“Count me in, if only for the kids' sake,” I said. “Somebody's got to watch 'em.”
Uncle Dan Raped Me! (And He'd Better Do It Again!)
The last thing I expected on the night of my 10th birthday was to be raped by my favorite uncle, my mother's brother, my Uncle Dan.
As a precocious little 4th-grader, I was the darling of the family, a skinny but cute little blonde angel with bright blue eyes and an even brighter smile. It was true that I often wore skimpy clothes, like tiny halters and stretchy short-shorts, but that was also true of many of the preteen girls in my class at school.
Most of us were just learning how to show off our bodies in that almost trampy but sexy way that caused boys of all ages to check us out.
And besides, with almost nonexistent breasts and tiny pink nipples, it didn't take much to cover me up.
“Jessica,” my uncle whispered earlier that day at my birthday party, “I've got a surprise present for you later on tonight, but your parents wouldn't approve.”
I just stared at him, fascinated.
“They wouldn't?” I said, already hooked. “What is it?”
He lived right next door to us and I often stayed there whenever my folks went out of town. My father was a national pharmaceutical rep and whenever he went to parts of the country that were interesting or fun, my mother always went along.
That way, they could make a boring business trip into a mini-vacation.
“Maybe you could sneak over tonight,” Uncle Dan told me, in that confidential way he had. “After they're asleep. You could see what it is without your mom and dad ever knowing.”
“Uncle Dan!” I nearly whined, dying of curiosity. “What is it? A pony?”
He just gave me a look, then laughed.
“A pony? In the city?”
My mom's brother was very good-looking at 28-years-old, still single, and an attorney with a good income. Good enough, at least, so he was always buying me presents, many of which my parents didn't know about.
My mother didn't want my uncle spoiling me. But I guess it was too late. I was totally into getting everything I wanted.
He'd already bought me a very expensive desktop computer, for instance, which I kept at his house next door, only using it when I stayed over. I also had tons of great clothes that he let me pick out from catalogues and a lot of toys that my mother and father would be angry to know I had.
Since I spent quite a few nights a year at my uncle's house, it only made sense that I had some things over there to entertain me. As long as I had my homework done, that is. My Uncle Dan was as concerned for my future as my own parents, always making certain I was doing well in school.
In other words, I mattered to him. Almost as if I was his own daughter.
Which is why I was so angry and confused when he actually raped me.
Needless to say, knowing the next day was a Saturday and I didn't have to get up early, I waited until I heard my father snoring, which was sometime after midnight. Then I waited another half hour to make certain my mom was asleep, too.
Lying in bed in my summer pajamas, I dialed my cell phone under the covers and when my Uncle Dan answered, asked, “Hi! Are you still up?”
He didn't sound the least sleepy.
“Jessica, come around to the back,” he told me. “Your birthday present's down in the basement.”
Five minutes later, I was at his back door in my lightweight robe, slippers and pajamas, our homes so close together there was no way any neighbors could see me. I knocked softly and he opened the door and ushered me in.
I noticed he was also in his robe. I couldn't tell, but it almost seemed like he had nothing on under it.
“Downstairs,” he pointed. “Jessica, do you want a drink?”
Standing on the landing with him, the way he'd said it made me ask, “What do you mean? Like a root beer?”
His smile told me that wasn't what he meant.
“Now that you're ten, I thought you might like a real drink,” he said. “Maybe a rum punch or something light, that tastes good. Or a pina colada. I've got a mix that makes a great one.”
We stood there looking at each other for a long moment, me trying to figure out what he was up to. If nothing else, my uncle always came up with one surprise after another for me, not the usual uncle, I'd bet.
And his secret presents, so far, were always the best.
“I'm still just a kid,” I told him. “So I'm not sure-”
“One won't kill you,” he promised me. “Just never tell your mom or dad.”
I finally shrugged.
“Okay,” I nodded. “I'll take whichever one tastes the best.”
“A pina colada,” he told me. “You won't even taste the rum. Go on down and I'll bring it to you.”
So I headed down the stairs, into his finished basement, thick carpet and all, a bar, recessed ceiling and the works, but no surprise birthday present for a newly-turned 10-year-old girl that I could see.
I plopped down onto the black leather couch, waiting for my uncle and the first drink of my young life.
“Here you go,” he told me, handing me a large glass filled with a frothy liquid to the brim. “Taste it.”
So I did, sipping at it uncertainly, but immediately discovered I loved the taste. It was a coconut-like mixture, delicious and maybe even nutritious. There was a slim slice of pineapple in it, actual fruit, which I pulled out with my fingers and began to eat.
That had to be healthy.
“So…do you like it?” he asked, sipping at his own pina colada.
“I love it,” I told him, but then stood up and looked around the room. “But I don't see my birthday present.”
“Just be patient,” he suggested. “Let's finish our drinks first.”
I shrugged.
“Why not?”
By the time I started on my third pina colada, I was feeling very strange, to say the least.
“I think I'm drunk, Uncle Dan,” I said to him.
It was about 2:00 a.m., I was sprawled on the black leather couch, still in my shorty pajamas but with my robe thrown aside and my slippers kicked off. Even barefoot, the basement suddenly seemed very warm to me.
“I can't feel my face…”
And I laughed, and took another sip, still loving the taste of the coconut-like concoction. My skinny bare arms and legs seemed to be tingling, my head beginning to actually spin.
“That's perfect,” my uncle said, and brought out what looked like a gift-wrapped jewelry box. “Here's part of your present.”
“Finally!” I laughed foolishly. “Is it jewelry?”
He just shook his head.
“Something better,” he told me. “More fun.”
So I sat up straight and ripped off the wrapping paper, opening the box to discover a small blue plastic butterfly that was nestled in the middle of a little harness made of blue ribbons. There was also something that looked like a tiny remote control, as if for a very small TV, but with a small dial in the center instead of buttons.
I just stared at it all.
“I don't understand, Uncle Dan…” I started. “What's this little butterfly?”
He was going into the laundry room, but over his shoulder said to me, “It's actually called a butterfly, Jessica. It's fun. You'll see.”
“But what's it do?”
“I'll show you in a minute,” he promised, disappearing. “You'll love it.”
And as I sank back into the couch, my head spinning even more, he quickly reappeared through the doorway, pushing and sliding an odd-looking and obviously heavy piece of furniture across the carpet.
“What is that?” I wanted to know, more curious than anything else. “Is that the rest of my birthday present?”
It was a boxy wedge-like ramp, about 3 feet wide and 4 feet long, with a high section rising out of the middle, the whole thing entirely covered with what looked like black velvet. It was also big enough for a person to lie on or to sit on. Yet it looked like no furniture I'd ever seen.