When Nikki Started To Grind

The summer of 1984 my mother and I went to visit her friend who lived out in the country in a doublewide trailer with her three children and her fourth husband. She, like my mother, was a drug addict. But she’s dead now, died from an overdose of oxy.

“Shannon, did you know Sissy was molested by her real dad? That’s why they can’t visit their Daddy anymore.”

My mother and her friend Sally, used to sit around the kitchen table chain-smoking and drinking cups of coffee, nibbling on things like, “shit on a shingle,” some sort of potted meat situation on white bread, and deviled ham salad sandwiches, and talk.

I overheard my mother say, “He only thinks with his dick, the cock-sucker.”

The women didn’t like us kids in the kitchen. They were busy talking about grown up things, things like the sex between my mother’s boyfriend and another woman, and topics such as the molestation and rants about the endless fights between my mother and her boyfriend; and how Sally’s husband beat her.

Bottles of pills scattered the kitchen table, overflowing ashtrays and a random cosmopolitan magazine, hours of intense conversation, wild laughter, and always the smell of weed and sounds drifting from the adult bedroom.

“Shsh, close the door. Do you think they know anything?”

The master bedroom had a king sized waterbed, two matching nightstands, (complete with rolling papers, a pointy beige vibrator and a package of red French tickler condoms,) and a private bath with a doublewide Jacuzzi bathtub where the other kids and I spent our summer days rolling around in cold water.

This was a pimped out trailer. There were three other bedrooms, and another bath, an unused empty space connecting the double portion of the trailer and a den. I mean come on, four bedrooms and two baths, not bad.

In the den were the typical sofas one would find in a thrift store: wooden armrests with scratchy brown material covered cushions. The coffee table was a glazed piece of wood with a swirling center, and in the corner was a beat up lazy boy with grease stains and holes. There was also a turntable and a piece of velvet artwork of dogs playing pool.

Sally had three kids: Sissy, who was a few years older than me, a black haired looker, whom I had a major crush on at the time, and Timmy, a straggly-haired boy who was my age, who I also fancied, and their little sister, Alyssa, a winey little nudge with dirt stained knees and tangled blonde hair.

“I’m gonna tell Momma.” Is all we ever heard from her.

Timmy’s room was the coolest, bunk beds with Star Wars mattresses–the kind you see sold on the side of the road and at flea markets–and a black beanbag chair. But the best part was his collection of music. He would yell from his room, “Hey, come one, let’s make up a movie to Thriller!”
During previous visits we would lay on the bottom bunk with the lights out and listen to Michael Jackson’s Thriller album and then play hide-n- seek in the dark, but it was innocent, pure kid fun.

My mother hollered out, “Shannon, What are ya’ll doing in there?”

This summer was different and she knew it; there was a slight shift in the air. This was also the summer Prince released Purple Rain. I didn’t know it was going to happen, but between my budding hormones, the hyper-sexualized environment of trailer life and the lyrics of Darling Nikki, I had my first orgasm.

Now wait, hold up. It had nothing to do with the boy. This was a solo venture, but what happened before is what lead up to it.

The other kids and I spent hours combing, reading and just plain old obsessing over Purple Rain. We learned the lyrics to each song, made up dances and talked about the lyrics as we traversed the backwoods and along side the creek looking for snakes and salamanders, calling out to each other,

“Wendy?” “Yes Lisa?” “Is the water warm enough?” “Shall we begin?” “Yes, Lisa.”

We talked about how the bark from a certain tree looked liked it could be used as paper, and what masturbating with a magazine meant. It was that time in our lives, the in-between, in between childhood fantasies of mica being sold as gold and the sprouting of pubic hairs, and a natural and insatiable curiosity about the mechanics of sex.

Like I said before, Sissy was a few years older so she was sort of our own private Dr. Ruth, our resident thirteen-year old sex therapist. . She explained things to us like how one used a vibrator, and what masturbation meant.

She even used our bodies as a demonstration. Our mother’s were fucked up on something and talking non-stop, Purple Rain was playing. We were in the in-between room, about to go from being in-between to being turned on and tuned in to what our bodies would eventually be able to do together.

“Shannon, you lay on your back with your legs open. Timmy, get on top of her and put in. That’s what you do.”

