Pedro’s family and mine were friends. They owned a compound of apartments a block away from our house. When he was in college, Pedro’s parents moved back to their hometown in Palawan or some other shitty, ass-backward island where people still live in mud huts, hunt boar with bamboo spears, and eat fist-sized jungle snails. Pedro was left to manage the apartments alone. My mother, being the gracious neighbor she’s always been, would often invite Pedro to share our meals, watch television, or just hang around and mess with us kids.
One weekend morning when I was six or seven years old, I asked Pedro if I can hang out at his house. I thought his place was a treasure-trove of cool stuff like big college books, kitschy paintings and posters, and the like. He assented and off we went to his place.
When we got there, there was no electricity. It was a warm summer morning so he took off his shirt like most men do in their own homes. He stretched out on a ratty old sofa. I remember laughing at his tan lines. His arms and face were reddish because of exposure to the sun but the rest of him was white as a baby's ass. It looked like he was still wearing a T-shirt.
Some minutes later, he asked me to pluck the hairs off his armpits, which I gladly did because I thought it was funny.
Even as a child I often did things for the lulz.
I climbed on top of him and started plucking the curly hairs on his 'pits, laughing after every successful uprooting of the horrible things. He had a forest there. Yeah, I thought it was pretty funny.
Another thing I thought funny was his large, brown man-nipple.
I already knew then that milk comes from a woman’s nipple but I was clueless, as eggheads still are today, as to the purpose of male tits. I asked Pedro if milk also comes out of a full-grown man’s nipples.
He told me to suck that abominatyion and find out.
I opened my mouth and pushed my head closer to his chest.
I sucked on that wide, brown, man-nipple.
I said it tasted salty.
I said it tasted like sweat.
I don't remember him saying anything.
I think he was pretending to be asleep.
I continued sucking, thinking that maybe I just had to be patient before the man-milk would come out.
Suck. Suck. Suck. Suck. Suck.
Work on that man-nipple, kid.
Work on it like there's a Eureka! Moment about to gush out of it.
No, milk didn’t come out from it.
Did I feel defiled? Violated? No. Defilement and violation are concepts I understand intimately whenever I bring out the biodegradable trash with what’s left of last week’s pork chops still festering in it. The experience was unimportant to me and so my mind just filed it away in the bottom drawer of my memories. I was already in college when I remembered the incident. This would lead many to believe that it wasn’t really molestation. I beg to differ. It’s important that I make as many credible professionals believe that indeed it was molestation that destroyed my sanity. When they finally haul me kicking and biting in front of a judge and try to smite me with the terrible Book of the Law for attempting to convert ohsocutsie lolitas to the Church of Coercive Love, I will simply say:
Hi, I’m Squid Villanueva and I was molested as a child.