On my recent trip home, I was admonished for not posting each and every day. I believe the exact words were these: “If I go on and see you haven’t posted anything new, I get pissed off. ‘Ray’s an asshole!’”
Realistically, there’s no way that I can post every day—that would seriously cut into my masturbation time, and I can’t have that. But I feel I should do my best to keep my limited number of fans sated. The question is, what’s the easiest way to do that?
I wasn’t sure until just a second ago, when I thought about a story from my childhood. I can write about that, I thought. It’s short, it’s kind of funny, and it counts as a post. Plus, it isn’t as bad as writing poetry. Of course, those of you who don’t know me might not give a shit about my childhood.
Here’s the thing: it’s either this or naked pictures of my butt. Story from my childhood is sounding pretty good right about now, isn’t it? Thought so.
I wanted bunk beds. Always. I love bunk beds, and I have since the first time I saw them. I can’t remember where I first saw a set of bunk beds, but I’m thinking it was at a stranger’s house.
If I was guessing, I would say that my mother and my at-the-time step-father were attending some party, and had taken my sister and I. The home-owners had kids, the kids had bunk beds. That would be me guessing though, because those kids had all the cool shit—I don’t remember bunk beds specifically.
The point is that I always liked bunk beds and always wanted them. Eventually, I got them.
You know that story The Monkey’s Paw? There’s this magical monkey paw, and it grants wishes, but it does it in a really screwed up way, so that it backfires in the wisher’s face, and shit goes all wrong.
Keep that in mind.
I can’t remember how old I was. Less than four feet old, I know that. My childhood is marked by locations and step-relatives. It sounds cynical, but that’s just the easiest way. “We lived in X house with Y and Z as sisters.” Or “X was the father figure at Y location.” Then I just figure out how I got to school from said house, and I know what grade I was in.
Between kindergarten and second grade, so between five years old and eight.
None of that’s really important, I guess. I like to use my imagination when I hear a story, though, and it’s nice to have an adequate representation for this story, because that’s what makes it truly touching.
I got my bunk bed, and I loved it, regardless of a few technical difficulties—for some reason, I continually rolled off in my sleep, landing in all sorts of random places. Occasionally, I would wake up on the floor, or on the bottom bunk, or turned around in bed. I knew nothing about falling from my bed, however, as it occurred at night. Apparently, I was a very deep sleeper. The only way I eventually discovered my nightly acrobatics was when I mentioned to my mother about a bruise on my elbow.
“Probably when you fell in the toy box,” she told me.
“I didn’t fall in the toy box.”
“Yes you did—last night.”
There is something amazing and incredibly frightening about hearing that you have done things that you don’t remember. That was my first taste of the sensation, but it wouldn’t be my last—Jim Beam and Jack Daniels and, uh…Bob…Beefeater have seen to that over the years.
Falling out of my bed at night wasn’t really a problem, though, and it isn’t what this story is about.
Well get to it, douchecracker—you think I have all day to spend reading your babbling?
I know, I know. So I’ve got this bunk bed.
I’m playing up there one day. I don’t know what I was playing—probably Star Wars or He-Man or G.I. Joe, because that’s really all there was to life back then.
My mom had changed the sheets on my bed that day, which is only important because it meant that it hadn’t been scooted flush back against the wall. Which is only important because I dropped something down from the top bunk, between the bed and the wall.
The game immediately changed, I remember that as clearly as I remember anything. Whatever toys were on my bed, they weren’t toys anymore. And I wasn’t on my bed. I was on a train.
The bunk bed was great for playing guns, even if you were by yourself. You had that ladder at the end, you could climb down, shooting the bad guys, holding onto the rungs with one hand while you fired your weapon with the other. If the train was about to run off a bridge, you could jump from the top bunk onto the floor, just in the nick of time.
That day, I had no guns. The instant whatever toy I had been playing with fell through the crack between wall and bed, I became a super-spy. It was up to me to assemble a bomb, and the vital piece had just fallen through the crack. I had to retrieve it.
I admit—there was a part of me that just wanted to climb down between the wall and the bed.
So I dropped my legs down through the crack, and lowered myself slowly down. Soon, I was armpit-deep down the side. I slowly brought in my arms, clutching the wooden edge of the frame with my tiny fingers. I turned my head and prepared to drop the final bit—I could feel the tips of my toes on the blanket of the bottom bunk.
I let go…and hung.
The crack was too small for my head.
The pain was sudden and immense, and I cried out for my mother. At the same time, I tried to pull myself back up to the top bunk. The important thing to remember here is that I’m a little bitty kid with no arm strength.
I managed to pull myself up enough get my head straightened up, but that was it. I cried for my mother over and over. After several moments, she burst into my bedroom.
Without looking around, she yelled, “Ray Lee! I’m on the phone! Be quiet!” And then she was gone.
So that was that. I hung for as long as my arms would allow, but after a while, they began to ache, so I experimentally lowered them. There was pressure against my chin where the bed was pressing, and against the back of my head, where I was pressed against the wall, but it was more comfortable than holding myself up.
So I hung there by head.
Depending on how guilty my mom is feeling when you ask, the time ranges from fifteen seconds to an hour. Her most honest answer is approximately twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes can seem like an incredibly long time when you’re hanging by your head, your toys just out of reach. Because they were all there, right at eye level, just out of reach. And I was a little kid.
My mom eventually came back in to see what I wanted, and discovered me hanging there. There were all kinds of apologies as she freed me.
Honestly, it didn’t seem all that bad at the time. In retrospect, it seems like a great way to keep a little kid out of your hair for a while.
And that’s your childhood story for the night. I’m not sure if it gives you a peek into my world or not, but next time you’re sitting there thinking, Man, this guy writes about his dick a lot, just think about this:
It’s hard not to be obsessed about your junk when you know that you’ll never be hung like you were at five.