Niecie was sexually abused as a child, so of course she was boy crazy. Men had made her crazy. It started with Uncle Walter who played rough and held her down and tickled her until she cried. Once conquered, he could do what he wanted, surreptitiously, evilly. Fat greasy fingers poking into places they had no business. Rat bastard. Then came Joe Clanahan, Momma’s fourth husband, with an ex-con’s vibe, missing the last knuckle of his trigger finger. He shot it off himself to stay out of the Second World War. He tortured Niecie with the nickname “Minky.” Lord knows what that was referring to. Momma would send Niecie to the store to get milk with him. She didn’t want to get in the car.
By the time she was thirteen Niecie had breasts and a beehive hairdo with turd rolls on top. She was riding around in ’57 Chevys with boys with names like Tommy Brown and Tommy Wallace. Kids with rotten front teeth in souped up cars with souped up hormones. Reminds me of the Phyllis Diller joke. “I’m not saying my sister’s a slut. But it took the Driver’s Ed teacher two weeks to teach her to sit up in the front seat.”
Feeling like shit about herself was covered up with a tough thin veneer of acting like hot shit. Her shit didn’t stink. But it was still shit. The bad touches internalized, taken inside her body, held inside her mind, blackened inside her heart, were forced to come out in puberty’s inescapable growth spurt: shot forward, outward, upward, uncontrolled, uncontained, uncensored.
Momma could say Niecie was boy crazy all she wanted. She’s the one who put her around the men who made her that way.