How It All Began

By NAMB

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This story is intended for adults only. It contains depictions of forced nudity, spanking, and/or sexual activity of preteen and young teen children. This is fantasy, and the author in no way endorses or practices these things on real life. If you are not of legal age in your community to read or view such material, please leave now.
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This story is autobiographical. It is based on childhood memories. Some events I can recall very clearly, some are vague memories and others are conjectures of what could have happened to get from one island of memory to another. Some events are fabricated, but nonetheless, there is more fact than fiction here.

According to what I’ve read in reputable articles, many men develop their fetishes at a very early age. This was certainly true for me. The fetish was already established by the time I started grade school.

All the characters in this story are real. Only their names have been changed. I could see their faces and sense their personalities as I wrote this story.

-=o=-

Those of you who have been reading my Make a Boy Hard series may wonder about how the rubber ball fetish began.

It started with an event that happened when I was about 4 years old. I really don’t remember a lot of things from back then, but this event managed to stay in my mind.

It was a trip to a public pool that did it. My mom and the woman next door, Mary, were the leaders of this expedition, with them were Mary’s two daughters, Peggy and Chrissie; my sister Becky and me and another boy and girl whose names I can’t recall, possibly the twin niece and nephew of “Aunt” Mary.

“Aunt” Mary was of no relation to us, but we referred to her and her husband as aunt and uncle anyway. Our dads were “war buddies” and everyone knew each other from growing up on the Lower East Side of Manhattan during the Depression. They were good family friends and our families did all kinds of things together including vacations to the country.

Peggy was the oldest child in the group. At the time of the incident she was probably about 8 years old. She was a tall girl and even after we all grew up; she was still taller than most of us including some of the boys. At that age she absolutely towered over the rest of us kids.

She was a very nice girl, very nurturing and protective over us younger kids, treating us in maternal fashion, I guess, as her younger brothers and sisters. We all looked up to her (more than physically) and liked and respected her.

My sister is two years older than me. That would make her about six years old at the time. We got along fine as children. She wasn’t a bossy older sibling and I was not a pesky little brother. We managed to stay out of each other’s lives and stuff and even collaborated at times against the ‘rents. We have an excellent relationship to this day.

Chrissie was a bit older than me and when we got older and went to school, she was a half grade ahead of me. Back then, the Catholic School grades in Brooklyn were split: half the school graduated in December and the other half in June. Eventually, they synced themselves up with the rest of the world.

I really can’t tell you much about the other boy and girl other than they appeared to be the same age as me or maybe a bit older.

The trip to the pool was an adventure. It was not something we did frequently. For me just getting there was part of the fun. It meant taking the subway.

As a child, I liked trains. My favorite time of year was Christmas, not only because of the impending arrival of Santa Clause, but also because that’s when dad commandeered a corner of the living room (AKA, the “front room” since it was the room that faced the street) and set up the train set. I would watch the train set for hours even ignoring our recently-acquired television.

Trips with my mom to go shopping or visiting often involved using the subway and I enjoyed these a lot. As long as she could carry me over the turnstile or I could walk under it, she could save a token and didn’t have to pay my fare.

I was too big on this occasion and besides she was burdened down with bags full of stuff for the pool. I remember that unlike the adults who could merely push the turnstile with their mid sections I would have to put both hands on the nearly head-high device to get through.

I find it interesting to reflect what life was like back then: I was one of the Lilliputians living in a world of Goliaths, dealing with items like turnstiles, tables, chairs and steps built for the Titans. I thought nothing of and had no fear of these tall lumbering creatures called adults.

Mom was not beyond using my sister and me as additional pack mules. We were also burdened down with what today would be called gym bags. Back then, kids did not wear backpacks; backpacks were Army surplus and used only by hikers. We carried our books in a satchel-like container called a “school bag.” These were hand-crafted, canvas and leather affairs made by the shoemaker down the block.

One of the things that made this trip so memorable was that part of it was on the elevated line. I liked the el because there were things to see. I could look out the window down into other people’s backyards. I remember seeing women hanging out their wash or tending to children playing in the yard or dogs barking at the passing train.

In the holiday season, it was nice to see the cross streets done up with lights. As a special treat, sometimes mom would take us to the first car where we could look out the front window and see where the train was going.

It wasn’t much, but it was the beginning of my life-long love of travel and adventure.

