Acts of Innocence

I

When I was a little girl, my older sister and I would take baths together. With our undeveloped breasts and untouched genitals, we’d dip our tiny toes in the hot water until our bottoms rested on the tub’s floor. We never fully submerged our bodies into the water because we were afraid of getting our heads wet. With the water level up to our chests, our shoulders and heads were surrounded by the heat and humidity of the air around us. We didn’t have any bubbles or bath toys, so we made do with plastic quart containers. We’d plunge the containers upside down into the water, trapping air in them. When we were ready to release the air, a slew of bubbles big and small would soar to the surface. We would do this until the heat of the water subsided, until the air around us cooled down enough so that we were no longer sweating, until it was time for us to take our pruned fingers and feet out of the bath and into some dry clothes.

During one of these baths, after the water turned lukewarm and the air around us grew cool, I placed my hands and feet on the bath’s edges and lifted myself up, showing my sister my vagina. As I rose above the surface, I felt the cool air tickle my lips. “Look!” I told my sister. She obeyed. She peered into the dark crevice between my legs with a look of peculiarity. She didn’t say much, just continued to stare, her head turning this way and that way to get a different view. When my arms grew tired of holding myself up, I lowered myself back into the water, the cool air no longer caressing my thighs. I looked at my sister, expectantly. “Now show me yours!” I insisted. This time, she did not obey. She crossed her arms and legs and shook her head. A frown appeared across my face as disappointment came over me. I spent the rest of the bath feeling like I had given something of myself up to someone who wouldn’t do the same.

II

When I was eleven years old, my mother and I visited our relatives for a day. In my baby blue sweatpants, I hopped excitedly out of the car and through their front door, happy to see their smiling faces. My mother promptly went upstairs with my great aunt, already gossiping about the latest news as they ascended the carpeted stairs. I was left downstairs with my great aunt’s son, my dad’s cousin. He was twenty-five at the time, no longer a child but, having no business with the older women, was left to play with the children. I sat on the edge of his bed, legs swinging high above the floor, as he sat at his desk right beside the bed. After a while, I got tired of sitting so I lay down. That was my mistake.

He said, “I want to show you something,” and he spread my legs and tickled my vagina through my sweatpants, sound effects and all. I laughed. I laughed because I was being tickled. I laughed because I didn’t know what else to do. I laughed because I didn’t know that I should’ve cried instead. It lasted only a few seconds, maybe three, until my mother came down the stairs. “What are you doing?” she asked. I don’t know if she saw anything, but I felt the need to say, “Nothing!” as if I was to blame for what had just occurred, as if I should feel ashamed and want to hide it. She went into the kitchen and left us alone again, a weird feeling in my stomach, a smile still plastered on my face from laughing.

III

“I want to ride first!” my older sister exclaimed. “I want to ride first!” I echoed. “No, me!” my sister countered. A shiny silver motorcycle rested before our eyes, belonging to a relative in China. We were visiting for the summer, our second trip to our homeland, and the heat was unbearable. While we were fighting over who got to ride the motorcycle first, our relative suggested in Chinese, “You can both ride at the same time.” And thus, he ended a war with a peaceful compromise in which my sister and I both got what we wanted. Our relative, being the driver, sat in the front while my sister sat in the middle and I sat behind her. “Hold on tight!” he warned. My sister held on to his shoulders and I held on to my sister’s shoulders. “Don’t go too fast!” our mother insisted. And then we were off, zipping down the tiny streets of my father’s village, admiring the sights and sounds and smells that passed us.

I was eleven and my sister thirteen. I was still a child while she was starting to show the beginning stages of puberty. Her breasts had grown plump while I stayed flat in the chest. She was becoming a woman, blood between her thighs. During our ride, I thought it would be funny to hold on to my sister’s breasts. I let go of her shoulders and grabbed on to her chest. “Stop it!” she yelled. “Let go!” I laughed, thinking that the situation was hilarious. “Stop!” she insisted. But I didn’t listen. I didn’t let go. I just continued to laugh. Our relative didn’t understand English, so he must’ve thought we were screaming and laughing with joy. “Seriously, Dahlia, let go!” My sister kept yelling while I kept laughing. When the ride was coming to an end, my mother in sight, I let go of my sister’s breasts and held back on to her shoulders. As the motorcycle came to a stop, we slowly got off. We never spoke of it again. (I’m sorry I touched you.)

IV

My lover is a tickle monster. He often shows his affection by tickling my ribs until they hurt or until I am out of breath from laughing so much. He tickles my underarms, my tummy, the bottoms of my feet. I, of course, tickle him back. Most of the time, he holds both my hands in one of his, leaving me helpless to his single-handed tickling. Some of the time, I get him good when he least expects it. But every time I manage to tickle him, he’ll tickle me ten times longer and harder. Sometimes it is easier to just surrender.

There are times when my lover tickles my vagina, and I am reminded of my great aunt’s son, my dad’s cousin. I know he means no harm, but it is a peculiar feeling when your lover’s actions are reminiscent of sexual assault. When he tickles my vagina, I don’t know how to feel. When he tickles my vagina, I am not twenty-five but eleven years old, still a child lying in that bed while wearing my baby blue sweatpants, legs spread. When he tickles my vagina, I laugh even though it doesn’t tickle. I laugh and I laugh and I laugh.