Category: sexual child abuse



Young Love

I first encountered him on the playground, on the domed top of the convoluted steel grid of monkey bars. This was back in the day when all playground equipment was steel, and the middle of the bars were polished like mirrors from so many hands over the years.

The sky was gray and overcast, it was late in the afternoon. It must have been near winter, for it was almost twilight but there was no snow. I remember a crescent moon rising in the gray skies – glimpsed between the clouds somewhere between fifteen and thirty degrees. I paid attention to things like that; my training had already begun, though I didn’t know it. Things, as always, seemed normal. As normal as they could be considering I was an abused country kid from the sticks come to live in West Germany – living the the military apartments – big buildings with thick bombproof walls, and narrow windows.

The playground sat adjacent to the airport. It was a military one – a small one, but so was the base we were on. A lot of the bases we were on were small – little installations given over to the properties of spying, like the planes and electronic gear that my dad worked on. Twin turbo-propped Mohawks took off, but they were rare; mostly it was the UH-1’s – the big Bell Huey helicopters with their distinctive “Whomp! Whomp!” sound.

We had been forbidden to go to any country in which the “Red Flag” was flying. That meant no Warsaw, Poland, no East German or Hungarian trips. That meant we often had to stay behind while our dad went on some “TDY” mission. Sometimes he would be gone for days, weeks at a time. If it wasn’t a NATO nation – we weren’t supposed to go in. We weren’t supposed to go to Berlin, though eventually we did. They said it was because we would have to cross East German soil, and there was some concern ‘the enemy’ might kidnap a child as leverage against my anyone who held a high security clearance, forcing them to become a spy against the US military or giving up all their electronics secrets – or against the US Government as a source of ransom and/or trade for their own spies. It was very ‘normal’ to ‘me’, the kid I was developing into, but in some ways I was still that sexually groomed kid from deep down South . . . trying to figure out things – where in the hell he was, who ‘we’ were, where we were living (it changed all the time – we moved more than a dozen times in a few years), and what we were doing there.

There were about seven or eight boys playing on the playground, and a half dozen of us were on the monkey bars. None of us knew the other; not really. None of us had been around long enough to know anyone, and chances are, no one did. Everyone was moving around too much – us kids just sliding past each other – a quick hello, some desperate attempts to form friendships, and then a few weeks later, goodbye – maybe.  Sometimes they just disappeared.  Sometimes we did.  We got to know this kind of life too well; so well it affected all our lives for the rest of our life. No “life long friends” – people who we are still friends with that you know from your early childhood.   I mean the good kind – the kind you see every few days or so – never a week goes by without one of them calling you. I don’t have that; we moved too much. Neither does my brother. Ditto my parents to a lesser degree – they lost touch with their families (and thus we with ours) by their late teens.  “Family” to me is just a weird joke, one I don’t get.   My mom once said she vowed to stop documenting moves after her fiftieth; we were still just babes when she stopped. I think it was during this particular trip overseas that broke that barrier. We moved so much! Even she can’t tell me where we were when. It was a kaleidoscope of landscapes; a blur of apartments and streets; German towns changing (but all the same) like drops of water sliding down a window pane. Fountains and fortresses, castles grand . . . castles in ruins, tanks in the woods. I don’t know as we settled down in one particular place for more than two, three months before the Army would uproot us and send us on to some other base where my dad’s skills were needed and we were not.

“Who will suck my dick?” one boy cried out. He was an older one, and I shot him a contemptuous glance.  I had experience, I missed my friend – my lover (or lovers) back home – but I wouldn’t do it. I wouldn’t do it so casually – I had to love (or at least like a lot) the person.  It didn’t matter if it was girl or boy – I was bisexual before I was four – and I found this type of sexual innuendo deeply disturbing. Scalding memories of what the teenager had done to me – his touch, then the ultimate betrayal – were still fresh in me and hurt. I didn’t trust anyone not to betray me the way he had done, so I hung back when it came to making relationships – especially sexual ones. I had been burnt – and burnt BAD – I wasn’t going to open myself to that flame again! And yet the phrase caught my attention (the boy was just coarsely joking around – half-serious, half not, as young boys sometimes do). I looked at him from beneath hooded eyebrows – I can still see him, my head dropped to some degree, looking up at him both cautiously and with anger, though he had not done anything to me; he was just a ‘normal’ kid, crude, but normal.

“I will!” I heard a small voice pipe up. It was a little kid on the opposite side of the monkey bars. We had a game where we were trying to throw each other down through the bars, hurting someone – but we weren’t playing aggressively. The big boys were too rough – they’d win (perhaps), though none had tried their tactics on me of grabbing a boy and holding him over one of the squared opening, punching him down and through – where he’d bounce and jolt through the steel bars – hopefully breaking a bone! – before landing on the tough turf where short sparse grass grew.

“I love sucking dick!” the little boy continued, drawing my attention. This was almost the exact phrase the teenager had used when he outed me: that I loved sucking dick – “He’ll suck anyone!” the teenager had told his friends, stinging me.  While true to a point (which makes a good point about the truth stings the worst, for it stings the heart, mind, and soul). But I had to love or at least like a kid real to have sex with him; this one didn’t. He apparently didn’t even demand they be a friend – though that might have been his way of making one. He was making offers to strangers, which seemed odd and dangerous to me. I can still feel that ‘dark turning’ I felt when looking at him, hearing him make his ‘offer’. It was the same sensation you get when seeing someone dart into a busy street without looking, knowing they might get run down – and wondering whether to shout and stop them or just look away before the disaster happens.  Especially if you know you are probably powerless to prevent it.

The other kids started laughing; ridiculing him and asking questions. Would he really do it? An older kid, one about fourteen, asked him, to which he eagerly agreed. “Yeah! I like it. I love sucking dick.” My eyes narrowed as I took him in and evaluated him.

He was young, a few years younger than me. A big eight, an average nine, or a underdeveloped ten. He was short with a broad beaming face and curly brown hair. My hair was regulation short – a crisp barrage of hair standing on end in a traditional crew cut, with the sides shaved nice and close – a “high and tight”.

But his face – something about his eyes I think it was. They were brown; as I type this I can ‘see’ more and more clearly (and now the next day editing, even clearer.) – and I felt something within me as he and they got to talking about it. A sadness or a sympathy or empathy or pity or feeling sorry for him – and wanting him to be my friend – and I was interested in accepting his offer – open sex night, no strings involved. But maybe it was something about his face and eyes. Yeah – I think it was the eyes. There’s a ‘look’, you know – that ‘thousand yard stare’ kinda thing soldiers are known to get – only in kids it may more hidden, way back in the eyes. Like ghosts or clouds underneath all those emotions they are expressing – happiness, excited joy, running and playing. It makes a kid’s eyes ‘timeless’, and can make them look old. In the eyes of course. Everywhere else they look normal. Except perhaps a few scars.  I had those.  And I had “that look” I suppose.  (I know I did; I can see it in the mirror.)

I could feel it – that he was like me. More than a bit; almost exactly. The sex is what tipped me off. I wanted to go off and have sex with him right then. Let him know I was the same way – and I wouldn’t use him or mock him for doing it or wanting to do it. The other kids would. I just knew that, could sense their attitudes in their behaviors, their play, and what some of them were saying. Something about him spoke to me. I suppose now, looking back, it would have said “I’ve been abused somewhat, shown sex; I’ve learned to love it too early, and now I will do it with anyone – anyone! – simply to recapture that feeling.” Of course, that may have just been me, projecting my feelings upon him.

So I spoke up. Of all those that were there – and the only ones left who were talking to him – I think there were about three – the others having gotten disgusted by him, or repulsed by what he had said – mocking him and deriding him as they climbed down – and one of them was a teenager who I could tell was quite cruel – he’d been sort of picking on us kids, mostly verbally, while the others ran around, and now he was trying to lure the little kid in using some kind of bait.

“Yeah, we can go over to my apartment,” he was saying – but he had been one of the cruelest mockers and deriders when this thing had first started, and the kid was saying no to him; shaking his head, and the teenager suddenly got fed up and disgusted and climbed down by himself while another couple of kids climbed on.

“I’ll let you do it,” I finally said, keeping my voice kinda low and hopeful and just between me and him. “I’ll do you, too, if you do it to me,” and then I think I said (even lower): “I like doing it, too.” I had missed that feeling – that feeling of someone ‘doing it’ to me, and me doing it to them – plus this little kid had such an open air about him – open and trusting, and yet guarded in some ways. Like I said – it was kinda like de ja vu’ I was feeling – thing is, it was not. It was merely seeing a kind of reflection of the kid I am/was. And you have to remember: I had been having sex for years, nearly on a daily basis during the summer of the last three of them. Not just with boys, but with girls. You gotta remember my cousin, with whom I had fell in love with.

Just then my momma called me.

“Dinnertime!” she said, calling from the communal door of the apartment building. There were two stairwells, one on each end, and we lived on the second floor; inside one, right hand. Up two turns and you’re in the middle kind of thing. They were four stories tall, in case you were wondering, with 8 to 16 room ‘attic’ apartments above. They called them ‘transits’ because that’s where all the ‘transitory people’ lived – people who were going someplace and the Army needed their apartments because someone new was coming in – or people who were going someplace – like back overseas. We lived in ‘transits’ once that I remember; maybe twice. It was really cool.

And so ended the beginning of my very first friendship over there. The dinner bell was ringing and it was time to ‘go in’ – and eat dinner with my miserable family who never got along.

So I said “bye” to him regretfully and left him alone with two of the others. He had just started to go along with me – following me down the bars. I think he, like me, could sense something of himself in me; that’s why he wanted to be friends. So we parted there on good terms, almost beneath the monkey bars, with the helicopters thundering off and on . . . gray clouds . . . and I grew depressed . . . slogging in instead of at my usual run, head down, sad and thinking of him . . . this boy I had just met.

It was the next summer I met him. We had moved to a different base – to run across a kid you knew from before was very unusual. Unheard of for me. The rotisserie of kids and schools and bases were beginning to become familiar  – and yet not. It seems I kept changing – or something. That might explain some of these holes in my head and my memories from ‘over there’.

I’m not sure if it was at the pool (outdoors) or a playground, but I remember we took off where we had began – at the beginning, with him looking at me and me looking, puzzled at this kid, feeling the faint stirrings of memory.

“You’re him,” I think I said, or something very much like it. “We met at that other base . . .”

“Yeah,” he said, beaming and smiling. “You still want to do it?”

And simple as that, we became friends. Of course we had sex after our first encounter – nothing major, just the oral thing – him doing me, me encouraging him – ‘showing him how’ somewhat because he still needed some skills in his technique – and me ‘doing him’ just for the pleasure of making my new friend feel good, welcome, needed, and happy – which he was doing for me.

We wandered that base during those hot summer months – or at least they felt hot to me. I had acclimated to the German weather, so I felt the heat when they did, and not so much the cold as I had when we first arrived. I’d gotten used to the winter regime of clothing – and even more layers of clothing – and the summer felt so free! I could wander up to the pool in my swim shorts and a towel – flip flops flapping, though for the most part I ran around as I had in the  ‘hood back in the States – barefoot and almost . . . but not nearly enough – carefree. I wasn’t the child I am sometimes inside; I wasn’t ‘he’. I wasn’t the boy who’d left the States – though that part of me seemed to go into hiding sometimes, staring from my eyes in wonder at the castles and the land. In a way I was a jumble of ‘parts’ in me – and I could feel it. I didn’t think in terms of “I” and “me” so much as ‘us’ and ‘them’. I sometimes found myself interjecting the word “we” sometimes – and becoming confused because I meant just one: me. But it wasn’t ‘me’ all the time. There were ‘other parts’ forming – I could ‘feel’ them in my dreams, feel them taking over ‘parts’ of me: certain emotional states and emotions. I could feel myself ‘slipping away’ when one part would ‘take control’ – leading me into some kind of temptation (laughing).

And this boy and I . . .

We fell in love, we did. With him, even though he was a bit younger than me – he became more like a little brother. He shared his secrets with me and I with him – how our parents beat us (his were much worse some of the time, mine had quit the worst of the abuse – the beatings – when we had arrived in Germany – and those damned apartments where everyone would have to be so damned quiet – even if we WERE getting beaten. You couldn’t let the neighbors know those things – how ‘bad’ us kids had become; how ‘awful’ we are/were (for those were my thoughts in the day.) I knew what me and the boy were doing was ‘wrong’ by some crowd’s notice; but on the other hand – he was my ‘best friend’ at the time, and the only one I had.

I remember us going from here to there – stopping for sex once and awhile, either in the bushes or the PX bathroom one time. (I didn’t like going there; I felt cheap while I ‘did him’ with him standing on the toilet seat.) I treated him to some movies once and awhile – I was earning money from my first job.  And bought us both treats at the PX and club – ice cream perhaps, some chips to eat – nothing fancy, and he asked for nothing, ever. Just for the chance to ‘do me’ sometimes and make me feel good, be my friend.

I don’t recall ever going over to his apartment, nor him coming to mine, though he might of. I remember us mostly meeting in the parking lot by the playground, and then going together to do something. Sometimes that ‘something’ was walking the fence line – the fence that separated us from our outside neighbors, the Germans. We’d pause here and there sometimes – dropping into the grass or near some bushes – and ‘make love’ in our own kind of way, each encouraging the other. We’d hold hands, give hugs – cheek to cheek sometimes, just holding one another, eyes closed, breath coming softly in my ear while I hugged him – feeling that warm body under that skin and enjoying it. Often it would take me back to past times – times with the teenager and/or my friends back home. Then we would rise and dust ourselves off – pulling up our shorts if we needed to – and go wandering on, looking for something to do, something to keep our interests until ‘the next time’.

Like I said: we grew to be close friends, closer than even brothers in some ways. We each commiserated in each others misery and pain; we shared our loneliness by sharing in our ‘game’ – a shameful game to the world, perhaps, but not to us. To us it was a simple thing – a joy. We couldn’t understand why all the other kids and grownups seemed so dead hard set against this sort of thing, but we knew to keep it a secret between us.

Eventually the game came to an end. The time came when I went out to the parking lot looking for him; on the playground, all our usual stomping spots, and then all our usual stopping spots – and then I went to his apartment, heart sinking, sick to heart from suspicion, thinking I knew what happened. Knocking on his door, I braced myself to prepare for his parents. I had heard they were quite mean.

The face that greeted me when the door opened was a younger woman – a short one, almost my height – and she said something that was to change my life.  Bring that sudden realization a little closer to my heart like the sharp knife it was.

“He isn’t here anymore. They moved on.”

And that’s when I began to realize: No one is permanent. Nothing remains the same. My friends would just keep on being yanked away – every time I made one it would happen as sure as night follows day. Time and time and time again – as soon as I would hold out my hands for love, they would get slapped away, or else the people I was craving would turn their backs and reject me. That little boy – he had no friends, none besides me. I think that was because of his sexual orientation and the way he advertised so honestly his willingness. I think now, looking back, that it was only in desperation that he would do those things – offering a blow job first, friendship later. I wasn’t like that – too shy, too self-inhibited, and demanding from my own self that I love them (or at least like them) first.  And even that – that had taken a hit, some damage, from what the teenager had done.  To this day, I find it hard to trust anyone with my love, especially the sexual kind.  They always hurt me.  Always.

But it saddened me – hit me hard, hurt me hard, to see that neighbor open the door and it wasn’t who I had expected. To find your friend – your lover – is gone, yanked right out from under you, and you hadn’t even had a chance to say goodbye. You never saw it coming. And so like a fist in the face, a blow to the head (and heart) . . . I stumbled away, thanking the girl, and trying to stop the tears from coming into my eyes . . .

Lonely again, wandering another base without a friend, I soon made another. He was mean and bullying, older than me – and he simply used me as I used him. Under buildings, behind bushes – it wasn’t even about being friends. It was about a part of me mourning and separating from ‘him’, trying to recapture that hidden feeling, which I never did. Not with him, anyway. And so slowly, a part of me went into hiding and died.

For a long long time afterwards.

And I think that part was ‘little Michael’ or ‘little Mikie’ . . . the boy ‘he’ wanted to be.

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Warning:  This Story may contain ‘triggers’ for child abuse / molestation survivors.
Be Safe.


Backfire

It was shortly after “he” had betrayed me, telling the whole ‘hood (or at least all the teenagers and my closest friends) that I “sucked cock”, “liked sucking cock” and would suck off anyone (which I wouldn’t – I had to love them or at least like them first). I don’t know what was wrong with me – I can feel the child’s rage that was growing within me; a simmering subconscious anger, a smoldering burn. In retrospect I can understand the source of this sea of anger, but at the time I did not know what to do with it, where it had come from. Like a rogue wave which hints of a storm over the horizon, I would feel that wave of anger wash over me, flushing my face, tightening my child’s fists, filling me with electric tension. It was a strange anger because it was not “anger” so much as a hidden rage – a raging inside I could not ‘feel’, but it was there. I knew it was there – constantly, an ever-present demon – and it was a rage at HIM. For telling, for “outing” me – making me feel ashamed. For there being a bit of truth in his words: I would suck dick; I loved giving pleasure, and feeling pleasure. I especially loved that feeling of ‘control’ it gave me over him – ‘controlling’ by controlling the pleasure I gave to him. It was the only sense of control I knew, come to think about it – awesome as a little kid – but entirely wrong, and I knew that, too. I could not put my finger on the causes of all these mixed emotions, or else as a child I would of tried to solve it. I was used to solving things on my own. But being of a calm demeanor and a normally pleasant attitude, I would sometimes stand frozen in a state of anger and rage, wondering what was bothering me. Perhaps that is what led me to do what I did.

One autumn day, not long after that betrayal, I was standing by the side of the house, along the outside wall of the laundry room which abutted the open carport. I don’t know if it was premeditated – but it there was a pencil in my hand – one of those big fat children’s pencils with the thick lead. This is one of the areas where my brain goes faulty – I must of went into the house, gotten the pencil, planning this thing – and yet I have no memory of that. All I know – all I can remember – is that suddenly I was standing there next to the house, staring at the redwood siding.

An electric meter was mounted there, a round glass blister that gleamed in the sun. I can see this fairly well – the events after I got the pencil seemed to be etched into my mind. The little wheel was turning, the round eyes of the dial staring out at me. And going up to the meter, I began to write the same word, over and over again all around the meter.

I wrote it large and small, pressing the pencil into the soft grain of the siding. Why I wrote it – well I can only suspect. Perhaps it was the reason for my anger, the source of my anger: what the word meant to me. After all, if you’ve read my stories, you know what was happening to me.

“FUCK.” I wrote. “FUCK” and “FUCK” again. I could feel my anger and rage against the teenager burning in me; flowing out through those words. “FUCK” (with a silent exclamation point behind each one). Over and over again I wrote it. I can see it now – the words tilted at angles, the letters running across the grain. The redwood siding was hard to write on – the letters didn’t show up good, and the grain kept throwing my pencil off, making my writing jagged and spiky. I wrote ‘fuck’ a dozen times, maybe more, retracing the letters, pressing hard. It was hard writing on that wood. And all the while the white hot anger burned, with me not knowing why.

Later that afternoon – perhaps it was the next day – my mother and father came bursting into my bedroom.

“Did you write on the wall?” they demanded. “Did you write those nasty words?”

I felt a cold fear.

“No,” I lied. “What words?”

They stood staring at me for a long moment, then jerking me up by one arm, they trotted me outside.

“That!” my mom hissed, her voice angry and bitter. “Those words? Do you see them?”

I looked at the wall, trying to bring it into focus. I didn’t want to see those words I wrote. Finally I lied again.

“No,” I said. “HE wrote them.” ‘He’ was the teenager. He was the one who had taught us not only the meaning of the word, but had been performing it on us, with us sometimes – and having us (the other little kids of the neighborhood) do the same thing to each other.

My parents looked at me sternly, doubtful, angry, and highly suspicious. Seeing it now, in my own mind, I don’t blame them. The words were scrawled in a childish scrawl, with none of the finesse’ a teenager might give them. They led me back to my room.

“You stay here,” they commanded, leaving the room.

I sat there motionless for what seemed hours, though I’m sure it didn’t take that long. Of course I know there is no way to for me to know exactly what transpired, but being a parent myself, I can suspect. My parents probably went over to the neighbor’s house, where the teenager lived, and asked him about it. They probably went out and looked at the words. They may even had the teenager write the word, and compare what was on the wall against his own handwriting. At any rate they came back into my bedroom later, their minds made up, conviction held.

“Did you write those words on the wall, Michael?” I remember them asking me. Writhing with misery, I denied it again.

They kept on pressuring me. I kept on denying it. Finally they either broke me down, or decided that they had had enough.

“We know you wrote those words on the wall,” they firmly declared. “And you are going to remove them.”

I don’t recall much of what happened after that, so I think the beating came first. A good first rate pounding – not just for writing those words, but knowing them at all. I reckon they wanted to beat the knowledge out of me – and I doubt they knew how much I knew about the function of the word: fuck. Not as in just cussing but having sex. Nor did they know about that thing: us fucking each other all the time.