Whenever my sister and I get together we often go down memory lane together trying to recall things from our childhood. It does help stir up the memories. She recalls the pool too and even helped me put a name to it: the Cypress Hills Pool.

I remember that the BMT train made two very sharp turns: one at Crescent Street and the other onto Jamaica Avenue. The pool was nestled in the curve of the second turn just before the Cypress Hills train stop. The elevated stop is still there, but the pool is long gone. I remember looking down the wooden platform of the station. There were light poles running down the middle. When a train approached, the vibrations wiggled the platform and the light poles swayed in an alternating pattern.

The pool occupied almost an entire city block. It was basically a shell of a building surrounding the pool. I suppose one side was offices and such, but the upper level of the two-story structure was a series of dressing rooms. These were small cube-like structures with a bench and some hooks to hang things on. There was no door, merely a bedsheet pulled over the opening.

I suppose there was a men’s and women’s side and when I think about it, they were probably on opposite sides of the pool facing one another. I guess that would be good enough incentive to keep the bedsheet drawn closed. My memory of the overall layout is very sketchy. I am not sure how the dressing rooms were laid out; but I clearly remember being in them.

I was obviously on the women’s side. It made sense since our chaperones were women. It was also confirmed by the cigarette burns and lipstick stains on the bedsheet on our cube that I can still vividly recall seeing.

The other boy and I were taken to one cube by Aunt Mary where she undressed us and put us into our bathing suits. This was not at all embarrassing. Just about any adult female was somebody’s mom and moms were, well, moms. It never occurred to me that at one time they were girls. They were sort of like teachers: a different species from us kids.

Meanwhile my mom and the girls were in another cube getting into their swimwear too. Of course, we boys couldn’t witness them changing.

After a couple of minutes, Peggy showed up with her sister. They were decked out for the pool in their swimsuits and carrying bathing caps (all women and girls were required to wear them in the pool). They apparently were there to relieve Aunt Mary so she could go change in the girls’ cube.

It wasn’t unusual for kids to be left in the care of older girls in our neighborhood. I can’t ever recall kids being left in the care of older boys. I don’t know whether this was because the adults didn’t trust the boys or they deemed girls to be more responsible and better caretakers.

Once Aunt Mary left, Peggy reached out and lowered my swimsuit. Her sister did the same with the other boy. I remember looking over at him and thinking, “Hey, he’s got one too.”

Peggy pulled a rubber ball out of her bathing cap. She apparently brought it to play with in the pool. It was brand new. I could tell by how clear the lettering was on it and it had that new rubber ball smell to it. There was also a strong smell of rubber from the bathing caps each of the girls were carrying.

Smell is the most primal of senses. You literally have to take the molecules of whatever you are smelling into your body and mingle them with your own cells to detect the scent. All this happens with sensors almost embedded in the most primitive part of the brain. Smell, or the ability to follow a chemical trail, was the first sense developed by animal life. Perhaps this is why a scent can trigger a memory so clearly.

Maybe this is why the incident hasn’t been erased from my memory. It’s not just rubber balls, but other items made of rubber that tickle my fancy (and other body parts as well).

Peggy batted at my penis with her ball as her sister looked on. It was enough to erect my penis to all of its inch and a half (if that much) glory. I knew it got hard for no apparent reason from time to time. I had no idea that someone could make it hard.

I liked the way it felt when it was hard, so after this incident, I started touching myself there while thinking about Peggy and Chrissie and found if I kept on touching it, it felt really good. Peggy had unwittingly started me on my road to a lifetime of masturbation.

My sister showed up to inform us that the women were finished changing and it was time to go. I can’t recall if Peggy and Chrissie were finished playing with us boys by then and if my sister saw anything.

We went out to play in the pool. I have memories of that too or it could be memories of some other time at the pool. Although my sister and I both have memories of the pool, we don’t know how often we went there. I do remember that the shallow end had broad steps, flanked by concrete lions from whose mouths water spouted.

I suppose there was a deep end, but I can’t recall it or whether there were diving boards there. Slides into pools weren’t a “thing” then. There, at the distant end, be water that was over my head and I doubt that I had learned to swim yet.

The incident in the changing room should have been an isolated incident. It seemed to be simple schoolgirl curiosity that once satisfied, gave way to other things. The girls didn’t have a younger brother like some of the other girls did, so the other boy and I were surrogates. For the rest of the summer, none of the girls seemed to have an interest in seeing me naked.

