Don't Touch Me There by Phillip Hoyle

I don’t believe those words have ever come out of my mouth. I’m not kidding, but I don’t want to claim too much for I was a ticklish boy. Tickling made me laugh and squirm, caused my throat to constrict and tire, made me try to get away from my tormentor. And I especially liked it when Paul tickled me, Paul a tall, muscular man, family friend and member of our church, who worked construction or some other physical job. We knew Paul and his wife and daughter because the daughter, like my next younger sister, had contracted polio and went to regular doctor’s appointments in Topeka, Kansas, sixty miles away. Rides were shared by the two families, so we spent a lot of time together, and we kids got to know each other and each other’s parents. Paul was almost like a kid himself. He loved to play. He loved to tickle us. I loved to be tickled by him. I’d run from him; he’d pursue me, get me down on the ground or floor and tickle me until I squealed. I had no other such relationship with an adult, certainly not with an adult male and couldn’t get enough of his attention. This giant would grab me with his huge paws, lift me high, then lower me to the ground and tickle my ribs until I was laughing, screaming, kicking, and trying to escape. I loved the attention.

There were other men who paid me mind: my dad who encouraged my singing by accompanying me on the piano, my grandfather Hoyle who sat in his chair smoking his pipe but occasionally talking with me or driving me somewhere in his Pontiac, my grandpa Pink who when he drove the tractor would lift me onto his lap and kid me and tell me stories and sing me songs, Mr. Lown the preacher who talked with me about becoming a minister, Bob who took me along with other boys to powwows and taught me to dance, and Mr. Martin who encouraged my singing in high school. I had plenty of attention from men but no other adult ever played with me like Paul. Still I loved the attentions of all these men and none of them ever crossed the line, caused me to say, “Don’t touch me there.”

Of course I don’t know that I would have said it anyway. Writing this I feel a bit like my friend who complained that the priest he served with at the altar for many years never molested him. But now, really, I’m just kidding.

Denver, 2013

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot