Five Abusers

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A List​
  1. The Cot​
    1. This is one of my earliest memories and it was of being molested. Though being so young at the time, my memory of it is not great. That said, I never did forget the cot and the feeling of her hand in my pants. I was either five or six, she was in her mid-thirties; so the age difference was about 30 years.​
    2. I was laying down on a cot in a back room of a house that belonged to a friend of my mother’s. She was watching me for the day. I vividly remember the cot was army green and I had a light blanket over me, I think it was flannel. I had been asleep—possibly drugged but I’m unsure about that—when I woke up to this woman in the cot with me. I was on my side and she was lying down behind me. She had her hand on my stomach when I woke up. I was really groggy and kind of out of it at first. I might have turned over had she not then slid her hand into my underwear and started to fondle me. I just froze. I recall being very aware of how it was just the two of us in that room. She was pressed up against me and I felt so small, or she felt so big. Maybe both. I closed my eyes and just didn’t move, like I was asleep. She eventually started to sort of jack me off with her thumb and first two fingers. I felt something going on behind me, some movement and pressure around my bottom. Looking back now, I assume she was touching herself while doing this. What she was doing felt, I don’t know, I guess I would have called it ‘funny’ or ticklish. No one had ever touched me like that and it was confusing. In any event, at some point during this I definitely wanted her to go away. And she eventually did. She removed her hand, slid out of the cot slowly, adjusted the blanket on me (how sweet of her), and then quietly closed the door as she left the room.
      Later that evening, my mother asked me how my day was and I remember a giant “NO!” voice in my head when she asked. I didn’t tell her about it. I should have. It happened two more times before mom lost her job and I stopped going there during the day. The other times were similar, but I was less scared. In my mind, it was something she would do, I would pretend to be asleep, and then it would be over. And I never told.​
  2. Alone with an Older Boy​
    1. This was the only time where, in relation to sex, I was explicitly threatened with violence. The fact that he was also “a kid” was what I used for years to rationalize this one away. I was about eight, he was either twelve or thirteen; so the age difference was either four or five years.​
    2. This was at the house of another person that was watching me when I was a kid. She had one son my age and another son that was older, I think around thirteen. I only half-remember the older boy’s name, so I’ll call him T. One afternoon, the mom was going to the store and took the kid my age with her. She told T to stay and watch me while she was gone. I was watching cartoons in the living room when she left. After they were gone for some time, maybe five to ten minutes, T asked me come in the other room with him, saying he wanted to show me something. This room was his parents’s bedroom which was located just off the living room. He told me to sit on the bed so I did. He asked me if I had ever “French Kissed” anyone—just a quick aside on that, to this day I fucking hate, hate, hate that phrase, it makes my skin crawl—and I told him no, which was the truth. I had never kissed anyone, open mouth or closed. He said that’s okay, that we were going to “practice” together. I told him I didn’t want to do that. Then, after some back and forth, he told me the following, which I’ve never forgotten, he said “You don’t get it. You and I are alone here. You are going to do this or I will choke you to death and tell my mom it was an accident.” He then looked at me with this look of pure fucking hate. I’ve only seen that look a few other times in my life; I was right to judge that it was all bad. So I said okay, and he seemed to calm down a little. We sat on the bed and I did what he asked me to do for a few minutes. This mostly felt, well gross is how I would have put it at the time. Unfortunately things didn’t stop there though.
