Cause and Effect
My name is Harry - well, that’s not my real name but you’ll understand later why I must remain anonymous. I’ve spent 52 years on this planet, always considering myself the average Joe until I picked up the book, Lolita, from the library shelves and became intoxicated by its contents. “...that little girl with her seaside limbs and ardent tongue haunted me ever since –until at last, twenty-four years later, I broke her spell by incarnating her in another.”
As I read the passages, I felt warmth coursing through my body and found it necessary to sit down, crossing my legs to hide my budding growth. I was embarrassed by my welling desire as I panned through the book but also titillated by the realization that I, too, was one of the select five percent who experienced the same feelings.
As I ventured further into the book, I felt the commonalities that the author and I had shared. As a very young lad, I had lost my mother to cancer and had to make my way through life without her nurturing influence. When I was 19, I watched a little girl at the playground and imagined us together, lying in silken sheets with her prepubescent body touching mine. Her breasts were not yet blossoming but her lithe legs held such promise as I observed her swinging by her knees from the jungle gym, exposing her virgin white cotton underpants. I fantasized that she was embryonic, just waiting for me to introduce her to the delights she had not yet experienced. But, alas, it was not to be, as her mother walked over and told her it was time to leave. Although I went to the same playground many times, I never saw her again, much to my dismay.
Although I never completely excised my fantasy, I was able to live a fairly normal life for many years until I was in my late forties. I had never married but I had had numerous girlfriends, mostly ones who were youthful and almost childlike with small breasts and straight bodies. One day, I met a new woman who had a 12 year old daughter, full of innocence and unable to recognize the stirring she aroused in me as I looked at her legs with a little peach fuzz outlining their shape. I imagined her little suckling rosebud mouth caressing my manhood as I taught her how to please me and at the same time, introduce her to the beginning of womanhood. Thinking she was the main attraction, her unsuspecting mother moved in with me bringing her young daughter. I began to assume a doting father figure to the child, holding her on my lap, stroking her arms and rubbing my mustache on the back of her neck, causing her to dissolve in paroxysms of giggles. I rubbed lotion on her legs and dried her with fluffy towels after her bath. Knowing she was needy, I played to the gaping void in her life. She was my goddess and I was the one who could fulfill her every desire.
One spring day, I arrived home early to find my little innocent cherub sitting in the kitchen eating graham crackers in her t-shirt and panties. I hugged her and kissed her on the mouth, lingering there as I parted her lips and inserted my wet tongue. She appeared surprised but I told her I was just glad to see her. I picked her up and placed her on my lap, holding her as my fingers played with the lace at the edge of her underwear. Her eyes shut in passion, at least that’s what I thought, and she began moaning as I explored deeper into her little flower. This is what Daddies do to little girls I told her. You’ll learn how to please your husband when you are older. I scooped her up in my arms and carried her gently to the bedroom. Slowly, I began slipping her blouse and then her panties off as the tip of my tongue flicked her skin.
I undid my belt buckle and began ripping my clothes off to consummate my urgency. All of a sudden, I heard a blood-curdling scream. There stood my little nymph’s mother at the bedroom door with a look of complete horror on her face.
This is not the end of my story. Pardon me, for a moment, while I use the toilet in my cell. I really do not like the design of the combined toilet and sink because my grey shirt keeps getting wet and I don’t have a spare. I am the pariah of the cell block, at the receiving end of the other prisoners’ ministrations, over and over again until it becomes difficult to walk. I don’t think it’s really my fault. I was cursed by a biologically related condition; a psychological disorder, if you will, according to my psychiatrist. I am left-handed which possibly indicates that disturbed hemispheric brain lateralization may play a role in my deviant attractions.
They consider me a pedophile but I prefer to think that they are biased against me. Unfortunately, I am confined for an indefinite period of time where I am forced to remain without my little sprite who brought me so much joy. But what I continue to wonder is did I cause the effect or did the effect of her beauty cause my neurosis?