My sister occasionally saw me but it’s kind of difficult when you live together in close quarters not to have accidents occur. However, I can’t recall ever seeing her or any other girl naked until one of my female cousins was born. I had something that stuck out; she didn’t.

I thought that Chrissie had forgotten the incident except that about a year later, Chrissie was playing with my cousin, Debbie. Debbie was the same age as me and also eventually in my class at school. I have no idea why she wasn’t with us at the pool that particular day: she lived in the apartment across the hall from us. The two girls were friendly enough, but wound up in different play groups.

I suppose I need to describe the social dynamics of a play group. In 1950’s Brooklyn, every kid played in the street. I did the math: considering the number of apartments in each tenement, and the number of tenements on the block, there were about 600 kids playing on my street. All in an area slightly longer than and about half as wide as a football field.

The blacktop was the domain of the older boys who played stickball, roller hockey or touch football from sunup to sundown, depending on the season.

The sidewalks were the domain of the girls. As soon as a boy got old enough to play in the street (usually about age 9 or 10), he’d leave the play group. The hard reality was that younger boys were not picked to play in “the game.”

So the sidewalk groups consisted of little boys from about age 4 to 10 and girls from about 4 to 13. The older girls were in charge of the group. They decided what the group would do and what games we would play.

This was all supported by the mothers on the block. It was a built-in child care situation and let mom, clean the house, go grocery shopping (a daily chore) and watch soap operas. You minded the “head girl” because she had all the authority of her mom and through the mother’s “network,” your mom.

So the playgroups were universally female dominated. The oldest, most experience member, was a girl and whenever a job needed to be done, she would delegate it to one of her female lieutenants giving the younger girl the leadership skills she needed to take over the group in her turn.

Chrissie and her sister were in a group headed up by one of her cousins. My cousin and I were in a group with my sister and headed by a girl named Carol. Carol was very bossy and delighted in ordering the younger kids around, particularly the boys. She was somewhat lenient with the girls, letting them get away with things, but came down on the boys for the smallest infractions.

Although kids mostly stayed within their own play groups, the groups didn’t have iron-clad membership and kids would occasionally wander from group to group or sometimes even “solo.”

That was the case on this day, I was with my cousin when Chrissie came along and started playing with her. I was almost immediately abandoned by Debbie in favor of a playmate of her own gender.

Both of them were playing the alphabet game. The alphabet game requires a rubber ball and a girl. The girl recites the alphabet while bouncing the ball under her leg chanting, “A, my name is Alice and my husband’s name is Al we come from Alabama and we sell Apples. B, my name is Barbara …” and so on through the alphabet, turning her leg over the ball any time a letter or something beginning with that letter was mentioned in the rhyme.

In our neighborhood, jumping rope was strictly a girl thing too. This was supported by the rhymes they would recite as they jumped. Sometimes us boys would be pressed into duty to turn the rope for the girls as they jumped in and out chanting their rhymes.

Sometimes the girls didn’t even need a rope. They would sit on the stoop (a word for stairs that has gone out of fashion) doing an elaborate hand-clapping routine while reciting words to go along with the clapping.

We also had other games like tag, red-light green-light, Simon says and such. These games were more to the liking of us boys. We were also recruited to play “house” by the offer of candy or cake as “dinner.” It was worth sitting on the stoop next to a doll or two for the treat.

However, about half the games involved using a 25-cent rubber ball made by Spaulding which, with our Brooklyn accents, we pronounced “Spall-deen.” Just as Kleenex is a synonym for tissue, Coke a synonym for Cola (or even soda) and in that era, Keds was a synonym for girl’s sneakers; Spalldeen was a synonym for that pink, hollow, rubber sphere.

There were at least a dozen games played with a spalldeen and most of them were co-ed.

Stickball was pretty much a boy-only game. The alphabet game, however was totally a girl thing to do and I was relegated to the sideline and bored. It was worse than even that. The sidewalks *were* the sidelines. So I was sidelined on the sideline. A total social outcast – at least for the moment.

After a while, the girls stopped playing and started talking and wound up on one of those girl-to-girl conversations where they cup their hand to the ear of the other girl and whisper secrets to each other. As young as I was, I knew they were talking about me.

