| Subject: Re: My Story retold part 17 The Racing heart |
Author:
AV
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Date Posted: Saturday, July 26, 2025, 12:39: am
In reply to:
AV
's message, "My Story retold once more" on Thursday, June 05, 2025, 04:09: am
After Mom stopped when I was about 12… I don’t know why it felt like that… like I couldn’t… I couldn’t do it on my own without the bulb.
Evening. Bath time. That’s when it hit the worst. I’d sneak it—slip the bulb in with me, like it was part of me, like it belonged there. I wish I could remember that first time… the first time I took it myself. I can’t. Doesn’t matter anyway. First time, second time… all the same. Always the same.
It never got easier.
I counted days by urges. Not Monday, Tuesday… no, just urges. That was my calendar.
It felt just like before—like when Mom would send me to the bathroom, bulb already waiting, already prepared. Only now it was me. My choice. My secret. My evening.
And that… that kept me from getting caught. From fighting urges where someone could see.
The heart. That’s what I remember first—pounding like it was trying to break out of me.
The second I decided—tonight, I’m getting the bulb—it went wild.
It was in the kitchen. Bottom cabinet. Mason jar. Always the mason jar.
But that cabinet… tight hinge, the kind that pops and then screams when you open it.
And the kitchen? Right off the living room. Mom and Dad in there, TV on, their voices drifting.
I couldn’t stop it—the need. The drive. It took me over.
I tried to pull slow, gentle, praying it wouldn’t pop. Just enough, just enough for my hand to slip in.
My fingers felt around, blind.
The glass. The jar.
It should be there—it had to be there—because she didn’t use it anymore.
And my heart just kept pounding, pounding like it wanted someone to hear.
I always wore pajamas first. Always. That was the plan—so when I got the bulb, I could hide it fast. Against my hip, inside the waistband, or if there was a pocket, I’d shove it in there. Quick. No stopping. Straight to the bathroom.
But fear never left. Every single night, fear sat with me.
Because from that kitchen, I couldn’t see them. Mom. Dad. Just the sound of the TV and the thought of footsteps.
All it would take—one wrong second—and they’d walk in. See me on the floor, hand in the cabinet, caught like a kid stealing cookies.
The cabinet always popped. All of them popped. But this one felt louder, heavier. Mom would call out, “That you? What are you doing?” and my heart would slam harder, trying to come up with something fast.
Getting a glass… I’d say, then turn the faucet on just to sell it.
Or, “Looking around,” like that explained anything.
I’d wait, freeze, listening. Did they move? Were they coming? My ears would strain for footsteps, my whole body locked in place, listening for them to get up.
Sometimes they went to bed early. That made it easier. Not easy—never easy—just… less eyes. But their room was right there, first down the hall, across from the bathroom. The pop still echoed.
I’d ease the cabinet open just enough to slide my arm in. My fingers reached deep, feeling, searching.
And then—
The rubber. Cold, soft, familiar. That touch, the texture of the bulb inside the mason jar… God, I can still feel it.
You had to squeeze it. Every time.
The bulb wouldn’t come out of the jar unless I pressed it, just a little. That squeeze… butterflies. Sick butterflies. Because it was the same bulb I’d fought against for years—and here I was sneaking it like it was treasure.
Reach in. Quiet. Fast. Feel around. Find the jar. Squeeze. Pull. Hide.
Against my hip, inside the pajamas. My heart pounding so hard I could taste it in my throat. Fear of being caught… but more than that, fear of not doing it, fear of stopping when the desire already had me.
I’d leave the cabinet cracked, just enough so I wouldn’t have to fight the pop again. It made it easier to put it back. Like I was planning my escape before I even started.
Then I’d make it official—say I was going to take a bath. Casual. Like nothing was hidden in my pocket.
The first times? I didn’t even know what I’d do once I got in the bathroom. Just me, standing there, door locked now—always locked now because I couldn’t risk Mom walking in. If she saw… if she said those words—“Oh, you want the bulb? You need the bulb? Let’s prepare you one, a nice soapy one…”—no. Never again.
So I locked it. Tight. Safe.
The bath ran, warm water rising. Soap foamed under my hands, slipping through my fingers into the tub. I’d search under the sink, frantic, for anything—bowl, cup, whatever would hold water. Later I learned to keep a plastic cup there, hidden, ready.
I’d dip the cup, scoop the warm soapy water from the tub, add more soap, watching the bubbles swirl. Then I’d fill the bulb, squeeze in the first bit of water, warm and slippery, getting it ready—ready for me.
I was setting the scene—just like Mom used to.
Container. Cup. Bulb. All lined up on the sink, same as she did.
Then I’d slip into the tub.
And there it was—the bulb. Sitting there. Watching me.
