Book of Jamez

55 y/o malcontent, something of a writer

Category: Stories

  • Chapter Five

    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

    Chapter Five

    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.

  • Voices

    Before leaving the house each day we had to tape our ears shut, the criss-cross way, to keep the “angels” lies from entering our minds. We could still see them on the streets, in the hallways and in the rooms with people, but at least they couldn’t poison our minds with their corrupted language.  Mother made hand motions to remind us to bundle up and gave the warning again about our ears – “make sure you keep safe” she mouthed and we nodded.

    We had all heard the stories of the old folk that had forgotten to tape their ears one day and gone mad, or worse tried to join in the spreading of the “angels” agenda by disemboweling themselves, and screaming as they died the words the “angels” had seethed into their minds, as if coming from a neighbor it would be less maddening. My older brother claimed he once survived hearing an “angel” whisper to him, but he often bragged about things that couldn’t possibly be true.

    The “angels” weren’t like the drawing in the old religious books, well not really. They didn’t have wings or halos that anyone could see, but they did glow a bit in their transparency – I always thought they were more like specters then angelic hosts. The government and experts from around the world were stumped as to where they came from or why they were here.  The religious leaders were the ones who deemed them “angels”, and some of those leaders were always around without their ears taped to prevent the voices, but I never heard of any of them being disemboweled either so who knows – maybe my older brother was telling the truth all along.  The news reports claimed they were never seen inside churches of any denomination – attendance at churches, synagogues and temples was rising daily as it was a safe place where one could listen to the sweet silence – at least until the preachers started their talk of hell and brimstone.

    As we walked to school we could see angels hovering around this corner or that tree, floating above cars that drove down the street or peeking from windows of houses on the street, most people kept their curtains drawn and it was more and more fashionable to keep your shutters closed day and night.

    The bus arrived in the normal fashion, six or seven of the shimmering creatures around it – all of us pretended they weren’t there, our parents had told us to just pretend they weren’t there at all.  My brother and his friends sat in the back of the bus, even with our ears taped shut I knew they were back their causing a fuss, that’s what they normally would do. I just opened my book, The Grapes of Wrath, and picked up where I had left off.

    I was lost in the story and unaware of my surroundings, from pick up to school was a 30-minute bus ride and I was used to immersing myself in a story. So when the girl next to me tapped me on the shoulder I was at first annoyed until I saw her eyes wide in fright and she pointed directly in front of me.

    There was one of the creatures, sitting on the back of the seat facing me, it appeared that he had his head resting in his hands and his elbows upon his knees. I know it sounds odd to say it, but he appeared to be smiling, at what I could not imagine. Other kids were staring at the creature and in association, me. I had no idea what had brought the thing to focus its attention on me – nor had I heard of them doing this to anyone else. Judging the others expressions I would say they hadn’t either. I glanced nervously one more time at the creature and tried to return my gaze to the words on the page, but I couldn’t actually read anymore, I could still feel the creatures gaze and knew that I was somehow doomed.

  • The Eggs

    When I was much younger, I used to have my own comic strip; it was a family of eggs.

    The dad, hard boild and with a crack down his side was always complaining about this or that, the mom, was a regular egg, very fragile and in need of care, and the baby was a sunny-side up egg, you know representing the hope for the future, a brighter day tomorrow and all that jazz.

    I just remembered this strip this morning while lying in bed. My grandmother always liked it and then would talk about how some famous comic strip artist was criticized for only having 3 or 4 fingered characters… nope don’t remember who that was. So her compliments of my strip were drowned out by the history lesson she gave me each time. I do think I may have tried to modify the hands each time she talked to me, but I don’t think she ever changed her tune.

    Anyway, I’m sure it was clever and cute and you would have liked it.

  • Ride of Fear

    Just one out of a hundred on the busy street, the cab pulled to a stop and I placed my luggage inside. I barely glanced at the driver, but spoke my destination clearly the momentum of the cab taking off thrusts me back into the seat. I hastily fastened my seatbelt, fear of the cabbies driving only a small concern.

