practice
Practice
by Kristie Alshaibi
His thick hair matched the clean white jacket he wore. As he moved around to the foot of the table, his cool eyes met yours. He was a pleasant-looking man, but with a determined and persistent air about him. You held your breath for a moment while he spoke to you.
“I’m going to need you to lie back. That’s right…. Now I’m going to have to take off your panties. Can you lift your bottom a little? That’s a good girl.”
White paper crackled beneath you.
“Now spread your legs a little for me. Good…. Yes, just as I thought.”
He looked up at your mother who was now standing at your side stroking your hair. He made a quick jerking motion with his hands as he explained something. In your mind you were lying on top of a pin ball machine and Dr. Paul was pushing the little buttons that made the flippers move. He looked through you into the glass at the silver ball ricocheting off the bumpers.
“Now, you’re going to feel me touching you down there.”
His hands were cold. You looked across your belly at his arms, then back up at his face. The seriousness of his expression was changing. He looked as if he were going to sneeze, or he had a tickle in his brain. You could hear his breath grow shallow. Years later you would look into your lovers’ faces for the same expression, and listen for the same quick and shaking breaths. Then you could relax, knowing that they were enjoying themselves.
With a sudden jerk of his big hands, you felt a sharp stinging between your thighs. You gasped and tried to sit up, but your mother hugged you while pushing you back down onto the table. Her muscles were tense, and you felt a warm tear drip off her face and onto your neck. Through her long straight brown hair you saw Dr. Paul touching your vagina with cotton swabs and pulling them away covered with blood. That was when you began to cry.
Later, your mother would retell the scenario to your dad, then to your aunt, and to your grandma and grandpa. As she spoke her face would get red and her jaw would tighten. Sometimes you thought tears might start rolling down her cheeks, so you would wrap your arms around her legs and squeeze them gently to comfort her. She would lay her hand on your head and stroke your hair, the whole time repeating to the other adults, “ridiculous, just ridiculous.”
Within a few days you were able to pee without any burning, and your mother stopped telling the story.