But I do remember in the end standing at that wall, my backside hurting – hurting all over, from thigh to shoulder – scrubbing at those words with an eraser – but the words wouldn’t come off. I’d bore down too hard, sinking the end of the pencil into the redwood siding. Try as I might, I kept seeing those words. There’s almost something symbolic in that thing: those words were burned into my soul, like those dark nights we’d kept silent about; like those days we kept silent – like those times we’d come in limping and go to the bathroom, cleaning ourself off. I kept on scrubbing at those words until late in the evening, until my hands were sore and blistered and I finally gave up. No matter what I could do, nothing would erase them; like the effects of the molestation, humiliation and rejection, they were there to stay. In a sense I was being punished – abused – for having given in; for having been molested – so often a tale told by childhood abuse survivors.

And in my heart a fear and an anger began to blossom. In mind’s eye I saw the gun.

What would the teenager do.


Note: This story deals with issues of child abuse / molestation and is not for everyone. Warning: May contain “triggers”.

The “F” Word

One day when I was eight or so, my brother and I were in his bedroom playing with our building blocks. Now these were sort of like Legos, but mostly not. They were much finer, for one thing.  The building set consisted of red plastic bricks with tiny scored sides and eight pegged bottoms that snapped together – thin, long, rectangular – along with windows, doors, triangular blocks for building roof eaves – and the roofs themselves, which were made from pasteboard printed to resemble shingles, with a single fold down the center so you could set them on the ‘house’ you built.

We had been building awhile – not much, just a bit, for my brother and I couldn’t play long together – we were more enemies than friends, and only reluctantly family members. And I decided that sex would be more fun than building houses.

Now don’t be shocked – my brother and I had been encouraged into incestuous sex years before by the teen. But of us two, my brother was usually a reluctant partner. I, on the other hand, embraced the sensuous, sexual part of the world wholeheartedly, and with eager passion. I loved the closeness of the bodies, the feel of their skin on mine – it was the closest thing to a hug we ever got once I told my dad to quit hugging me back when I was seven. (I don’t know why – it just felt WRONG with him – while feeling so right with all my friends. And no, he never molested us.) To me sex felt like love, and love was something I craved. Still do. But back then – back then it was different. I was more open and expressive of my sexual desires. The fact that I begged the teenager to molest me several times, if not many, still bothers me and many parts of me. Strange, I know, for a kid eight years old, but then again, we’d been molested for several years now.

Anyway, we are sitting there, and I have learned a new word for this thing we’ve been doing. It’s called “fuck”, not “cornhole” or “cornholing” as the teenager had originally taught us to refer to it. And I wanted to fuck, or at least get fucked. Or better yet, a little bit of both. After all – it beat building blocks.

So I try to talk my brother into this thing. Only he hasn’t learned the meaning of the word yet. He doesn’t know what “fuck” means. So I show him.

Taking one of the pasteboard roofs, I flip it over to the unprinted side, and begin drawing stick figures. I can still see them now. One bent over, the other behind him, a stick penis sticking out. I draw several renditions – more or less a stick figure rendition of each step – approaching, sticking it in, and all of that. I can still see those drawings in my mind. (I have a near photographic memory of the things I write or draw – especially the ‘important’ ones.) And I explain it to my brother, step by step.

Now, knowing what I do NOW, I realize he knew what I was talking about, but he just didn’t want to do it. I also knew that then, because suddenly, as loud as he can yell, he screams:

“I don’t WANT to FUCK!”

It didn’t take but an instant, with that word ringing through the house, that we hear my mother scream:

WHAT did you SAY???!!!” and there’s the rapid patter of feet approaching.

I quickly folded the roof up, somehow knowing it was “bad” and that I didn’t want to be caught knowing this knowledge, or depicting this thing. Our eyes round with terror, we both look up to see my mom storming down the hallway towards us.

“WHAT did you SAY?!!” she screams again, coming into the bedroom. I’m rapidly shuffling the roof in with all the others. “Did you say FUCK?!”

Well, I don’t recall exactly what happened after that – I think we were dragged from the room. The fact that I don’t recall what happened tells me that it must’ve been bad. I think somewhere along the line I told her the teenager had taught me the word – but maybe not. I do know I never said what he was DOING, or that I knew what the word really meant.

 

Now the strangest thing is that we kept that building set for years. I remember playing with it often – and my mom often put the blocks and roofs up. How she missed seeing that graphic – or seeing it, not understanding it – is beyond me. Even as a young kid I was a decent little artist; the meaning was clear, the stick figures proposed actions obvious. I know that because I can still see them (and hear that word my brother screamed ringing through the house.) We had those building blocks for at least six more years – and I know, I just KNOW she had to have seen the crude but accurate drawings.

 

 

 

 

Given the preceding tale, I can’t help but wonder how my mom couldn’t of known something was “going on” between us (the little kids of the ‘hood) and the teenager next door, who had quite an appetite for children. He was the classic “child molester” – trusted by the parents and often set in charge over his victims. I don’t recall him ever directly threatening us “not to tell”, unless you count the incident referenced in the story “The Warning”. I have some vague early memories – too vague to count as “fact” – of him telling us not to tell when he first “did” me (“My ‘First’ Time”). But I tend to view some of what happened then with a suspicious eye, hoping (wishing?) that everything I remember about that isn’t true.

I can not help but wonder how mom couldn’t of known, and if knowing, why she didn’t DO something about it (though it would’ve been too late – the damage had already been done). Perhaps she didn’t care (see stories about HER for more on that!), perhaps she regarded such things as “normal play”, or perhaps (most likely) she just refused to SEE what was going on, denying it to herself.

 

So I ask myself (more wondering than anything) – why didn’t she ever approach us about them? Why didn’t she at least mention them, or say something? Was it a parent’s denial of the obvious? Or was it (more likely) that she didn’t care? Or ????

 

Just another one of those puzzling leftovers from my childhood. It bothers a few parts of me badly. The teen part of me gets angry that he didn’t know we were abused for such a long time, that she didn’t know, didn’t recognize — just furious — and the child from ‘then’ very sad (but he is often sad) that she didn’t know and put a stop to it — and of course the emotions of those parts ‘bleed over’, which infects me with ‘their’ feelings, which can get bad sometimes until I get stern with them (or sometimes comfort the child part, little Mikie). As for the rest of “us”, we’re okay with it – I know > I < am. After all, the past is the past, and there’s no changing it, and even if she ‘discovered’ the truth at that moment, the damage was already done. But sometimes I hear the voices whispering, wondering, asking those questions: How could she not of known?, why didn’t she know? and why didn’t she do anything about it?  Or did she? Did she see the evidence there and deny the knowledge before her eyes? This and other things?  I don’t know.  

It really doesn’t matter. The fact is: it happened. But that was then and this is now, and all I can do is bemusedly puzzle over it, comfort my inner child that he did no wrong, and ignore certain aspects of this issue.

 

Weird, huh?


This is what working with ‘alters’ gets you . . . memories of things you knew and had never forgotten, just lost in the shuffle somewhere.  Since this one belongs to the small child, we have placed it here: in the Small’s journal, where such things belong . . .
and so we begin our tale.)

Elephant Ears

Whenever I’ve done my laundry, I’ve seen them sticking out – those pants with the inverted pockets, hanging white outside.

“Elephant ears.”

The phrase would whisper in my ears – my mental ones for inside; the ones tuned to those ‘voices’ that talk to me all the time.

“Elephant ears.”  And there would be a small child’s amusement; a lightening in my mind; a recognition of something for which I had no clue.  Just that phrase ‘elephant ears’.   And a sense of giggles.