    Glancing out the side window was exhilarating; this was my first trip to San Francisco and I was going to have so much fun. As the gay ‘Mecca’, it held so much promise and excitement. Some of the men on my agenda I had met in online chat rooms, but most were just fantasies and expectations of the perfect man.

    Looking forward, I notice the driver for the first time. His hair covered, muscular arm draped the seat in front of me almost completely. His fist was clenching and unclenching, I could see the veins in his forearm throb with each tightening of his fist. A baseball hat covered his head, attempting to hide or control the black, wiry, mess below it. He was wearing large sunglasses, mid 70s style with wire frames; they managed to conceal his eyes and almost mask his face.

    A feeling of danger emanates from him, I didn’t notice when I first entered the cab, intent on my own excursion I didn’t consider my own safety at all. I glance up at the rearview mirror to try to gauge his expression and catch his attention; a dark grin escapes his lips.

    The fist strikes swiftly, flying straight back into my face, blood starts to spurt from my nose. Pain is dampened by fear, I barely notice the throbbing as escape and retribution come to the forefront of my mind. I barely see the fist move toward me again when everything goes black…

  • Brass Button

    I’m lost in the pattern of the buttons; brass buttons embedded in the arm of the couch, eyes glued to them. I do figure eights, running my fingers through the space in-between. The couch is otherwise non-descript; brown and tepid it mirrors the room. The dark brown paneling with deer heads and coat of arms absorb the couch into them, making it less noticeable.

    I cannot sink further into the cushions, as they are firm and uncomfortable. The noise around me distant, the light from the picture window barely noticeable but I know its coming. My discomfort grows and I start to fidget, the noise becomes voices the light blocked out by moving figures in my vision.

    I don’t want to see it, I cannot bear to hear it.

    Escape. Not possible.

    I stare out the window, the snow glitters like stars the cold is almost visible. The noise becomes screams and flesh impacting. The light is dotted with spatters of blood, the couch is my only escape.

    Figure eights with tarnished brass buttons.

  • One Year Later

    Jamez in the life has been online now for one year. I created this space as a place to post when my regular spot crashed, but it has since become an entity of its own.

    I hope you’ve enjoyed the posts over the last year, and that you will continue to read up and comment when you feel the need.

    Jamez

  • Do you believe in freedom of speech?

    I do. I believe in freedom of all kinds, I was raised in a country based on freedom as our guiding principle – today it’s harder to see this freedom. In my country it should be perfectly acceptable to say, print, believe in, sing, wear …. anything that I may want in order to express myself.

    Taking The Long Way, the Dixie Chicks new album is what you’ve come to expect from the Chick’s: good music and lyrics that make you think, love, and feel… these songs come alive and repeat themselves in your head the whole day. With guest artists like John Mayer and Bonnie Rait this CD is, in my humble opinion, the best CD to date that the Dixie Chicks have released.

    “I Hope” the last track on the CD, is filled with wonderful, soulful harmonies that have me swaying and tapping my foot (and of course I sing along).

    “Voice Inside My Head” is a great song about the choices we make, and always thinking that perhaps the one that got away is the one that would have made our life better.

    Even “Not Ready to Make Nice” is a great song with great lyrics and rhythms. Is it a slap in the face to the people that don’t believe in freedom of speech? Maybe a little. Do those people deserve a slap in the face? God damn right they do.

    Buy this album, hell… buy 2. Send one copy to Monkey Boy (a.k.a. George W. Bush), I think he needs to see the truth at least once during his term.

  • Dismal Waitress

    Mary Lou Adell was ugly, probably the ugliest girl in town – or at least she believed. She wasn’t thin enough and her eyes were too big, no boy was ever going to like her the way she was. Every morning she stuffed Kleenex into her bra, hoping no one would notice, but real breasts would have suited her better. Her hair, clothes and smile all of it was just wrong; she was a misfit in this town.

