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| B.B. King, guitarist |
Playing House with Peaches |
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Peaches is my girlfriend. She's an older lady — she's seven and I'm six.
Being left alone is a thrill. The kerosene lamp casts our shadows against the walls. We're already giggling 'cause we know what we wanna do. We wanna play house. That's where we mimic the adults. We act like we're married. We pretend to go off to work, like we're chopping cotton with all the big folk. We pretend to be working in the fields all morning until we come home for dinner and then we go back and chop and pick till the end of the day. Then it's time for supper, and Peaches is pretending to be cooking and fixing something hot to eat. "Well, it's time to go to sleep," she says, all excited. "You ready?" I'm more than ready. We climb into my mom's bed, take off our clothes and Peaches shows me what she learned by watching her folks; she shows me how to put my stiff little penis into her vagina. "Push it in and out," she says. "Push it all the way in." I like doing it. It's a game that feels good — warm and close and different than anything else in the world. I like loving on Peaches.
So much for my innocence. (Greenwood, Mississippi, 1931)
from Blues All Around Me: The Autobiography of B.B. King with David Ritz (Avon, © 1996)
© 2000 Nerve.com, Inc.
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