A ‘good’ kind of thing; a good kind of feeling – not one I’d bothered probing into. After all: “who” cares? It was not bothering me.  Heck, I didn’t even know what ‘they’ were referring to. It was just some private joke to some of my insiders.  All I knew was that whenever I’d see a pair of pants or shorts with the pockets inverted, I’d think “elephant ears”.

Not a problem.  As a matter of fact, it felt rather good – kind of like when you see an old treasured toy from your childhood that you had forgotten that you had – that little sense of joy shared by the child in you.

But not anymore.  Now I know what “elephant ears” stands for.

Today as I was grabbing some jeans I noticed the pockets were hanging out.

“Elephant ears.” The giggling came to mind.  Now I’ve been busy working with my alters, trying to sort things out.  Trying to find the missing pieces, missing time, missing emotions, missing things.  And it’s real important to a DID person to know where those voices are coming from: who is talking, why, what they are referring to – and the emotions that you feel.

So hearing ‘elephant ears’ I began inquiring. I knew it was a childhood self; I could tell by the ‘feel’.  Perhaps it’s a particularly DID thing: that ability to “feel” like a small child – and I mean really ‘feel’ it, setting your adult parts aside – and experience that innocent laughter, that ‘feeling’. It is exactly the same feeling (or set of feelings) that one would have as a small child. Yeah, I can ‘dip’ into them, sampling of my ‘crew’ – and see and feel who is saying and feeling what, what’s up with this inner ‘you’.  And that’s one of the wonderful things about being DID: being able to ‘feel’ – and in some ways BE – that child mind.

And it came to me: this was from a joke – a childhood one. One that had been played on me.

And I remembered the punchline.

It goes like this:

“Hey? Wanna see an elephant?” (the guy says. And we can ‘see’ him in our memory; he is quite tall; our nose comes even with his navel; he is standing in the sunshine on – perhaps those are overalls he is wearing – he is either an older teenager than *the One* (who molested me all the time) – or some other adult – we get the feeling almost that this is some guy in his 20’s.)

“Yeah!” we all say (are there more of these kids? I get the feeling this happened more than one time. But I think it was only one of us.  Meaning ‘me’ – meaning broken Michael with his broken mind at such a young age.)

“Okay!” he says, pulling his pockets out – inverting them as I had seen in the laundry so many times.  We lean forward, eager-er.  “Here’s his ears!”

And then pulling down his zipper his whips out his penis and holds it in his fork of fingers, says:

“And here’s the trunk!”

Uproarious laughter – yeah ‘we’ think it’s a funny; what a joke: Elephant ears and then the ‘trunk’ comes out . . .  except

something darker occurs.  Or occurred.

We’re pretty sure we went on to suck that elephant’s trunk. We’re pretty sure this was a MAN – (he was … ’21’ rings in our mind, meaning 20-something, since that is the age we associate with persons in their early twenties) – who molested us.

It was in the forest by the way … (we’re ‘remembering on the run’ here – just impressions in our mind) . . . and yes, there WAS some running, but it was just in play – perhaps part of the molestation ‘game’ (where he’d chase us or us chase him – either way the game of tag ended with the same thing: us “doing” him (orally not sodomity in the behind).

A funny thing happened on the way to the park, because

It was while we were on the way to the wife to show her this thing, this joke (yeah, we’re kinda inappropriate that way – but not in public) – that I remembered what was going on: this joke – I was going to see if she wanted to “see the Elephant” (for that’s what it was called: “seeing the Elephant” meant you went to suck the old man) – but I had forgotten the end of the story; where the sex comes in . . .

And that’s what comes with working with alters.
Sometimes such troubling friends.

But I love them anyway (small child – BIG hugs for him; brave child for reminding me; no, 13 ‘whispered’ in his ear telling him to remind ‘me‘ – since this was on my mind:

“Elephant Ears”.

A phrase from across the years; a phrase caught in time: and now I know the source of the thing. (But not who did it; not yet . . . his body: yes – but like a cutoff photo, it ends at his neck. Barefoot and all, though, which tells me something . . . we’ll see.)

This is called ‘progress’ for a DID mind.

Strange Love


Strange Love

As I work my way through my tales of the ‘hood, I found a part of myself aching, and I was compelled to face the same question over and over again. Why, as a such a little boy, did I fall in love? For there were two boys I fell in love with at first sight one time. No, nothing ever happened with them, and they were in two totally different locations. But I wanted to be with them in the way I had with other little boys – closer than natural, perhaps – for I wanted to make love with them; which means I loved them. Because I did. A ‘love at first sight’ kind of thing.

One was Mark (or Matt; we really aren’t quite sure), a boy on my bus, a boy I saw frequently when I was seven and eight. He didn’t live in the hood; he lived some distance away. He had pale green eyes, wide set and framed with thick lashes, and a laughing face. I remember how the corners of his eyes would crinkle when he smiled – a broad and happy smile – as he got on the bus. He lived on a narrow road cut in the clay, embraced by high red banks. The bus got into a wreck there one time, flipping onto its side with all us kids flying in all directions. I wonder if I loved Mark because Mark looked a bit like my best friend, the boy next door – curly brown-blond locks, a square jaw, impish upturned nose. But unlike my friend who had a thin scattering of freckles, Mark’s complexion was fair. Each time he would get on the bus I felt my heart skip; I wanted to get close to him, know him, and let him know how drawn I was to his personality. It was a painful desire, and yet I never did. Even at that young age I was knew what what going on in my life was wrong; I was too ashamed to even speak of it. And yet – I felt that draw, that want – and yet at such a young age!

The other boy I fell in love with was in North Carolina when I was nine – an Asian boy named Leo whom I can still remember quite clearly. He was a lithe black haired youth, slightly taller than I, with a laughing face and a quick smile. Physically he did not resemble Mark, not at all; in that respect they were total opposites. He got along with the other kids, unlike me – a “new” kid in school, transplanted from the dirt poor outskirts of a southern town to what was to me a large and modern city. I don’t know why I loved him so much, but I did, and like all my loves, it is one I still feel ghostly echoes of. We would play, my eyes on him – and I was only what? Nine? And yet I wanted to be so much closer; to be as close as the teenager had been to me: skin to skin, warm body to warm body, feeling his flesh pressed against mine. Again, I think it was something about his personality which attracted me – something in the eyes, the laughing smile. So odd! So strange! – for a boy of nine. And yet I can still see him, dancing and running in the dappled shadows on the playground; laughing and playing. So odd – I do not remember being happy at that time. Was it because we had moved? Or was it because I was so afraid to approach this kid to whom I felt such a strong bond? I was pretty friendless that year, being the “new kid” and all – and we moved away before I could make good friends. Such is the life of a military kid: here today, gone tomorrow.

In the ‘hood my best friend and I were the closest of friends. Sexually abused by his older brother, the teenager, we were on intimate terms, and yet we were not lovers. We did not know how to be lovers, but we were both always together – and we did “things” together – the things his brother had shown him. And yet my feelings towards him – when I compare them towards my feelings towards Mark and Leo – it was is if my best friend and I had been thrown together, whereas in Mark and Leo I could sense something more was possible – a closer closeness than a sexual relationship can bring; a deeper love. Strange to think of a seven, eight, and nine year old boy being possessed by such feelings, but given my past I think I can understand, explain it a bit if you can not. But remember: I am still attempting to understand it myself – and the child within me.

