick and painless for you. Why not? After all, it's only been an agonizingly slow, psychologically devastating 30 plus years for me. You deserve better than that. What happened in Nana's room still feels like a dream to me. Or should I say nightmare? No, I really do mean dream. Not that is was dreamy, but the memory is very dreamlike. It was such an unreal situation that I think my young brain cataloged it in a place that's not easily accessible and thus the "dream" like tone of it. I think it's a natural defense mechanism. If I'm not 100% sure it happened, then it can't really hurt me, right? ( No, I'm not sobbing uncontrollably right now.) Anyway, the reason I tell you about the haziness of the memory is to reveal the thought process of a victim. I can hear Spanish Johnny now, "Oooh, thanks for the psychology lesson, MSG, you raped pussy!" But I do think it's important to the story because for many years I doubted these memories. Until one day when it dawned on me that no kid is ever going to "dream" or create a false memory like this. Who the fuck would (or could) do that? I was way too young to even conjure up such things. So here's what happened. My father, for reasons I will never fully comprehend, used to place Penthouse and Playboy magazines (which he had subscriptions to) on the nightstand in Nana's room before her arrival. It's an act, I guess, that's akin to a hotel leaving a chocolate on your pillow at night. Hey there weary traveler, here's a little somethin' for ya to enjoy! I mean, it's so fucked up, right? Well, around Casa MSG, it wasn't ever questioned. It was just accepted. Hey who was I to judge? I was seven years old for fuck sake. Besides, maybe she liked to read the articles. God, how I wish that were the case. Then I may have never heard her voice call me into that room. And I wouldn't have had to stand by her bedside and look at pictures of giant breasts and fully open vaginas with her. Yes, that's right, instead of cute little nighttime stories like you'll find over on Spanish Johnny's blog, I had to look at Penthouse magazine with my Nana. It only happened once (I think) actually, but once was fucking enough! I remember only one bit of it very specifically. And that is when I very softly and shyly said "yeah" when she asked me if I thought the ladies were pretty (See, now that sounds a little too made up, right? It sounds like how Hollywood would portray it. But I swear that's what I remember. And because it sounds so "perfectly" fucked up, I tend to wonder if I have created this memory for some reason. But why would I do that? It makes no sense.) Anyway, after that, it's a bit hazy from being tucked away in my own personal vault of horror for so long. I've thought about it over the years and rationalize all of it (the tickling, the brother kissing, the Penthouse peeking) this way: Nana was just a terribly sick person (duh!) who didn't know the consequences of her actions. Somehow, that works for me. I doesn't make me less angry or sad. I actually feel sorry for her too (like most victims). But, of course, I feel more sorry for that little boy (I can't even say it's me, it makes me so upset) who's life was irrevocably altered by that crazy bitch. I blame her for so much of my anger. I blame her for a lot of happiness I can't feel. I blame her for my incredible uneasiness with being touched by people. I mean, people NEED to be touched. I can't stand it. I'm deprived of that basic human need thanks to her. To quote from a song by a band I never thought I'd publicly quote, Everclear - from the song "Father of Mine"- "I will never be safe. I will never be sane. I will always be weird inside. I will always be lame." Thanks a lot, you fucking nasty cunt. I hope it was worth it to you.

"CHAPTER 3: The Revengening" will be coming soon. Trust me, it's worth waiting for.