Chapter 4 - Germany: 30,000 Years Ago part 3

I have to be truthful. This is a "tell all" book after all, and I swore to myself when I decided to write my memoirs that I would be truthful above all else. Not only was I married to a Neanderthal, I was actually quite fond of her.

Her name was Eyya.

She was the love of my mortal life, my shy and tender Eyya, and her absence still pains my frozen heart, even now, some 30,000 years later. It seems to me that she was always there, even in my earliest memories. Even when I was a boy and mostly uninterested in girls, she was there, at the periphery of my awareness, as if she were merely biding her time until I was mature enough to appreciate her countless and varied charms.

Eyya often accompanied her father when the Neanderthals came down to the river to fish. Even as a child, she skipped along beside the hulking men, tiny in comparison, or scurried around nearby, nibbling on edible plants or gathering herbs to take back to her mother. Most Neanderthal females stayed near the limestone cliffs and mountainous woodlands of their home territory, but not Eyya. For a Neanderthal child, Eyya was adventurous.

She was also her father's favorite.

She was a runt by her people's standards, which is probably why she was her father's pet, but I thought she was very pretty. Well, pretty for a girl. She had long dark hair, which she braided in a very intriguing manner, and olive-colored skin and eyes that were almost too big for her face. While the Fat Hand men speared fish or trapped crayfish in woven baskets, she played or foraged for nuts and berries. Sometimes she followed us Fat Feet children around, observing our games as if we were particularly clever beasts. Her condescending attitude often angered me when I was a boy, but I found her very appealing when I got a little older, for she matured into a voluptuous young woman, with plump breasts and a narrow waist and smoothly flaring hips. And she had that exotic golden skin, which I had always found quite attractive.

She never strayed far from her father, never ventured into our village without an escort, but other than that she was free to do whatever she liked when she came down to the river.

I think she enjoyed the company of the more rambunctious Fast Feet children. She did not exactly play with us. It was more like she was supervising us. She often pretended to be our mother—ordering us around and mock spanking us when we misbehaved and feeding us food made of mud and sticks and rocks. Sometimes she even engaged in sex play with the older boys.

The Neanderthals were just as casual about sex as my people were and rarely chastised us for our tomfoolery. Neither of our tribes harbored the delusion that children were sexless creatures. We did not punish the young for masturbating or engaging in sex play. The concept of Original Sin would not be invented for tens of thousands of years. Sin for us was endangering another member of the tribe, hurting our loved ones, acts of foolishness or neglect—not pleasuring our genitals or engaging in mock sex acts with our peers. For us, sex was a fact of nature, part of the cycle of life and death, and it was rarely considered embarrassing or shameful. It was the well from which we sprang and the well from which we drew from to promulgate our way of life.

I confess, I have never understood your Judeo-Christian prudery or why it still persists in these supposedly enlightened times; this hysteric sheltering of children from their own sexuality, and the demented compulsion to mutilate their sex organs. What shame must be instilled in your hearts to take a knife to such a pleasurable part of your anatomy!

Our people did not subscribe to such nonsense.

I remember playing with Brulde one afternoon in a shallow tributary pool, both of us naked and splashing, young boys with hairless bodies and tiny little hairless penises. We were probably about seven or eight years old. It was a warm late spring afternoon, the sun flashing on the water, the clouds like vast white mountains hanging weightless in the endless blue depths of the sky. We were catching crayfish and trying to get the little creatures to snap one another with their pincers. To be completely truthful, we were trying to get the little creatures to latch onto one another's acroposthions, that little nipple of loose skin at the tip of the foreskin.

Yes, I know. Boys are ridiculous!

Neither of us noticed the dark-haired girl who had wormed her way through the reeds to watch us play. Not until she giggled.

We spun around guiltily, covering our genitals with our hands. Not because we were ashamed of our nakedness but because we were doing something foolish and we knew it.

"What are you silly Fast Feet doing now?" she demanded.

We spotted her finally, hiding in the rushes on her belly. Round cheeks, great grave brown eyes, white teeth and full lips. I thought she was pretty even then, but it was the way little boys regard female prettiness, not lustily, with the urges of a man, but just the observation: She's pretty. Now let's catch some more crayfish!

"Playing," I answered defensively.

Brulde took advantage of my distraction to put a crayfish in my hair. I yelled and brushed it out and then I chased after him. I caught ahold of his arm as he tried to climb up the bank and the two of us wrestled for a moment before tumbling back into the pool. Pinning my cousin beneath my knees, I scooped mud from the bottom of the stream and smeared it in his face.