I loved the teenager – that much was true. I still feel echoes of that love from the past. I trusted him with my life, would do anything he asked – and all I wanted in return was to be loved and accepted by him, even if in the end it all fell apart with his betrayal. Given that child’s desire and the way that the teenager showed his affection and acceptance – through sexual acts – led me to feel that the only way I could express or accept love was through intimate touch. It is a problem I still face in my relationships: for me love and physical intimacy are as closely intertwined as vines on a wall; rain to a rainbow. I cannot have sex without love; and with love comes the desire to please the other person “in that way”. That much I know was taught to me, courtesy of the teenager, and it has affected most of my relationships since then. It has been a love undeclared in many of my relationships, for in many it would have been rejected with scorn and embarrassment (or at least I so I believe, or believed, remembering with burning hurt the way the teenager betrayed me); in others it would have been morally wrong, damaging the other person. It is one of the reasons I am leery of making new friends, and do not tell close friends all that I feel. It’s one of the ‘crosses’ it seems I must bear, a sometimes painful one I do not like, but thus far am unable to change. The shrinks told me that it was wrong but to be expected given my past, this fusing of love and the idea of making love, but they were unable to totally break that bond – and I understand that even for ‘normal’ people, this can be an issue: confusing sex with love and vis versa.

Going back to those two boys – I know some of the “whys” of what I felt: I had already been introduced to the concept that love and sex were one and the same. But to this day I wonder why I felt the way I felt towards Leo and Mark – a feeling so strong that I can still recall their names (both real in this story) – as well as their faces. There are shadows to answers in here, this “story”, this batch of questions – and yet – they elude my grasp. The only answer that makes any sense to me is that perhaps, somehow or somehow – they may have been soul mates of mine.

I guess that’s something I’ll never know, and there is a bit of sadness in that knowledge.


(I must admit: this was a difficult story for me to write, and probably could have been done better. Some part of me – and I know which one: the child – had pushed me over and over again to write about this. I resisted, then finally caved in some weeks ago. I put it aside, not really sure if I wanted to post it – for what difference could it possibly make? It is in the past; there is nothing I can do about it. And the child within has been whispering, gently pushing me in his childlike way: “For me.” To tell a bit more of “his” story, how “he” felt, and still feels today. I used “I” in the narrative, for it was the “I” of yesterday who experienced those things, felt these things. As a result I get a bleed-over of “his” emotion. I guess it just goes to show that despite being a house divided, “I” and “he” are in many ways one and the same. But it is what it is, and I did the best I could to both communicate the depth of feeling I had; the desire I felt – and my confusion at feeling that desire. In some ways I find it a scary thing – that a seven, eight, or nine year old child could be capable of that kind of feeling, and embarrassing in that I was a boy, feeling that for another boy. But I realize: such is the way I was taught by the teenager and it’s made quite a difference in my life. As the past often define us, it has something to do with the way I am.)

WORMS

 
(Warning: A tale that references sexual child abuse of a kid; parasitic infections, and may contain triggering events and/or descriptions to those with sensitive souls, or abuse histories and/or pasts.)

“Turn over.”

I was barely awake; awakened by the light in my room.  My brother was asleep above me – we shared a bunk bed, and I always drew the lower bunk, me being the ‘littlest’ – though I was physically bigger than him, he had age – and therefore first choice and seniority – on me.  I think I was six or seven years old.

The light spilled from the hallway through the open door which lay towards the foot of my bed.  My father stood over me, dressed in his crisply starched uniform, sateen, Army green.  There was something in his hand.

“Turn over,” he says again, pushing at me.  I twist; uncomfortable – this was too much like something else I know; something pressing in at my memory; something I had done.  Does he want that?  I don’t know.  It feels strange, odd.  But I obediently roll to my side expecting anything; another hard nudge finishes the thing, and I’m on my belly.  I protest sleepily; I’m too tired to be “corn-holed” right now.  I feel the sheets draw down.  Then hard fingers scrabbling at my ass, find the hem to my pajamas, and pull my underwear down.  I can feel the cold air prickling my ass.

Sleepily I protest again; I don’t know what he’s doing, and I didn’t want this thing done.  His hard fingers spreads my ass wide – wide enough to hurt – and he takes a sample with a long wood handled swab – then spreads it on what seems to be a slide.  He yanks my underwear back up, spins on his heel and leaves.  I lay there, wondering, underwear drawn tight into the crotch of my ass; my butt burning from the hard swabbing he had done.

and I fall asleep again, mind troubled, filing – remembering – recording this thing for all time to come . . .

The results come in some time later.  I have pin worms.  I don’t know how I got them and I don’t know what to do.

That evening my momma hands me a suppository and takes me into the bathroom.

“Shove this up your ass,” she says, handing me the tinfoil wrapped thing.

I don’t know what to do.  After all – I’m just a little boy, only six or seven years old.

“Pull down your pants,” she explains to me patiently.  I do.  “Pull down your underwear.  Now get on the toilet.  Spread your legs.”  She hands me this thing, spins to walk away.  “And shove it in your butt.”

She neglects to tell me to take off the tinfoil.  That lack of information hurts – quite literally.

Later she comes in and finds what I have done.  I have this silvery capsule hanging out my ass – me spread-eagled on the toilet – and nothing is being done.

“No, no!  You stupid . . ,” she is disgusted with this thing.  She yanks it out my butthole – peels the tinfoil halfway down – hands it back, and says:

“Shove it in.”

So I did – once again ‘filing’ this thing away for future memory – another ‘not remembered because it was never forgotten’ kind of thing.  I sat there with that thing hanging out my ass for quite a while.  Even half peeled – it wouldn’t ‘go in’.  (No wonder the teenager loved my ass, along with my best friend, eh?)  Anally retentive I reckon . . . don’ know.

But sometimes I wonder . . .

Pin worm is a very common parasitic infection among children 8-10 – so maybe there’s nothing to it.  Just a chance happening; an act of nature.

On the other hand, a plague of ‘worms’ swept my ‘friends’ – ALL of the the ones who ‘slept’ with HIM.  All of us were used to doing this ‘thing’ – sucking him off after he’d been in somebody (like doing my best friend – then I – then having us both perform oral sex on him – and then us doing each other – same kind of deal) – over and over again.

You know what they say about group sex and STD’s – all it takes is one.  Just one person to become ‘infected’ – and then everyone’s got this ‘disease’. . .

In this case we all got worms – or at least most of us who ‘went to bed’ with him.  Clean now . . . but then – what it wasn’t ‘horror’ so much as just grossed out – even as a little kid who’d seen some pretty gross things already – and to this day we are fastidious about some things (plus we learned a lot in survival class – over and over again).

But to this day . . . (sickening shudders) – parasites and things . . . yuck.  And I wonder what the parents thought . . . how many were like my mom, ‘turned off’ by this thing . . . unwilling to ‘help’ their little boy beyond a little of inadequate instruction that ended up hurting him . . . I don’t know (shaking my head).  I just don’t know sometimes. (saddened a bit)

Just a tale of a tale of a piece of tail (ourselves, our little boy inside) . . . who got sick.  (and yeah; I know it’s harsh; we kinda look at him like a fond little whore right now . . . but we still love him, and understand what he’s done . . . and it’s all right.  It’s all right.  We love him nonetheless . . . little wormy thing, LO fond L’s.)