Soon my cousin said to me, “Come with me.” I had no idea what she had to offer at the time, but it was a reprieve from my exile. I was willing to do anything to get back into the game and be able to play.

The girls led me down the cellar to our house. The cellar was a cellar, not a basement. Basements are for people who live in the suburbs. Cellars are concrete walled, whitewashed, musty and dusty places where the trash cans were kept and home to the boiler for hot water. Whenever I come across that smell, my mind rewinds back across the decades.

The cellar was also the place where there were crudely walled-off compartments where people stored their seasonal belongings. It was there that my beloved train set spent most of the year. It was about the only place for privacy. Nobody had a garage, and the nearest barn to hide behind was probably 100 miles away.

Although it was open to any of the occupants in the tenement, the wood-framed stairs and floors in the building were so creaky that we’d have plenty of warning if someone approached.

I had a feeling that we were about to do something “naughty.” At that age naughty was bad, something you shouldn’t do, but not evil or harmful. It was merely a taboo, a prohibition and that made doing it all the more exciting. The girls were getting excited because they knew they shouldn’t be looking at my thing. I was getting excited because I knew I shouldn’t be showing them my thing.

Chrissie told me to stand still and she reached out to pull my shorts down. I didn’t object. My parents warned me about grown-ups touching me. Debbie and Chrissie weren’t grown-ups; they were kids like me. My sense of modesty was only on the verge of developing, so it didn’t matter that they were girl-kids. Besides, they were my friends and I trusted them. It was only when thinking back on it that I get embarrassed.

I don’t know whether Debbie was scared, nervous or excited as she giggled when my penis popped out of my underwear. I’m fairly certain it was the first time she saw a penis and the opportunity to learn about “the boy secret” is probably why she was so eager to accept Chrissie’s offer.

“Let me show you how to make it big,” Chrissie said as she re-enacted the penis and ball batting routine like her sister had done to me at the pool. Once again, I was being made hard by a girl and liking it.

My cousin watched for a while and asked, “Let me try.” She stepped forward, and was soon bouncing my penis off her ball.

The two girls played with me until we heard someone coming. They got no closer than the hallway on the first floor, but it was enough to scare us out of our play.

I didn’t feel like we were doing anything wrong, but all the same, I didn’t want to get caught doing it.

Chrissie drifted further away from our group after that. She wound up in another play group on the next block where her grandmother lived.

For the rest of the summer, my cousin was low-key about it and never offered to repeat the experiment. That changed when winter set in.

I am not sure what most kids did to occupy their time when the weather was bad, but my cousin and I played together at lot, mostly in her apartment. Most of the time we played board games and things like tinker toys and whatever it was that existed before legos. But she was a girl and she had dolls and we also played school and house a lot. I got a head start on being domesticated: a trait that my wife appreciates.

My aunt was divorced and worked (both unusual for those times) so we were under the care of my grandmother who pretty much lived in the kitchen and didn’t interrupt our play except to call us for lunch. We had privacy in the far away front room and we knew it.

Quite often in the course of play, my cousin would ask me to take out my penis so she could play with it. When there’s a foot of snow on the ground, it’s tough to bounce a ball and recite the alphabet game. So she had her favorite alternative game to play with a ball. In her imagination, she even taught her dolls how to play penis ball.

My cousin never seemed to tire of the game and neither did I. Every time we played, I wound up hard before her and again, enjoying the sensation.

Eventually we went on to school and she introduced a couple of her friends, our fellow classmates: Melissa and Linda to penis play. The four of us got together once at Linda’s aunt’s house. Her aunt and uncle were away and she had the key so she could get in to water the plants.

Instead of a hurried few minutes, we had a couple of hours to play. Linda’s aunt’s house had an actual basement with tiled floors. There was some furniture down there and even a television! There were two support poles along the stairs coming down.

The first game the girls wanted to play was a kissing game. None of them had ever kissed a boy and I had never kissed a girl. They seemed to be more exciting about playing it than me although my cousin was a bit reluctant; she felt funny kissing her own cousin until the other girls told her it was just for fun.

To tell you the truth, all we knew about kissing was what we saw on TV which wasn’t much. Linda was the first girl to kiss me. We just sort of pushed our lips together. I could hear Melissa and Debbie giggling as we did it. When it was Melissa’s turn, she actually moved her lips a bit against mine. That was exciting and I decided to emulate it when it was Debbie’s turn.

