I guess before beginning my story, I should introduce myself. I’m Beth. That’s short for Elspeth. I’m not sure why any self-respecting parent would name a child Elspeth. It’s a fucking nightmare to grow up with. When you’re not being called Elizabeth, you’re most probably not being called anything, because Americans are so fucking stupid they can’t pronounce themselves out of a paper bag. So from a very young age I just settled for plain Beth.
My parents had many strange ideas. They believed in a family bed, that is, a big fucking futon that took up most of the floor of the bedroom. Yup! No bed. Just a big fucking mattress/futon on the floor, and from the minute I was born, that’s where I slept…between mom and dad. They were green before the word was coined. I was born on the couch at home. That is, another futon that was sort of rolled up a certain way to look like a couch in the living room. The midwife caught me as I popped out and everybody screamed and laughed and were elated that they had bucked the hospital system and had a healthy baby at home. Not that I remember a fucking thing, but growing up I had to endlessly look at pictures of the bloody event.
They also believed that everything we ever used could someday be reused or recycled, so nothing was ever thrown away and the whole house was piled high with junk in every corner. It was embarrassing as hell to have any of my friends over. Add to all the above that my parents were fucking nudists and would walk around the house butt naked most of the time. Jesus!
By some miracle I survived my childhood unharmed and probably a lot more liberal than most kids my age, not to mention more savvy about certain things. Don’t get me wrong…I was never abused or anything. As a matter of fact, by the time I was sixteen, I probably knew less about the mechanics of sex than most kids my age, largely due to the fact that my world had vastly changed in the intervening years.
As a young child, my parents, as liberal as they seemed, were very reserved in their sexual practices. In other words, as far as I was aware, they never had sex at all. It just wasn’t part of the liberal agenda they encouraged. Even they could draw the line somewhere. Of course, I knew the parts of the body and the differences between guys and girls. Hell, I’d seen enough of my dad’s hairy pecker and my mom’s bushy muff to last a lifetime. I just didn’t quite know their significance, except that guys could pee standing up…which always pissed me off! Pardon the pun.
One of my favorite holidays was always Halloween. I know I’m rambling, but bear with me; we got a lot to cover. Of course, in my town you could only trick-or-treat if you were twelve and under. Needless to say, my twelfth Halloween had to be super special. I might explain that when I was a kid I was tiny. Tiny! I was easily a head shorter than all my buddies. Even now I’m trying to reach five feet, but I fall about an inch and a half short of the mark. When I was twelve, all my friends were busting the five foot mark wide open, and I was barely touching four and a half. It was cute, but cute isn’t a nice word when you’re twelve and everybody thinks you’re eight.
I was also a Disney freak. Princesses, fairies, you name it. We were at the mall and I had fallen in love with a Tinker Bell costume that fit me to a T, even though it was meant to fit someone much younger. And shit! Did I look cute in it or what?! So my last Halloween I was going to be Tinker Bell, come hell or high water.
Watching Tinker Bell is an enlightening experience. What were the animators thinking? Every time she bends over with that fucking wand of hers, she flashes the whole fucking world. Yup, that’s right. She has the shortest fucking skirt in the entire world of animation, even shorter than Betty Boop’s! And she shamelessly exposes herself to everyone. The subliminal message is oozing. No wonder dads take their little girls to see Tinker Bell; subliminally they are either jerking off or fucking her, while their little girls are giggling like…well, like little girls.
Something else I noticed about Tinker Bell; she never seemed to be wearing underwear! I’d watch like an eagle to see something, but nope; no panties, no panty lines, only bare hips when the wind blew her skirt up.
A few months before, just before St. Patrick’s Day, my mom had bought a tiny little green thong that tied on the sides. It was her costume for a nudist party…and it was hot! I didn’t go to the party because there was a lot of drinking and stuff, but I knew something was fucked up when my parents got home half drunk and my dad was pissed. Not just a little I’m-a-little-pissed-but-I’ll-sleep-it-off pissed; but knock-down-the-walls-only-the-law-keeps-me-from-killing-you pissed. I was afraid. For weeks Dad slept on the couch, while Mom and I slept in the bedroom. Mom cried a lot. Dad just ignored us. But time eventually healed the wounds and they began to talk and Dad finally came back to bed.
Mom stuck the thong deep in a drawer and forgot about it.
Anyway, it was Halloween. My parents, who didn’t care much for make-up (“I prefer what nature gave you,” Dad would tell Mom), had to give in and buy me a compact so I could do the Tinker Bell thing to the max. By the way, I didn’t tell you I have bushy blond hair, which is another reason I liked Tink. So there I was, made up, dressed up, and fit to be tied! This was going to be the Halloween to remember, that was for sure. I was dressed in a little green dress with a zigzag hem framing my young hips; with just enough boobs to hold the strapless top up…actually, it had straps but I cut them off to look more correct, not to mention some two-way tape to make sure it stayed up.
For my candy I used a little basket made out of vines. Everything had to be just right. I modeled the outfit before Mom and Dad, who were very impressed. Dad particularly admired what he saw, but something was bothering him.
“Uhm,” he said, looking at me carefully, “Honey, are you wearing any panties? I know we’re nudists in the home, but it doesn’t float well out on the streets.”
Very proudly, I lifted the short hip-tight skirt to reveal the tiny green thong.
I guess naiveté is something that is a part of my make up, but what happened next left me speechless.
“You kept it?!” Dad roared at Mom.
Mom sat there awestruck, looking at the green thong she thought was buried, hidden, and forgotten.
“Yes, but…” was Mom’s only response.
Honestly, Dad was stuck between ruining my Halloween completely or brow-beating Mom with an angry torrent of pent up emotions. He stood up, red-faced and trembling, and stormed from the room.
“I’m sorry, Mom, I didn’t mean to…” I stuttered, beginning to tremble myself.
“It’s ok, Beth, it wasn’t your fault,” she replied. Mom gave me a big hug and attempted a smile as she told me to have a good Halloween and enjoy myself trick-or-treating with the other kids in the neighborhood. I cautiously walked out the door onto the street, wondering if I had done something terribly wrong. As soon as my friends saw me, all they could do was like “Wow!” and “Cool!” me to death over the costume that I thought would be my crowning glory, but somehow had backfired, causing friction, the nature of which made me shudder, wondering what was going on back home.