I’d stare at it the way I used to when she’d leave the room, bulb sitting like it had a face, like it was smiling back at me.
My mind would drift—float out somewhere else—while my eyes stayed locked on it. Anticipation twisting in my gut. Every time I did this, it was the same ritual, the same war in my head, and I always lost.
Years of fighting. Years of hating it. And now I was the one bringing it to life.
There was this twisted thought—like the bulb and I had a relationship I couldn’t break.
And now… I was saying yes to it. Approving it. Giving it power.
The bulb with its warm soapy water—it almost felt happy. Like it was waiting for me. Like it wanted me.
My heart wouldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.
I’d move the cup and bulb to the floor, ready, while the bath drained.
These weren’t Mom’s bulbs. Her mix, I never really knew. I only knew it was soapy. So I made my own. My own bulb. My own control.
Then… the position. Over the toilet lid, just like I used to be over her lap.
And sometimes—it became reenactment. I’d kick, reach back, mimic what I did back then. Only it was me doing it to myself now.
All mental. All imagination.
Until the tip… that piercing tip. That moment it pushed in—
I still feel it.
I pushed it in—slow—until the base touched my skin. That same way Mom used to, that signal it was all the way in.
And I’d pause.
Pause and think about it—this “relationship” with a bulb. Like it was alive. Like it was back home, full, ready, waiting.
Then my fingers tightened—thumb and forefinger first, then the whole hand around it—and I squeezed.
The warmth flooded in. Soapy. Heavy.
And in my head, I’d hear myself—hear that voice from back then—“Get it out! Get it out! I gotta go!”
And I’d breathe deep, hold still, letting it travel further inside.
Pulling the tip out slow, gentle, always feeling it slip free, then repositioning.
Refilling. Watching the bulb gulp the soapy water, skimming the suds, sucking in that foam like it couldn’t get enough.
The second one always slid easier. Too easy. And again the thought—this bond, this thing with the bulb—it was smiling at me. Waiting. Loving every squeeze, every release.
And I’d hear the cries again in my own head—“Hurry! Hurry! I gotta go!”—as if I wasn’t alone, as if someone else was holding me there, like before.
Sometimes I imagined my brothers there, holding me down. And then came the third bulb—always that third. It drank the soapy water like it was starving, like it was alive.
And as it went in—easier, deeper—fireworks went off in my head. The third bulb, the final one, smiling wide in my imagination as it emptied itself inside me.
And me, crying out in my own mind, louder now—“I gotta go! I gotta go! Let me up!”
I held it.
That third bulb, I held longer—just to make it last. That relationship… like holding on to something alive, like if I stayed there it wouldn’t end.
Two bulbs minimum. Always. Just like Mom did to me. And suds—had to have suds at the top, had to watch them get pulled in, had to feel it load up like it used to.
The tub drained the whole time. That sound covered everything. Even me releasing—only water running, nothing else. It was all planned, all patterned.
And I knew… I knew it wasn’t Mom’s bulb, wasn’t her mixture. But it didn’t matter. Warm soapy water was warm soapy water, and it did what it always did.
My heart—God, my heart wouldn’t stop. Pounding as I stayed bent over, over the toilet lid, locked in. Even with the door locked, even knowing no one could walk in, I still feared it. Still imagined her stepping through the door.
And I’d reenact it. Every detail.
I’d stay bent over, longer than I needed to, letting my mind fill in the rest—her voice, her presence, the hold, the cries.
“I gotta go! I gotta go! Let me up! I gotta go!” I’d hear it in my head, hear it come out in whispers, sometimes louder.
Then I’d finally move, lift the lid, sit down. The ritual done, but not gone—not ever gone.
I’d set it back on the sink, the bulb. Watching me. Smiling at me—at least that’s how it felt. Like it always had.
And I’d release, slow at first, holding it in like control meant something, then gripping the sides, lifting myself, legs tensed as I pushed out the rest of the warm soapy water. Breathing through it. Forcing my heart to slow.
Then I’d glance at it—the bulb—and in my head came her voice: “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
And I smiled back. Actually smiled. Because now I was in control.
And that truth—if it was truth—hit deep. Because these bulbs, my bulbs, weren’t punishment anymore. They were… enjoyable. That’s the word. Enjoyable.
Clean up was automatic. Wash the bulb carefully, almost like caring for it, like keeping it safe for next time. Then came goodbye, that strange goodbye, as I put it back in its “second home”—the mason jar, the bottom cabinet.
And if Mom and Dad were still up, that part was back to nerves—slipping it in quick, heart pounding, making sure the pop didn’t give me away.
Afterward I’d announce I was heading to bed, casual, nothing wrong.
And those nights? I slept hard. Deep. Breathing slow, empty, clean.
A calm heart.
A body I controlled.
A ritual I owned.
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