"Why are you trying to get those crayfish to pinch your pee-pees?" Eyya asked.

She had come out of the reeds and stood at the edge of the water, hands against her back, as pregnant women stand when they are tired.

We took a break from our battle. Brulde washed the mud from his face as I stood up, dripping, to answer her. "We are toughening them up," I said.

"For what?"

"If you don't know I'm not going to explain it to you. Stupid girl! Go back to your dad and ask him what a man's organ is used for!"

Brulde laughed.

Our derision offended her.

"I know what they're for!" she retorted, balling her hands into fists.

"Oh, yeah? What is it then?" I asked.

"It's for when a man puts his pee-pee in a woman and then they have babies! I see it all the time at home. I just wanted to know why you were putting crayfish on your dingles. Why do you want to make them tougher?"

"Because they must be strong enough to crack the nut inside your pussy," I said. "My brother told me all about it. He said that women have a nut inside their pussy, and men have to crack the nut with their cock to make the seed take root. If our cocks are not strong enough, we'll never be able to crack the nut and get our wives with babies."

"Ohhhh…!" Intrigued, Eyya lifted the front of her dress and regarded her genitals. She spread the lips of her vagina to get a better look. "I wonder if there's a nut inside my pussy. I don't think there is. I put things in there sometimes but…"

I looked at Brulde with a mischievous grin. He grinned back. "Let's see if we can find it," I said. My child's pecker was standing at attention.

She glanced up as I approached. "Your organ certainly looks hard enough," she said. "But it's so little! My father's organ is almost as big as my arm."

She wasn't exaggerating. I had seen it.

"Ours will get bigger when we grow up," Brulde said.

"I hope so," Eyya replied, squinting at our penises critically. "If there really is a nut inside my pussy, I don't see how you could reach it with those little things."

We spent the afternoon exploring one another's bodies. You modern people call it "playing doctor". Eyya allowed us to examine her vagina, even let us put our fingers inside. Try as we might, however, we could find no nut inside of her. We let her examine our penises in return, and she held them in her hands and compared the size of them to one another. She sniffed them and pulled back the skin to look at the bulbous part within and gently squeezed our testicles to feel the spongy little plums roll around the crinkled sacks.

Now please be mindful that I do not relate this event to inspire prurient thought but merely to illustrate our innocence and sexual freedom. We were children of nature. Sex had not yet been subverted by religion to control the simple-minded. It had not been commercialized to sell automobiles or microwave dinners. It simply was what it was, a way to give and take pleasure, the propagation of our species, and for my tribe in particular, with its ritual orgies and spouse sharing customs, the cement that held our society together.

"Well, I think they're very pretty," Eyya said at last, having satisfied her curiosity.

"They're not pretty!" I exclaimed. "Ancestors! Don't you know anything?"

"Let's see if you can feel the nut with your penis," Eyya suddenly announced. She sat on the bank that overhung the pool and cocked her knees into the air, exposing her sex to us.

Brulde was too scared. Even then he was the reserved one. I was the bolder of our twosome. I tried to mate with Eyya as I had seen the older men do with the women. I positioned myself between her thighs and pushed the end of my turgid penis inside of her.

"Can you feel it?" she asked.

I shook my head no.

We coupled for a minute or two. I rocked my hips as I'd seen the older men do, but I was too young to climax and Eyya complained that it was hurting so we abandoned the act.

Afterwards, I strutted around cockily in the pool, a man now, or so I believed. Brulde's eyes gleamed worshipfully.

"You see that, Brulde? Did you see me mate with her?" I said.

Brulde nodded, eyes shining.

"Heeeeey…! My pussy is bleeding," Eyya cried, inspecting her vagina with dismay. She jumped to her feet and exclaimed, "I better not have a baby, you silly Fast Feet!" Her ire made us laugh so she threw rocks at us and then pelted away through the reeds.

I swaggered around the village the rest of the evening, thinking I was all grown up. Chest thrust out, I bragged to all the other boys how I had mated with a female, and they were all duly impressed until Brulde let it slip that it was Eyya, the Fat Hand girl, I'd coupled with that day. Then they teased me, saying I should check myself for fleas and that my pecker was going to fall off.

And if the passage I just related alarms you in some way, you should ask yourself why you are not similarly appalled by the violence so often depicted in your popular mass media. I could explain it to you. I could tell you exactly when and why your ancestors were taught to revere violence and death rather than pleasure and procreation, but I doubt that you would believe me.