      Once he got bored of the kissing, he asked me if I jacked off. I answered honestly again that yes, I did. He told me to show him how I did it, so I did. I did it in kind of an unusual way, with two hands and sort of based on how the woman from the cot incidents did it, and he told me I was doing it wrong. I was semi-erect at this point and he grabbed me with one hand and started jerking me off. At one point he asked me if it felt good. I just turned away and didn’t say anything. I felt sick. I did not orgasm or in any way enjoy his clumsy fumbling with my privates; maybe I should feel grateful for that. In any event, the worst part came next. After a few minutes of that, he stopped jerking me off and said, “Here, now you do me,” and then pulled his shorts and underwear off. He spread his legs and moved closer so I was sitting in between his legs. I wish I could say I fought, or argued or something. But I didn’t. I just did what he said. I remember he had pubic hair as that was the first time I had seen it on another male—I had seen my mother’s many times by that point but that’s a different story. He didn’t like how I was doing it at first, so he moved my hand up towards the tip. He also spit in my hand. He finished shortly after that, and that was my first time learning about ejaculation. He then told me to go wash it off in his parent’s sink, so I did. Right after that, he stopped me before we left the bedroom and told me that if I ever told anyone that he would kill me. He also said that if that happened, it was true he might get in trouble, but I’d be dead. He said I should remember that, and I did.​
  3. Groomed​
    1. In terms of sexual abuse, this was the one that really always stuck with me more than all the others. It was bad all around. I felt complicit in what happened. It made me confused about my own sexuality for a while. I was ten, he was nineteen or twenty; so the age difference was about ten years.​
    2. Starting when I was in 1st Grade, this would have been the early-mid 90’s, at the end of each school year my mother would dump me onto a plane and I would spend all of my summers with an older relative who lived in the Deep South. This was real bible belt country. This older relative, who was a very good person and never hurt me in any way, had lots of friends through a local church she belonged to, including this one family that lived across the street from the church. This friend of hers was the grandmother of an extended family and her daughter was a very successful doctor in town. They lived on a fairly large tract of land, maybe 30 acres, and there were multiple houses and buildings on the property. Now, the good doctor had a son and I was often brought over to play with this guy, we’ll call him J—I know exactly who this fucker is but I don’t care to repeat his name. J and the doctor and the grandmother were all part of this church. Eventually, I was hanging out with J about once per week during the summer, and these visits started even before the thing with T happened. You see, J did not do anything to me right away. I have only recently thought of the word for this and that it might apply, but I now believe I was groomed.
      J started this process by showing me pornographic magazines when I was seven or eight. Maybe I was hypersexualized at this point already—or maybe this was normal, I don’t know—but in any event I thought these magazines were just about the coolest thing imaginable. He wouldn’t show them to me every time I came over at first, but he eventually had something to show me each time I was there. There was an arc to this really. Over a couple of summers, the magazines went from pretty mild stuff like early-90’s Playboys to more hardcore magazines which, eventually, included gay pornography. The first time he showed me pictures of just naked men he asked what I thought of it. I was oblivious to what was going on and just told him I liked the pictures with women in them more. He thought this was funny and told me I might change my mind one day. Also, around the time he started showing me the gay porn, he stopped showing me these magazines in his bedroom, and started showing them to me in a shed on the edge of their property.
      This shed is important to the story. Located next to some woods, the shed was furnished and had a wall-mounted AC unit. It was sort of like an arts and crafts room, with easels and paints and markers and such. When we would go out to this shed, J would make up these elaborate fantasy roleplay games for us to play—I was really into Tolkien and similar fantasy stories at this time—and, after finding things he had hidden in the woods, these games would often end with us in this shed, marking off on a giant make-believe map what we had done. Of course, this type of thing was seen as effeminate at this time and in this place, so we agreed to keep these little adventures as our secret. One day, after one of these adventures, he broke out the magazines, some straight and some gay. He eventually pointed out this one guy who was just kind of leaning against a wall naked, and asked me if mine was bigger or smaller than that. I told him I didn’t know. He told me we should measure ourselves and he went and got a tape measure. Now, at this point I did feel uncomfortable. I didn’t want to do this, but this guy had been so nice to me, had played all these games with me, showed me all this stuff and we had secrets, and on and on. It didn’t seem so bad, he just wanted to measure, right? So I did it, and we measured each other, both soft and hard. This later progressed to masturbating in the shed, but that’s not the key thing. The key thing was that he said that what we did in the shed was our secret, and that was major prologue to a later incident in the pool.