    Not from around these parts, she had arrived one night climbing down from the cab of a semi outside the Dismal Motel. She had been hitchhiking half the night with no luck when Lucy’s rig pulled over. Mary Lou was so relieved at the sight of a woman driving that big rig she felt her whole body relax and she realized she had been clenching her jaw since the rig pulled over. She took a room that night in the Motel a small room, with its own bathroom, a tiny TV, and fridge.

    The very next day she applied to be a waitress at the Dismal Café, and been hired on the spot. It took her a while to learn all the idiosyncrasies in a restaurant; but soon discovered she was a natural. All the town folk were friendly enough, and she got to know a few of them by name and knew before they sat down whether they wanted decaf or regular. The cook, Otis, had the prettiest blue eyes that made her heart pitter-patter, but she was so afraid all she would ever do is look at him. She hoped one day he’d ask her out so she could say yes, but she wasn’t sure she ever could.

    Mary Lou was torn, she was drawn to handsome rugged men, and yet if they got to close she would tremble in fear; panic would rise from the soles of her feet and occasionally cause anxiety attacks. She knew this fear came from her father; he had instilled an unnatural reaction to men over the last ten years. Just thinking about her dad brought to mind memories she would rather forget; she could feel his sweaty hand clenched against her mouth, keeping her from crying out.

    It had been almost a year, and she still lived in the Motel her money very cautiously kept, every penny saved that could be. She never knew when she might have to leave, at any moment she could be found. Not knowing what would happen if she was found, just knowing she wanted to be able to get away if she could.

    Dismal was a nice place to stay, for now; tomorrow is another day.

  • Learning to Swim

    I just wanted to fit in, all the other kids knew how to swim, but there I was in my trunks without a real clue what to do in the water. Sure I waded in and splashed about, but I had no idea how to kick my feet and move my arms to swim like everyone else.

    I didn’t want to appear as if I didn’t know what I was doing, so I faked it. I bent over my arms stretched as far as they would go, flailing about like they were propelling me and probably making more splashes then anyone else, but my feet were still planted firmly on the ground. I would walk around the lake, arms still slapping up and down against the water, once in a while I’d look up and tell my Mom that I was swimming. They all knew of course, I guess it was pretty obvious, that I was faking it.

    Then one day it happened, I slipped. I lost my footing and was propelled forward in the water like a rocket, at first panic struck and I thought for sure I was gonna get stuck underwater or something. But soon I was kicking my legs, wiggling my body as I moved under the water, I had learned how to swim and it was the most glorious of occasions.

    *

    It has been 12 years since I slipped into sobriety and found a better way of life. At first I faked it, there couldn’t be a God that believed in me or a way to live without drugs or alcohol, I just pretended and tried to fit in, moving my arms like I saw the other spiritual kindergarteners doing.

    Then one day it happened, I let go. I let go of all my fears, hatreds and just had to trust one person, and then more people. And I found myself rocketed into a fourth dimension of existence, from which I have found no substitute (nor do I want to) that could compare to the wonders of life. There are things in life I never imagined possible, that have filled me with such joy and happiness I cannot even describe them.

  • Bunchism by Proxy

    It was the same every night, she’s sit there; bare legs tucked under her, a romance novel in one hand and the other holding some chocolate or perhaps a fork with a piece of steak on the end. Usually, if us kids had been lucky we had Mac and Cheese for dinner… if not just the mac. There always seemed to be money for a new romance novel, chocolate and steak for Mom, but mac and cheese was a luxury.

    The four of us were, in retrospect, starved for attention. We’d come up with little shows or dance acts to put on for Mom and whichever Dad happened to be there at the time. There are the four of us, doing a performance of Elvira by the Oak Ridge Boys, bouncing up and down and mouthing the lyrics. I wonder now who was the choreographer and who was the brains behind such schemes. Mom would watch us and smile always enjoying the show, unless or course something else was on that she needed to watch that meant we had to be quiet.

    Maybe the truth behind it all is we had Brady Bunchism, the need to be dorky in a group.