Playing House with a 7 Year Old

Written by Uncle Pan

It was a lovely spring day out. Sunny, cool, breezy, the kind of weather that makes the blood sing in your veins. I found I just couldn't bear to stay indoors, the weather was like a magnet pulling me outside. For a time I tried to justify my being outside by doing something useful like taking the clippers and trimming the hedges. But finally I decided that being outdoors on a lovely day like this was excuse enough in itself, so I went inside and got myself a book to read and returned to my backyard and lay down on the ground leaning my back against a tree. I guess this would be a good time to introduce myself. I'm Richard, Richard Pearson, but all my friends all call me Ricky. I'm thirty-five going on thirteen. There's nothing I like better to do on a peaceful day like this than read a good book. I really get into my reading and before push turns to shove I was so into the book I was reading that I was not aware of the other signs of life that were happening all around me, birds singing, crickets painfully sawing their messages of love, and a squirrel or two scurrying hither and yon. In fact it came as quite a surprise when a child's voice cut through my self-induced isolation. "Hi, Mr. Pearson," the voice said. I looked up startled. "Oh, hi Cecy." It was Cecily Burke, a stunning little seven year old from two doors down. She stands just under five feet tall, on the skinny side but perfectly proportioned. She seems all arms and legs with a white, form clinging dress on, sporting a face so pretty it would stop a clock. And the face was surrounded on three sides by tumbling blonde hair hanging halfway down her back, luminescent when backlit by the sun. "What," I said, "brings you out on this beautiful day?"

"I was over playing with Jimmy Walker," she said. "His mom caught us playing and made Jimmy go into the house, and won't let him come outside to play any more." "Oh, really," I said a little surprised, "what was it you were playing?" "We were up in Jimmy's tree house, playing married. You know, that's where you pretend you're married and you take all your clothes off, and Jimmy plays with my coozie until his wiener gets stiff, and then he sticks it in me. He put it in me and it was just starting to feel really good when Mrs. Walker stuck her head inside the tree house and had a screaming fit. She told us what we were doing was Ônasty' and that we had to get dressed right away. And after Jimmy got dressed she made him go into his house, and she said she wasn't gonna let him out for the rest of the day. And then she told me she wasn't gonna let Jimmy play with me any more. She said I was a bad influence."

As Cecy told her story I studied the child very closely. I have watched her grow from pudgy little toddler to the skinny seven year old sprite she is today. She is quick of wit and has seemingly boundless energy, some part of her is always in motion, a foot patting, a finger circling in the air, her hips revolving. Her blonde hair hangs to mid back, her blue eyes twinkle, and when she smiles her cheeks light up with Shirley Temple style dimples. Her lips are thin, but are inviting and show promise. Of what I dare not try to imagine. I had never thought of the child as sexy before this moment, but looking at her now, and especially with the mental image of her lying naked while Jimmy Walker runs his stiff little poker in and out her coozie, now that is an image guaranteed to blow your mind. And you better believe my own little soldier was standing in dress salute in my trousers. I know I should have kept my mouth shut, but I was puzzling over Jimmy's mother's strange behavior, in what seemed to me to be an over reaction. So I couldn't help but ask, "Were you being a bad influence?" Cecy looked me in the eye and decisively shook her head. "All I did was go along with what Jimmy wanted to do," she said. "The game was Jimmy's idea," she explained. I found myself mildly shocked from Cecy's description of their game and Mrs. Walker ultimate reaction to it, but it was more of amusement than indignation.

Cecy wasn't quite ready to leave the subject, however. "Mr. Pearson," she said looking me directly in the eyes. "I don't understand how come what we was doing was Ônasty?' Isn't that what all married people do? Get nekkid and the boy puts his wiener in the girl, isn't that the way grownups make babies?" I studied the child, wise beyond her seven years. She seemed genuinely puzzled and upset by what had happened with Jimmy's mom in the tree house. I nodded, and went on to assure her she was absolutely right.

"Then how come Mrs. Walker said what we was doing was nasty?" Cecy went on, "when that was exactly what she and Mr. Walker had to do to make Jimmy in the first place?" Wow, I thought, this child is up to her ears in logic. How do I answer her, that was my next question? "I don't quite know what to say," I told her, "what does your mom have to say about all this?"

"She's the one who told me about men putting their wieners in ladies in the first place," said Cecy. "It was last summer when my cousin Tony was visiting us. He's ten, and he was always taking his clothes off and talking me into getting nekkid, and then he would play with me between my legs until his wiener got big, after which he'd poke it in my coozie and bounce up and down on top of me. I didn't know why he was always wanting to do that so I asked my mom about it and she Ôxplained that was what grownups do to make babies, and that kids are always playing games which mimic the things grownups do. She said that's how we grow up and learn how to be people. She didn't say nothing about it's being bad, though. She said it was perfectly natural. So if it was perfectly natural why was Mrs. Walker so upset?"

"Well, my little Cecy," I began, "welcome to the real world. You have just learned a basic lesson about life in general and grownups in particular. And the lesson is that different people believe different things and they don't necessarily agree one with another. Whereas your mom, obviously, is honest and worldly, and believes in telling you the truth about how things are, Mrs. Walker obviously is not truthful with her son. She pretends that what you two were doing was bad for a lot of reasons. For one thing she probably doesn't think you kids can handle it, which is of course ridiculous, kids can handle undressing and playing with each other's sex parts very well. At least, I sure could when I was your age, and so could my friends back then. For another, it may be against her religion. A lot of religions try to control their believers by making them feel guilty over things which are perfectly natural human behavior, but which they teach as being sinful for the very purpose of using the resulting guilt feelings to control their parishioners. Thus confessions. Tell the priest the bad things you've thought of and/or have done, and he will absolve you, after first making you feel guilty, and thereby placing himself in a heightened position of authority over you."

"Gee, I never thought of it like that," Cecy said.

"Well, Cecy," I said, "there's an old saying, it takes all kinds. . . And like many another old saying, this one is true. It really does take all kinds. Your mom is at one extreme, Mrs. Walker is at another, and there are lots of people at various stages in between them."

"Mr. Pearson, could I ask you a question?"

"Sure, Cecy, ask away. I'll be happy to answer any question I can. But why don't we go inside and I'll get you something to drink, just in case I have neighbors with big ears? Would you like a coke?" "Sure, that'd be great." And so I got up from our comfortable resting place and together we went into the house. I got her a coke and me a beer and we went into the living room to partake. She sat on the couch and I sat in my comfy chair facing her. She drank her coke pretty much in silence. When she finished she got up from the couch and came over to me. ......(cont)

.......Read the entire Playing House with a 7 Year Old ....written by Uncle Pan.
Copyright © 2007-8 Uncle Pan. ALL Rights Reserved




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This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.


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