(and written a little bit later – I started this entry over a month ago; it’s been that hard – I can only say that I still feel sick and disgusted . . . it’s a hard thing to do; accepting that ‘he’ sucked a cock that was dipped in shit – sometimes his own – mindlessly and ignorantly, wanting only to “please” this being, this person he was pleasing – no matter what he had to do.  And yeah – it helps to know this is a common childhood ‘infection’ – but even still, we can’t help but wonder how we got that internal parasite – whether it was through ‘normal’ childhood causes – or something else quite darker and deeper (in both a literal and figurative sense . . . whether we got it through normal childhood contacts – or another thing.  We feel sorry for him – saddened for him – but even still: it is hard sometimes, facing what you have done – facing those memories of THOSE events of the past . . .)


Last night was a bad night, or at least the beginning of it was.

The fact that I am posting this in “The Little Shop of Horrors” should tell you – warn you – that what follows could be triggering, could lead to nightmares, could lead to other things . . .

Which is why I am posting it.

It all started with Channel 52, Turner Classic Movies.  They were playing “Doctor Zhivago” which I had seen before.  (In looking up that link I saw that it was released in 1965 – which about supports what happened and what I felt, thought, and perhaps believe).

I turned to my wife and asked her if she’d ever seen the movie.  She said no, and I was amazed because it is a classic love story – one I love, and like seeing on occasion (which is rare for me – usually having seen a movie once, I am done with it – forever).

But I remembered (having NEVER forgot) that my parents once left us to go see a movie . . .

and I wondered, thought, and felt . . . it was “Doctor Zhivago” . . . and then that night came to me . . . and I wondered: was it THAT night?  Was THAT the night they went to see “Doctor Zhivago“?

I don’t know and I reckon it’s not important . . . but it was.  While they were sitting there watching a beautiful love story I was being abused.  Running around the house screaming.  Raped.  A finger up my ass.  Sucking off a dog.  Doing other things that night that hurt and I don’t want to remember . . .

So (switching) – I turned to my wife and said: “I’m going to bed.” (tho’ it was not me; we were F’d up, me ‘inside’, another one – the little one? – taking “over”) . . .

and we went to bed.  And we kept our underwear on (which is a strange thing; normally we sleep in the buff – something our wife does, and taught us from the very beginning of our going to bed with her) . . .

and when she went to drape her leg over my thigh (as she often does) I put my knee up, blocking her . . .

and my lips hurt.  The inside of my lips, and I tasted blood . . .

and I knew what that was.  I knew what that was from.

It was from curling my lips in while giving HIM a blowjob.  It was from having the insides of my lips CUT by my own teeth as he shoved it in . . . and out . . . and in again, a million, a hundred times.

“Protect your teeth, cover them,” – and he showed me how.  Turning my lips in to cover my teeth, giving him a firm smooth surface (slick, too, from my own spit and later my blood) to rub on.

And that’s what I remember.

’nuff said.

(hurting inside; but not real bad; just real ‘upset’ in some undefinable ways . . .)

Go figure.

I can’t.

Body memories.  Whutta bitch.

’nuff said again.  Tho’ come (cum) to think about it . . . I’ll never be done with this shit.  Cuz’ it hurt like hell … him pushing it in, the sharp pain – and me NOT being happy he was doing it – or ME doing it – but HIM doing it anyway and ME not complaining none cuz’ I didn’t want to hurt him none

while he was hurting me.

Badly.

In some ways.

’nuff said.

again and again and again and again and again . . .

that’s the way memories should be? (asking, stating a question)

Dogs


(sigh)

WARNING.  TRIGGERS.

That’s all I’m going to say about that.  Be prewarned.  “Caution.”  “Triggers.”  Why should life contain those verses?

(space for your safety)

(space for your safety)

(space for your safety)

(space for your safety)

(space for your safety)

Contains descriptions of Bestiality and Child Abuse.  Do not go there is you do not want to and are not strong enough to stomach this. 
Mostly done by my inside alter, Michael or “Mikie” as he likes to call himself.



Triggers.

Dogs are triggers to us sometimes.  Especially large ones.

This is because we used to have sex with dogs.

During our first time it was our abuser doing it to us.  He had us sucking dogs.  That was bad and it stinks.  It smelled bad and it tasted bad and there was this thing in our throat.  It hurt us bad sometimes taking it all in.

Later on we got fucked by dogs.  This was big dogs doing it to us.  They would enter our ass and nearly rip us out.  There are those large things on the dogs balls – they are like big balls on his penis – and he would enter us and those things would swell up locking him inside of us, ripping us.

They hurt us bad sometimes having a dogs penis shoved up your ass.  Even worse was when they would lock onto us; locking INTO us and then we’d be locked with the dog with them things swelled up big inside of you and they can’t get out and it would be inside of us hurting us.

clear streams and jets of streams shooting out inside of us.  It felt good some of the times but mostly good but sometimes bad really bad when he’d get to humping and trying to pull us out and it would nearly be ripping our asshole as large and big as we are round or at least it felt so

once we were bleeding from the ass from what he did.  he had ripped us inside somewhat I reckon.  no matter we are getting better from those things.

it hurts real bad to have a dog rip his thing from you when its all swelled up inside.

the dog claws were pretty bad and things nothing like having a dog pensi shoved in your ass while he’s expanding and ripping at your shoulders and things with his claws anxious panting and rolling his eyes and dogbreath in your face while he comes.

dogbreath on your shoulders smells bad anyways

dog penises smell bad as well.  and they are meaty and round and not like ours.  They are disgusting.

but the claws were the worse sometimes we got hurt bad by those claws sometimes clawing up and down our sides until we were bleeding while the dog is getting it on and we’re hunched all over on our hands and elbos and nees and its all falling apart right here and now it hurt soo fuckinbad.  getting ripped up like that by those claws and things.  the penis in the ass wasn’t so bad until they’d let me go and then they’d rip this thing outta me frightening away the dog and me and the dog screaming only i wasn’t screamngn so much as asking them to let me go asking pleasing the dog saying doggie please get the fuck offn’ me and let me GO ow NOW and it would hurt so bad up inside of me.

dogs.

we kinda love them but always have ahd them but they hurt me bad osmetimes.

that’s why i got me them girl dogs

they can’t hurt me anymore.

Dust


(warning: TRIGGERS, Mature Audiences Only)

DUST

Dust in your nose
straggling gaggle of kids
racing down the driveway
sand beneath our feet
caressing our bared toes.

Running
up the road
down the hill
through the woods
he meets you.

“Here,” he says, fondling his crotch.
“Here,” he says, dropping his drawers.
“There,” he says as you drop to your knees
in the sand and scrub and pine.
He enters you.

“More,” he says – it’s one dark night.
“Harder,” he says as tongue goes twisting
Dirty hands are grasping your face
you can feel the sand as the dick goes in.

(sighing with pleasure)
Not you, but him
He grasps your hair as he goes in
as you go on
pleasing him
hoping to please him
hoping he has something nice to say.