There was another round of kissing this time we held the kisses for at least a minute.

The girls went into whisper mode and then proposed a game to tie me up to one of the poles. I found myself agreeing and I was getting excited as they tied me up. I was a totally helpless prisoner of the girls and I liked it!

The first thing they did was tickle me to see if they could make me pee in my pants. They got me laughing and squirming, but they didn’t get me to pee. I begged them to stop and the eventually did.

Then Melissa pulled my pants and underwear down exposing me. This was reminiscent of what Peggy did to me in the changing room. Since then all I’ve ever done was take it out of my fly so they could play with it. Now I was exposed by a girl. I didn’t do it. She was the one who made me naked … well, at least partially: the part that counted.

Of course, each one of the girls had her ball with her and they took turns making me hard. Linda suggested a game where they bounced the ball off the floor and have it come up and hit my penis. They giggled as they played the game and came close a couple of times. My cousin actually hit my penis on one of her bounces, but when Linda hit me in the balls, I grunted in pain.

The girls stopped immediately and came to comfort me. The untied me but made me get undressed totally. That was the only time I got totally naked in front of girls. We played a couple of milder ball games (the normal kind) and the last thing they did was take me to the bathroom so they could watch me pee. I had never peed for a girl before then.

Reluctantly I got dressed and we went home with my cousin and I walking all the way together. She was looking at me and smiling. I think I made her proud in front of her friends. She was bouncing her ball as we walked and I wonder if she associated it as strongly with the games we played as I did. I don’t think she or the other girls could look at a ball and not think of how much fun it was to play with a penis.

Unfortunately, I didn’t do it with the other girls that much because there weren’t a lot of occasions or places where we could have privacy.

Even though we didn’t think we were doing anything wrong, we still thought it was a good idea to keep it a secret. I began to have some doubts about these games. I was always the one showing my thing, but the girls always remained fully-clothed. On the one hand, I felt that it wasn’t fair; on the other I liked doing it with them. They made me feel good and if I had to expose myself to them, then it was worth it.

All good things must come to an end, and in this case since we were Catholics and all went to Catholic School, we came under the dominance of these creatures called nuns.

All of a sudden what was naughty was now evil and this thing called a sin. Sins were evil and damned one to hell if you committed one: and it was so easy to commit one. Fight with your sister: sin; talk back to your mother: sin; cheat on a test: sin; tell a lie: sin, steal a piece of candy: sin; eat a hot dog on Friday: sin. And of course exposing oneself to the opposite sex: sin. Seeing the opposite sex naked: sin. Simply having “impure thoughts”: sin.

The one sin committed by nearly every boy was adultery. Yes, masturbation was a sin and it had to fit somewhere, so the Catholic Church wedged it into the 6^th commandment.

For the girls, it was even more nebulous: leading boys on so they commit adultery.

I moved to a different neighborhood shortly after these events. I never saw the girls again which was probably a good thing because I don’t know how I would have dealt with them later on seeing them in class every day. Of course, I still saw my cousin on family visits, but our “naughty” play stopped.

I don’t know whether the girls would have stopped playing with me this way either because they’d lost interest in the game (all I did was get hard) or because they would get tired of going to confession every Saturday.

I, on the other hand, had the concept of girls playing with me using a rubber ball firmly implanted as an erotic fantasy to which I often masturbated.

Yes, I was a devout masturbator even as a grade school child. Ever since that first encounter with Peggy, I’ve been touching myself. At first, it was to make it hard since I liked that sensation. Eventually I discovered that if I touched myself enough, it felt really good. I was on the fast track to hell and I didn’t care.

When the girls played with me, they made me hard and I liked that. As much as I encouraged them, they never rubbed it in a way to give me an orgasm. So whenever I masturbated, I would fantasize about the girls doing it to me, but endowing them with a special power to know when they did it enough not only to make me hard but to keep on going to make me feel good. At the time I did not know that there would be a more visible sign of my orgasm when I got older.

My boyhood fantasy world consisted of a girls stimulating my penis with a rubber ball. At first it was Peggy and then Chrissie and then Debbie but eventually other girls at school.

There was a group of “bad girls:” a girl of about 12, her younger sister and her sister’s two friends. They were bullies. We were used to “boy bullies” but they were usually older, bigger and solitary. These were girls and their strength came from their unity: they always attacked in a pack. There were occasional scuffles between them and other play groups, but usually the alpha-girl in the threatened group rallied her troops and defended her turf.