We were all naked, and poor Timmy was flaccid. We aligned our parts but nothing happened. Sissy was buckled over with laughter and the little one was squealing. I was committed to the process, I wanted to please Sissy, wanted her attention, but I also understood that we were embarking on something we weren’t really ready for just yet. I was more interested in the process than anything else, and I liked looking at Sissy’s naked body, her buds were pinker and rounder than mine, her vagina more developed.

It all ended in an eruption of laughter and tumbling around the room. But something changed: I was no longer a child.

A week later we went home, back to our more suburban-with an air of trash- life, and I found myself on the edge of my bed listening to Darlin Nicky again. My body moved in time with the music, pubic bone pressed hard up against the bed. I found a rhythm and made it happen.

I wrote this short-hand letter to Prince and posted it on my Instagram the day he died (follow my private account @ monocuriosposes):

{Dear Prince Nelson,

fellow Gemini, (and rising sign of Scorpio, same as me,) how I admire your iconic and changeable style. You were a treasure in this world, the clues were there but nothing could ever describe you, you were always out of reach and on to the next.

In the summer of ’84 you released your Purple Rain album. God, it was a Godsend to my budding sexuality. You helped me tap into the sensual side of my natural being. Your sounds and lyrics pushed me to discover the places of all places between my legs.

You taught me things society thought I was too young to understand, but man, you moved me, you got under my skin, and inside my hormones my tiny breasts and up my spine.

Darlin Nicky became my muse, too. I just didn’t know it then, and oh, oh Purple Rain, “Only want to see you bathing in the purple rain.” I didn’t have a lover but I just knew and could feel (deeply) just how much I wanted to see her bathing in the purple rain.

You were a master, the king of all masterminds, it was if you knew me intimately, my inner secrets. You taught me it was ok to explore my sexuality, that sex was to be celebrated and felt in the heart. }

Now we’re approaching the summer of 2016, thirty-two years after the release of Purple Rain and I have my own hormonal in betweens and one soon to be teen.

I had a conversation with them (when they wanted to follow me on Instagram and I said, “No.”) about how each of us as individuals, including me, has our own inner-life, one that no one else knows about. I told them, “I’m more than just your mother. I have private thoughts. I think about other things that aren’t related to you, things you don’t need to know about. And conversely, you too have thoughts that aren’t mine to know.”

My kids are on the verge of crossing over from in-betweens, to becoming more sexual beings. I hope I’ve sheltered them from any premature situations, or ideas, but it is also my hope for them that they too will find solace and connection to their bodies and sexuality through art and poetry, and hopefully a great sex-education class.

We have an open door policy around here. We talk about sexuality in an age-appropriate way. My son is turning thirteen this summer. I must admit I’m a little worried, just about the unknown. He has always been my sweet boy, but I fear I’m about to lose him for a while, as it should be, and I’ll make my peace with it.

I told my kids, “Guy’s I’m a writer. I write about everything, including really inappropriate adult things that you don’t need to see, and trust me, you don’t want to see them either.”

He asked, “But Mom, when can you show me?” I said, “When you’re older, and you understand more. I will tell you what it’s about and then you can decide if you still want to read it. Ok?”

He shrugged his shoulders. I think he still just wants me to be his Momma. The way I wanted my mom to just be a mom, and not a sexual being.

As for me, a sexual being, the lyrics of Purple Rain can be torturous. I’m still waiting to see her laughing in the purple rain. The “her,” being I, the girl that grew up too fast.

I never meant to cause you any sorrow
I never meant to cause you any pain
I only wanted to one time see you laughing
I only wanted to see you
Laughing in the purple rain

Much love, light and purple rain,
SJ

P.S. This is Part 2 of “https://monocurious.com/2013/02/20/diary-of-a-sketchy-mom/” a piece I wrote 3 years ago. Please re-read it if you’re interested in more background story.

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About monocurious

I'm like air, forever flowing, moving, changing, gaining and losing myself, undefinable. View my complete profile
This entry was posted in addicition, Amphetamines, Creative Writing, crossing boundaries, Dating Lesbians, Doublewide Trailer, Erection and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to When Nikki Started To Grind

  1. I love your stories, Ms. Jackson. You are rilly real for real and that makes reading your writing so much fun. Love you, girl.

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