“That’s enough,” the voice comes commanding
from over your head eyes shut somewhere.
Choking from the thrusting; choking back some nightmare
that then releases
and you let go . . .

“Here, turn over.”
and you do
tears streaming down your eyes
but hidden inside
as you do his bidding
hoping
somehow
he will protect you.

The entry hurts; he uses his thumb
to guide the way.
No lubricant; just spit it
splitting you in half.
And you wince
as he goes in.
And you cry deep inside
but you hide
the tears.

Urine
pours into you
filling your bowels.
He is done.
He is satisfied
but why aren’t I?
Empty feelings
empty holes
filled by his love
only it wasn’t love at all
just a feeling of being used.

You get up
sighing
pulling your pants up
your dress: a short cut set of shorts
cut too high
ragged streamers of thread
white cotton
underwear . . .

And you go on playing
back to playing once again
with this man-boy
who is your friend . . .

Dust in your nose, a
straggling gaggle of kids
racing down the driveway
sand beneath our feet
caressing our bared toes.

And memories like the wind . . .
blowing through your souls
echoing senses of sadness
loneliness inside
just a kid
a kid who tried . .

and died

but still lives
with us, inside.


It’s hard to describe the roundhouse effects of Child Rejected One, Child Rejected Two, and Child Betrayed.  A ‘one-two-three’ punch to the child he’d loved and the child who had loved him (meaning our pedophile friend and our little one, Mikie).

Some of it I suppose was due to age.  Little Mikie had taken on some years; quite in the same way a hungry person will put on weight.  Not physically: Mikie was a trim and fit kid; able to run fast, play hard, tanned and muscular beneath a Southern humid sun.  But he’d already changed . . . big for his age; his shoulders broadened; by the time he was ten or so the other kids wouldn’t take him on – even the teenagers pretty much left him alone.

But in that ‘getting bigger’ perhaps was another clue: he’d ‘outgrown’ that teenager friend of his – or perhaps the teenager had outgrown him.  Who knows?  We haven’t got a clue.

But on the other hand . . . the teenager was covertly scheming to have us coerce and coax that little kid over … the one from another next door.  That sand blond kid; thin and with freckles – a giggly tough but kind hearted kind of kid – was only five years old.  About the same age I was when the teenager started doing me.  (Only I was about a little bit older; maybe six or seven years old.  But so innocent in all so many other ways … but not unfamiliar with terror and pain.)

So maybe it was the innocence that ‘caught him’.

All I know is what he did to me.

That first betrayal: that shoving aside … all had taken place (I think) in the period of about one year (amazing, come to think of it now: how those three events can stand out so strongly like that; they were affecting me and mine so much both then as well as now).

But examining it from the child’s side:

Mikie’s father was gone.  The closest thing he had to a father . . . who knows?  There were several men: the one next door (a massive man, good humored besides) and his side-kick (a gruff old man chewing a cigar and reclining on his sofa out in the heat of the yard).  The one across the street?  (His wife was a ‘momma’ of sorts to all of us) . . .

It takes a village to raise a kid, and we certainly did: that neighborhood was like a village all unto itself – safe from the law and violence (for the most part; what happened in stayed in; what happened out – stayed out, but came in sometimes nevertheless…)  Everyone’s ‘momma’ was the momma (with the notable exception of a few) – and everyone’s daddy to be obeyed (even the drunk ones; or the ones that made no sense).

It was the rule of the law; the lay of the land . . .

and the teenager was included within.

Only he was some kind of ‘demi-god’ – middle management, if you prefer.  Falling under control of the grownups; only slightly less in the eyes of some kids – he was the ‘demi-god’ – one of several, to be sure – but he was MY demi-god and I loved him – strong and clear and clear.

And then he threw me away; threw me aside; favoring someone ‘better’ – or at least unknown – younger looking; younger acting – more naive in his innocence; more round eyed; doe eyed . . . than me.  Perhaps that was it.  I don’t know.  All I know is he rejected me … then abused me some more.  (The twisting emotion; a sickening pain .. the one of some love betrayed.  Bitterness; anger in this thing; the betraying of emotions.)

And then love died (I’m thinking to myself; wondering what all had gone on).

We can feel that in ourselves; that love softly dying…

only it wasn’t softly at all; it was off of that first moment; when the teenager betrayed him; announcing to the crowd:

“Mikie really loves sucking some dick.”  and then the neighbors laughed.

Cruelly, mockingly; just as the teenager did that night in the tent (and some … I don’t know what, but we wanted to say “some more”.  Perhaps he mocked us again later on; I don’t know – but I feel a real deep hurt; a screaming that it did and I see my friend and he – Mikie my own kid….I think we both got insulted some of the time which is why we were so tightly bound together – B., my best friend back then.  With the handsome eyes (wide spread); curling sand brown locks on his head … he was a cute kid looking back in time; here and he and I.)

(sighing again … this pain is so hard; Mikie loved B., the teenager’s younger brother – Mikie’s own age – as such a friend…)

Both of there at the beginning; but not so much the teenager at the end.

This is going to be a long post I see.  We’re already over 800 words (the ‘proper amount’ for a ‘commercial blog’ – but this is not some commercial we’re producing.  It is I and my friends … and there’s a lot going on … a lifetime we’re trying to recover…so be patient with me dear Reader and friend … while we ramble on.)

A hatred of love … I think that’s where it began.  The seed was planted in little Mikie’s heart.  It would take more, of course – uprooted, rejected again.  Losses overseas.  But eventually it became such a thing – a source of all his pain.  Love, then lost; love and lost again.  Giving it another try – and violently yanked from its source.  Again and again this sort of thing happened – loving and losing again.

By the time we were 13, I (Matthew) was done with it.  And so (I reckon) was Mikie.   Or at least he ‘retreated’ – went inside – leaving me alone to run the farm.  Hoeing those long rows of pain; trying to undo what had been done (that’s M3 talking right there) – but for ME??  Matthew??

I couldn’t do it again.  Not for him; and not for Mikie.

Not even for myself.

And that’s when the wall began.  The inner ‘walls’ sealing ‘him’ (Mikie) inside – the ‘outer walls’ against the world.

We had been betrayed by love – for we HAD loved; DID love – and got a kick in the face (a dick in the face); and something rammed up our ass.  It resembled a bootprint for sure – but it hurt much more; going deep within . . .

just like that teenager friend.

I wish I could go ‘aaaarrrrgggghhh!!!!’ with a cry of anguish; but I can’t; I hold it in.  It wouldn’t do no good.  I know; we’ve tried it before..

When the pain gets so bad the cutting begins … we’re drinkin’ a beer, numbing my friend; and my being Mikie (so we can’t hear his whimpering … tho’ in my mind I AM trying to hold him close … but it’s like hugging a cactus; each spike brings us pain – those spikes of loves lost, betrayed – over and over again.

I wish I could get over this thing (we wish we all could heal.)  On this one thing if no other . . .
one day maybe we will….

(sighing)

We cannot even begin to scrape the surface of the damage that he’s had; Mikie and our friend (Matthew is in mind).

Those two; most precious to our hearts.
perhaps that’s where the pain began…
deep in our hearts with parents who … while taking care of us … beat us and hurt us all.

Screwing us up forever in relationships ….
driving us to these things
looking for love in the wrong places
darkening our angel’s wings…