Uncle Charlie

Uncle Charlie and I have an interesting history. He was integral in the formation of my sexual identity. Uncle Charlie had a mini farm not far from us in Kansas. He had been married but divorced while I was still very young. I can't even remember his wife. Although he was quite friendly, he was a loner and didn’t fit in well with society. He worked on the farm and did handyman jobs to make extra money. He has never had a regular job. The farm that he had was on land that had been parceled from my great grandparents’ homestead. My parents had a house that they came from the same homestead, so Charlie’s farm was within walking distance from our house. Both my parents worked, and I would spend the days when I was not in school at Charlie's farm. Partially to do work but mostly so that he could keep an eye on me.

My mom was not the most comforting mother, and we were not that close. Most of what I learned about becoming a woman, I learned from Charlie. I had my first period when I was with him. He bought me my first tampons, my first bra and took me to the doctor when I had my first yeast infection. I always felt more comfortable asking him personal questions. I don’t think that he felt comfortable talking to me about sex but would always give me straight and simple answers. I appreciated that.

One fall, Charlie taught me how to make sausages from deer meat. He showed me how to grind the meat, mixing the deer with pork fat and spices. He showed how to fill the casings and how to poach the sausages to kill any bacteria. That afternoon after we had made a batch of brats, Charlie had to run to town. He instructed me to leave them on the counter and put them in the freezer after they had cooled. As a developing young woman, I could not help but notice the similarity of the sausages to a certain male member. Hindsight is 20-20, but when they had cooled to body temperature, I let curiosity get the better of me and I used one in a very inappropriate way. Initially it served its purpose very well. However, when I went to remove it, the casing had opened on one end and only about half of the filling came out. The rest was inside me and not in one piece. Try as I could, my fingers were too short to retrieve all of it.

Charlie could tell that something was wrong when he came home. It took a while, but I finally confessed. Charlie said that we should go to the hospital, but I refused. I knew a couple of the girls in my class who volunteered at the small country hospital, and I knew that if I went, word of what I had done would have spread like wildfire and my reputation would be forever ruined. That kind of thing would follow me for the rest of my life. Reluctantly Charlie agreed to help me.

I sat bottomless over the kitchen sink with my legs spread. With the help of some vegetable oil, two of Charley’s fingers and a turkey baster, he cleaned me out. Part of me was mortified, but I was so thankful for him doing that for me. Uncle Charlie never said a word to me about that incident. But the following day a package was sitting on the bed that I used when I napped at his place. Inside was my first dildo. Thanks Uncle Charlie.

They say that trauma can shape sexual desire and I know it sounds silly but the memory of me sitting bottomless on the sink with Charlie’s oiled fingers fishing around deep inside me will always push me over the edge when I need it. I am in my thirties now and Charlie is in his sixties. I don’t really want to cheat on my husband, but I am really curious if Charlie would be willing to recreate the incident if I asked him.

By Anonymous

Embarrassing CONFESSION

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