so at this point I’ve given up the whole charade of making my life fiction… and I’m telling the truth instead, I’ll have to edit the parts of Chapter 1 where I talk about things that weren’t true.. oh well
Just the act of keeping a secret gave me stomach cramps on and off for about a year. It was bad enough that I had been in and out of the doctor’s office trying to figure out what was wrong with me and no one had a clue. I didn’t think it was the secret that seemed silly; a secret couldn’t do that could it? I guess it depends on how big of a secret.
A bunch of us boys had gone camping with one of Mom’s friends that weekend, there was some festival that all her friends and her wanted to attend so we were sent camping. Just two tents in our area and yes they were large enough, but soon it was me and the adult sharing a tent and a sleeping bag as all the other spots were taken. I really didn’t think anything of it and soon enough I was asleep in the tent.
I woke up rather startled when I felt a hand on my pants unbuttoning the top button and soon the zipper being pulled down – I bolted up in bed, left the tent and lit a smoke (I was a rebellious teen who smoked and drank already at the age of 12) making sure to redo my pants. He stayed in the tent and I just chain smoked for a while, but didn’t do anything else. Nothing else happened that weekend while camping and I didn’t think too much of it after – when he dropped us off at my Mom’s I overheard him relating the story of having a dream he was with a beautiful girl and when he went to fondle her found something unexpected. He and my Mom laughed it off, but I knew he was establishing a cover for himself in case I said anything – which I didn’t.
A smart kid would have kept his distance at that point I think, but he was the first adult male to pay attention to me in my memory so I wasn’t sure if this was wrong or not, I did have a feeling of uneasiness at first but that was quickly replaced with love and admiration.
In the beginning of the seduction of me he would bribe me with alcohol or cigarettes to get me to try new things, sucking on his cock or kissing him, but after a while I would do it without any external reward at all, I spent most of my free time with him. He came home from a weekend away and said he brought some porn for us to watch, when he put the video in he pretended to be shocked that it was all guys, claimed he bought it from a large bin of unmarked tapes. I don’t know why he was still playing that particular part, but I didn’t buy it I knew he liked what we were doing and at that point so did I.
I thought he loved me and that I’d likely spend the rest of my life with him, never mind the fact that he’d also taken advantage of 11 other young boys some of them while I was there participating – he would be mine I was sure. At twelve years old I didn’t really have concepts of what a lasting relationship was, most every adult I knew had been divorced at least once so this was new to me. He never hinted that he would keep me forever and knowing something about pedophilia now I know he would have needed a young boy, he would have little interest in me in a few years.
Why I didn’t say anything? I don’t know, I didn’t want to ruin it probably. He never asked me to be quiet about it, but it was understood that this would not be accepted behavior somewhere in my consciousness. I never told any of my friends nor did I write about it in my diary it was all internalized though and I would frequently wonder where this was all going if anywhere at all.
He and I took a trip to Chicago together one weekend and I had some initial fears that he would sell me off or introduce me to other adults that would have their way with me but none of that happened – I met some of what he claimed were his family and we turned around for home.
During all this I started to get my stomach cramps, they were painful and had me in tears most of the time that they would happen. Nothing seemed to make them better or go away and there were no triggers, it would just start to hurt for no reason at all. At first my Mom and Grandmother didn’t believe me, but the pain was real and soon we’d be at the doctors. They ran all kinds of tests and x-rays, he even came in for visits during one hospital visit where they were running extensive tests. I wonder now if the nurses and doctors didn’t spot signs of abuse when they were examining me or if they just ignored that as a symptom.
When the end came it was a boy younger then me that finally told an adult, and then everything came apart. All the boys that spent time with him were questioned and we were all kept apart from one another. I think everyone of us were called to court to testify about what he did to us. I remember them asking me questions before court, but I only remember one specific question “Did he make you and the other boys do anything together?” or something to that effect, and I said no. I think they asked several times, but each time I said no and I know they knew I was lying. I was convinced that if I admitted to those things that I too would be in trouble and be considered a monster as well. The way my Mom had been looking at me I knew she already thought I was a monster, and it hurt. Sitting in court facing him and feeling utterly alone was one of the most terrifying experiences of my life. There were a ton of people in the courtroom but he was the only person I could see. I knew I was betraying him when I sat on that stand, but I think he knew that I didn’t have a choice. Not once during my testimony did he look up at me, and God I wanted him to. I wanted him to look up and reassure me, make me feel better or give me a knowing look that would let me know it was all a dream. Once he went off to jail I would be alone again and no one would love me. Sick isn’t it?
The seduction/abuse led to years of therapy (mostly against my will) where old men would ask questions and I would lie to them, or occasionally tell them the truth – that usually ended badly. I’ve even looked at Rorschach tests for hours on end, didn’t make me feel better. It really seemed to me that these professionals were more interested in finding out what was going on in my head and not really interested at all in how to make me feel better about what had happened – maybe they weren’t supposed to do that, but I sure wanted that. Perhaps if I had told the truth consistently they would have seen that I needed and wanted to feel better about the whole mess. Mostly I feared that if they heard the truth they’d lock me up in a room or put me in jail, the thoughts that traversed through my head weren’t thoughts that the general population would accept, somehow I knew. Once Mom came to a session and I told her I had no steady father figure and didn’t know better – this was a slap in the face for her as at this point she’d been married three times already and the steady stream of men coming out of her bedroom was confusing even to a twelve year old.
So the question on most people’s minds is “Did being abused make you gay?” and I really don’t think so, even before he touched me I had thoughts about Superman and Batman kissing and sleeping in the same bed – not that I had any clue what they’d do in bed together at that point. For one Halloween I dressed as a woman and no I don’t think that had any effect either – didn’t make me like drag either thank God.
Friends in high school who I let know about what happened made it their goal to have me have sex with a girl, but they were unsuccessful, there were a few girls that were interested but I wasn’t. I waited to have sex with a girl until I was nineteen years old, and then I only did so at the insistence of friends who didn’t want me to turn twenty a virgin. I was nervous, but I knew what to expect as some of the porn I’d watched was hetero. The sex was ok, nothing that really made me want to do it again there was no emotional attachment to this girl. I didn’t have sex with a man again until I was twenty-one and then again at twenty-four, it was never something that I sought to have – a part of me believed that any sex was bad and wanting it made me a bad person. That’s a little emotional damage from the events of my youth that I did eventually get over.
It does make me not want to have children as I’ve read time and time again that those who were abused become abusers in an endless cycle. Which is really silly, I’m attracted to older guys not younger guys – always have been. People in my life that know my history have never once shown any concern when I’m near their children – for which I’m grateful, I have a ton of adopted nephews and nieces that mean the world to me. I’d probably make a great father but fear keeps me from wanting to. I don’t fear being a violent abusive husband like two or three of Mom’s husbands were, I’ve never been violent.
So it really all boils down to fear. Fear that a man who was hurting me wouldn’t love me, fear that other people would find out about this love and fear that I will be stuck in an endless cycle of abuse of others. You can outgrow fear, or so I’ve read, you can establish a foundation of hope and trust amongst your friends, family and power greater than yourself so strong that fear cannot penetrate it. I tell myself that some fears are healthy, that’s where my foundation sometimes fails and lets the worries in.