      One day later that summer, after the shed thing had been going on a while, it was hot. It was probably around early August in the Southern US, so quite hot. J wanted to go swimming in his family’s pool and his grandmother provided me with an old pair of swim trunks for me to use. The grandmother sat outside with us while the two of us swam for a little while. She was under an umbrella drinking iced tea. Eventually she said it was too hot for her and that she was going to go inside and watch her shows, i.e., soap operas. Once she went inside, J asked me to swim over to the part of the pool where he was. Now, this spot was basically under an elevated hot-tub that was built into the pool, and it had a ledge running under the hot tub where the water was quite shallow. Crucially, it was not possible to see this spot from inside the house. Once I was there I sat on the ledge and asked what was up. He swam up in front of me so that with his knees bent under water his feet were touching the bottom but just his head and shoulders were above the water. He told me to take my trunks off, that he had something he wanted to show me—that fucking line again. I hesitated and he started looking around. I began to say his name as in, “J, I really don’t want to do that, I think I’m done swimming,” but I only got his name out when he put one hand on my chest and pushed me back against the tile of the hot tub. He pulled my trunks off with his other hand and put the trunks between his knees. He then took me into his mouth and began to suck me off. I had many different emotions in response to this: fear, disgust, embarrassment. In my mind I was thinking, “Ugh, no, no, no…” I looked around and, seeing no one, I froze. Again. As I became erect he stopped to look up at me and say, “See, you like it.” He kept on doing it until I eventually did orgasm. I had to tell him I had cum as there was no semen, I was too young for that. That was the worst part actually, worse even than what followed. I felt the most intense shame and self-disgust I have ever felt in my life during and immediately after I came.
      Then it was my turn. He pulled off his trunks and sat next to me on the ledge. He had both our trunks in one hand and he was already erect. I really, really didn’t want to do this. I believe J could sense what I was thinking, so he threatened me, though not physically. He told me if I didn’t do this he’d make sure people found out about what we’d been doing in the shed and what he’d just done and how I wanted it. He definitely said people would call me a faggot like they did to him—which was true, he was called that by some people. This was the Old South in the early 90’s and when he was called that it was not just behind his back. I don’t remember the exact words he used here, I was kind of out of it at this point. But after he’d made himself clear, I did what he told me to do and performed oral sex on him. There are three things from that part that stuck with me, 1) his hand on the back of my head, 2) the taste when he finished, and 3) spitting it out in the pool, watching it float away and just feeling utterly fucking empty and worthless. Worthless because I had done that. That’s all I really care to say about that.​
  4. A “Consensual” Encounter​
    1. I was twelve, she was either eighteen or nineteen; so the age difference was six or seven years. There’s an outside chance she was only seventeen, but I really don’t think so. I never asked though, so who really knows. This one is unique in that I was an eagerly willing participant in this, so I didn’t even see this one as problematic until very recently. I had to look at it from the angle of, “What if the genders here had been reversed? Would that be a problem?” Yes, it would be a huge fucking problem. She was well above the age of consent and I was not. It’s still hard to feel confident on what the damage here was though. I think it was partly solidifying some patterns around warped sexuality that would haunt me for years to come, and partly a still further loss of innocence. As one example, there was this very age-appropriate thing with a girl my age that started to happen later that summer but I was already too fucked in the head to relate to this girl and it went to shit because of how I acted. This pattern would repeat over and over again for years.​
    2. I had a pair of friends that were brothers during the summer between 6th and 7th grade. One was two years older than me but in my grade because he had been held back a couple of times, and he had an older brother who turned 16 that summer. As the summer went on, these brothers had a cousin that came to stay with them for a while. We’ll call her S. S had gotten into a very bad situation with an ex-boyfriend. He was violent and he had burned her on her face. I don’t know with what but the scar covered most of the skin between her left lip and her chin. There were whispers of legal proceedings about this, but I never got any real details about that.
