I am three years old when I have my first erection.
The black-haired, tall woman (I forgot her name) a friend of my mother, who visits our house once a week likes to lift me up and carry me around. When my mother and her sit at the kitchen table I am allowed to sit on her knees: I’m aroused even before I know what arousal is. How I love to press myself against her bosom. I can smell her, yet don’t know what it is that smells so good it makes me want to bury my nose in her lap. I act innocent and yet know deep inside me that my desire to be near her isn’t innocent.
With four I am caught with my hand down my pants, and the kind Scandinavian kindergarten teacher has a serious "conversation" with my parents. She tells them that I am probably not aware of what I am doing. I am not sure what she means. I like touching myself. What is wrong with that?
I am attacked at the age of six.
At first I think I am going to die. The Healers are standing around my bed and stare down at me with solemn faces. I cannot move my neck because it’s wrapped in bandages, and all I think of, is that I don’t want my mother to cry.
I can’t speak but I look into her eyes and she holds my hand and hums to me. Father is sitting on the other side and he is sobbing and crying. At one point she, the always tender one, snaps at him: “Stop that, you’re scaring him!” then she continues singing my favourite lullabies to me, smiling at me.
I fall asleep.
When I wake it is almost noon. Mother has opened the windows and the smell of spring fills the room. Her whole face lights up when I open my eyes. Both, father and mother are holding me tight, and now she sobs.
“You’re going to live!” she says over and over, “I don’t care about anything else. You’re going to live!”
I don’t remember my first transformations.
Father builds a cage in the cellar, but after finishing he and mother put blankets and cushions and toys in there. Wolfsbane doesn’t exist yet I think, or maybe it’s too expensive. Later, my parents will tell me how they were there with every transformation, watching me becoming a bloodthirsty monster every month. Father says, that even the worst scenarios become somehow trivial if one is exposed to them on a regular base. After a few transformations my parents feed me rabbits and chicken through the bars, and at one occasion my father hauls his telly down the stairs so not to miss a world cup game while watching me and mother takes her knitting down.
When I am seven, teachers scold me several times for hiding behind bushes with boys and girls and urge and beg them to take off their clothes. In one or two cases I bribe a boy with sweets. Only to play, only out of curiosity but what I see makes my breath hitch. I don’t understand what an erection means or what to do with it, but even then I feel heat in my groins, sweet darkness rising in me.
One well meaning teacher tells my parents about my “little problem” and is shocked when both of them break out into laughter. “Little problem!” my father bellows. Confused the teacher pats me and I butt my head into her hand. She smells good. A flowery perfume, detergent, cheap soap, lemon scented cream, her own smells underneath, the light sweat on the back of her knees, the triangle between her legs. She looks at me, then shifts uncomfortably.
“He is very … precocious,” she says, pressing her legs together.
With nine I play with the other children in the park. Some of them are older. We play being our parents. The girls have to lie down and spread their legs and the boys have to lie on top of them and move up and down. That’s how the parents do in their bed rooms at night. The girls and some of the boys are quickly bored by that game while I cannot get enough.
“It’s nice being married,” I say to one girl, Ellen, who looks a bit older, and even has breasts, albeit tiny. She smells different than the other girls. She only rolls her eyes and saunters away, but when I keep following her around she shoves up her t-shirt and lets me see her breasts. I am excited. My cheeks are flushed. I touch them, stroke the pink rosebud nipples reverently. My little cock is straining against my trousers.
“Will you marry me?” I ask her, but before I even finish the sentence she pulls her t-shirt down again and walks away.
Months later, while playing with the same children, two older boys join us. They’re thirteen already, and thus, in our eyes, grown up. They like Ellen and lurk around her, pretending to ride their bikes but always circling around the park. One of them brings her a mars bar and a can of soda. I witness the first courting in my life. Later when I sneak around I see the older boy pulling out his cock. It is large and hard and looks very different than mine. He touches it, in a rhythmic, stroking manner, smirking while looking at Ellen, who feigns indifference.
“Have you seen those a lot?” he asks, and she shrugs, a little insecure.
“Of course!” she says. “I’ve had a boy friend!”
Then suddenly he groans and I step nearer, and the cock in his hand jerks and twitches, and white thick stuff shoots out. I don’t know why but I think after Ellen’s small breasts it’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
“How did you do it?” I ask, but am waved away. “One day, when you’re old enough, you can do the same thing!”
Oh god, I can’t wait to be old enough!
When I tell my mother she shrieks, but also laughs. She says it’s because of my “Werewolf thingy”. Father only laughs. “What is because of my Werewolf thing?” They shake their heads and tell me to wash up so I can have dinner.
Whatever sin I commit, I am forgiven because of it. That curse proves to be useful at times.