Sex and the Single Five Year-Old

When I am five there's this little girl, an older woman, she's six, across the street from where we live in Albuquerque, New Mexico (the place where my father is almost shot and killed - see January 27, 2006 "Magic Bullets and a Fairy Princess"). The little girl and I don't play doctor. We don't need a pretend excuse for sexual gratification.

She asks me point blank whether or not I want her to lick me down there, making me promise to reciprocate if she does.

I like the cool, wet sensation of her tongue, and I don't know orgasms exist yet, being incapable of producing one at the age of five, so there is no lack of a happy ending even though the experience can't technically have one. When it's my turn though, it's tough going, not because I have any problem with reciprocating, as such, but because she has some kind of strange ointment smeared all over her, and I don't like how it smells or tastes. I renege on my end of the bargain.

Only recently do I get past what I consider to be the funny thing of getting but not wanting to give oral pleasure at such a young age (how like a little man-to-be) long enough for it to dawn on me that for a girl of five to have ointment on her vagina and to be initiating sex play with a playmate isn't a good sign. Someone is probably raping her. But she is the aggressor with me and I don't say no. It would never occur to me to say no. I grow up in such sexually free households that the idea of something sexual being ill-advised doesn't register. My parents and step-parents are always running around naked. I know people who never see their mothers without eyeliner. After my mom takes a shower or when she is changing I sometimes see her vagina, or more accurately her pubic hair. Eyeliner doesn't really factor into the equation.

I have no idea that childhood sex play is a taboo of some kind. I also grow up with an absence of media since my father and step-mother don't allow television. Societal concepts of shame are unknown. We are amoral.