      Given her predicament, my mother tried to help out S. She gave her some old business attire that she could wear to interviews. And from there, I started talking to S. This was initially with her cousins, my friends, but eventually things progressed and one day she was talking to me alone. She told me about her ex-boyfriend and what a piece of shit he was. I was sitting on the steps next to her, and kind of in awe about how open she was being with me, this physically mature woman was talking to me like an equal. She did catch me staring at her chest at one point though, and that’s when she told me I could touch them if I wanted. The details from there aren’t important except to say that she eventually ended up back at my apartment—mom was at work at a gas station—and performed oral sex on me. This part kind of freaked me out as I still wasn’t ejaculating at that point, I guess I was a late bloomer on that front. I was so afraid I’d be embarrassed when nothing happened. But, she just said, “Oh, okay.” And that was that. S moved back to her home town a couple of weeks after that and I never saw or heard of her again.​
    3. Was that wrong? I think yes. But it’s complicated. If not exactly less wrong than the first three things, it was definitely wrong in a different way. I hesitate to even mention it now, but it clearly has played a role in my response to trauma over the course of my life, so I’m leaving it in. Anyone that doesn’t think it counts can go fuck themselves.​
  5. Mom​
    1. This one is by far the hardest. I’ve been putting it off since I first opened up about my CSA. This lasted between the age of seven or so until I was about fifteen. My mom was thirty years older than me—she’s dead now. I don’t know that I can handle putting this into narrative format just yet, so this is going to be more of a stream of consciousness type of thing, hopefully it makes enough sense to get my meaning across.​
    2. I know some guys that have experienced CSA were anally raped by family, clergy, etc. That didn’t happen to me so I feel like this wasn’t bad enough to lay on my dead mother. I feel like that in one way, but in another I know what happened wasn’t right. I was an only child and my mother seemed to think I was going to be the answer to her many, many problems somehow. The attention was intense. The sexually inappropriate stuff started around seven; she liked to be naked around the house a lot and would tell and show me inappropriate things. She told me her first ex-husband used a hair-dryer to dry his pubic hair; she laughed at this and, while fully nude and recently showered, hiked her leg up onto the bed to show me how he would do it. That was one thing. She asked that I hug her from behind while she got ready in the mornings and she would always use my hands to cup her breasts, right over the nipples, sometimes there would be a bra, sometimes not. She demanded that she watch me when I showered or took a bath. That went on until I was around ten or so. After I got back from the summer that he thing with J happened, I demanded some privacy and she relented, but replaced the visual inspections with detailed questions about my body. When I acknowledged that I had started getting hair under my arms and between my legs, she demanded that I strip and show her. That’s around when the massages started. They were fully clothed on her part at first, but eventually she would just wear an unclasped bra and nothing else. When I massaged her butt she would kind of arch her back and push it upwards and I would see, well just about everything. This gave me some really fucked up feelings. I'm still stuck with these fucked up feelings in fact.
      Mom was a prostitute for a while and would tell me, in great detail, what some of her customers liked, what they looked like (all over), what they did immediately afterward, etc. (Thanks mom).
      One time, I was probably thirteen or fourteen, I was laying in my bed and reading a book, I think it was a Stephen King novel. There was a sex scene in the book and I was masturbating. Mom walked in, and quickly saw what I was doing under the covers. She sat next to me in bed and said that dinner was ready but that I could “finish up” if I wanted to. She then grabbed my erection, gave it a squeeze, and winked at me. She was obsessed with what was going on with me and girls at my school. Always drilled for information, who was prettiest, what did I like about so and so, and many other similar questions. This would always end with something like, “you know, I was pretty sexy/foxy/hot/etc. when I was that age.”
      My last strip show for her was when I was fifteen. She was obviously remarking on my penis when she told me, “well you’re sure going to make some young lady very happy,” and laughed and laughed.
      I was also fifteen the first time I got high; that was also with mom. She decided I could try the pot I had been watching her smoke, as long as I took it as a ‘shotgun’. This involved her, with a joint held inside her mouth, laying on top of me on a couch and putting her mouth to mine. She would exhale through the joint and I would breath in what came out. She gyrated her hips on me while doing this and I became quite erect while also getting very, very high. This went on for ten minutes or so and the predictable thing happened on my end. Ugh.​
    3. There’s more to tell but that’s all I can do now. I do wonder, what would have happened if she hadn’t died? How bad would it have gotten? I’m glad she’s dead. There. I said it.​
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