But like in the wild, the poor animal separated from the herd was vulnerable so there was another reason for a boy to stick with his play group: mutual protection. Nobody could push us boys around or tell us what to do except the girls in our group.

I was never attacked by these girls although we heard rumors. Nonetheless one of my fantasies evolved around them. They would take me to their cellar, tie me up and strip me and play with my penis using a rubber ball. Then, after giving me an orgasm, they would untie me and dress me up like a girl (blouse, skirt and “girl sneakers:” AKA -Keds) and make me play the alphabet game and laugh at the boy who looked like and played like a girl.

It was nice when my friends played with me; I let them see and touch me. However, the bully girls didn’t “earn” my trust and forced me to do it. There was something in the coercion that added an element of excitement. Maybe it was a reaction to Catholic Guilt; it can’t be a sin if someone forces you to do it.

I didn’t actually try rubbing my penis with a ball until I was 9 years old. I was staying over my Cousin Karen’s house and we were playing with her friend Barbara. The girls were about 7 years old, and we played the usual kids’ games such as we could with only three players.

Some of them were ball games, and the girls played the alphabet game with slightly different lyrics, but this was an entirely different neighborhood. I also shared turns with Karen and Barbara turning a rope while the other girl jumped. I felt a bit funny – the big boy playing with little girls – but it was either that or not play at all. I got hard playing with the girls, particularly when playing ball but made no offer to expose myself.

Later that night, I was in the basement getting ready to go to bed and noticed that Barbara had left her ball there. I knew it was hers because she had written her name on it.

By this time my fantasy had grown even more perverted. If a girl touched my penis with something made of rubber, it would make me her slave. I would be bound to her by a trance and could do nothing but to obey her every wish. I knew it wasn’t true, yet I hesitated bringing Barbara’s ball to my penis. It was as if by touching it, some of her power that was stored up in the ball would overcome me. To fill that void I was surrendering my power to resist the girl to the ball, and she would pick up this power over me the next time she touched it.

Of course if the girl was actually doing this in real time, the power exchange would be instantaneous and continuous. But that wasn’t totally necessary; she could do it by proxy through her rubber ball. If that isn’t the definition of a fetish, I don’t know what is.

I pulled down my pajamas and started to rub the ball against my penis. Even before I touched it, it was hard.

Just then I head the door to the basement open. I scrambled into bed and pulled the covers over me. It was my cousin coming down to chat with me. She had a “talker” on and we chatted for about a half hour with me half naked with Barbara’ ball under the covers. The urge to pull them off and show my cousin what I was really doing was strong.

I resisted and feigned tiredness and she left. Once I was sure she was gone, I pulled down the covers and resumed my attempted masturbation.

Being totally inexperienced with what I was doing, I rubbed my erected penis rather firmly with the roughly textured rubber ball and it was making it sore. I was disappointed and believed that maybe my fantasy would never be fulfilled.

I didn’t try doing it again until puberty. By then, I decided that a lighter touch was needed and there was this thing called pre-cum that provided lubrication. I actually discovered how to masturbate myself with a rubber ball before I learned how to jerk off properly.

Jerking off was a lot easier and more convenient, but the ball actually provided more pleasure. Whenever I got the chance, I’d lay there, diddling my penis with the ball milking out drop after drop of pre-cum experiencing what I called “trickle orgasms” – they weren’t as strong as the main event but pleasant in their own way. I discovered that the more I trickled orgasmed, the more powerful and enjoyable the final orgasm was.

Yet I couldn’t trickle orgasm all day long. There came a point where either by design or by accident I’d have to push across the barrier into full ejaculation. It was very messy but the pleasure was well worth it. It also completed my fantasy. Not only would girls be interested in making a boy hard, it would be the “brass ring” if they could make him ejaculate. I would be a fun thing for them to do and watch.

There was no internet back then, but mom’s Sears catalogue had plenty of pictures of girls my age to look at.

-=o=-

Except for my sister, who seems to know nothing of my secret life, and my cousin, I don’t know what happened to the rest of the girls. My cousin and I still get along fine. We see each other from time to time at family gatherings. We never talk about the things she did with me as a young girl, but I am sure she remembers them as well as I do.

(End of File)