Tag Archive: child molestation

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.

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


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.

No More Hugs

No More Hugs

Harlow's Monkeys

When I was seven years old I did something for reasons I can only guess at, and about which I harbor certain regrets – but in some ways don’t regret at all. It is hard to explain.

I remember the day, the time, this scattering of moments with crystal clear clarity. I can clearly see the bedroom, lit by the overhead light; I can feel myself in the bed, the covers pulled halfway to my chest; see their rumpled billows embracing me. I can even orientate myself; my head is to the north, my feet toward the south; the doorway is to my left and down, and the hall light is on. It is bedtime.

My dad comes in. Despite his cruel ways, his hidden sadism, he is smiling, almost laughing as he bee-bops through the doorway and across the linoleum tile floor. He was always fond and affectionate when it came time to put us to bed – though he has a rude way of awakening us – coming in in the morning, jumping on the bed and roughly tickling us, and sometimes even worse – grabbing us by one heel and snatching us up and dangling us upside down. That’s the way he used to beat us sometimes – holding us up with one hand by one foot, and lashing as hard as he could with a thick leather belt with the other. I don’t remember those times real well, but my brother recently told me, triggering flickers of memory and pain; of squirming like a tortured frog within his grasp. I guess I am fortunate I cannot remember those times as well as my brother, for my brother has told me he could hear me scream and scream and scream. To me they are just blackness; a time buried and lost in my memory, or within the memory of my inner child.

He comes to my bed; places a knee on the bed. I feel uneasy, uncomfortable. I don’t know why – just a general uneasiness. He bends over, scooping my thin shoulders – broad for a child, but thin as a kid – in his arms. The warmth of his closeness, the feel of his closeness, his bristled chin scraping my face. He hugs me tightly, goes to kiss me – a parent’s kiss, nothing more. And when he releases me I tell him.

“Dad? I don’t want you to hug me anymore.” I feel odd telling him him this, but my uneasiness is forcing me. I don’t know why I am uneasy; just that it’s there, the feeling of some undefinable something wrong.

“What?” he asks kindly, his face a few inches from mine.

“I don’t want you to hug me anymore,” I say – a bit more forcefully, a bit more sure. “I’m a big boy. I don’t want hugs.”

He leans back and looks at me, confusion clear upon his face.

“Why – okay,” he says, taking his knee from the bed and rising. His face is clouded, then clears. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I say. My uneasiness is leaving, and yet I am troubled – there is a deep churning I cannot describe, even now. A dark thing within me. A bothersome feeling I cannot pin down.

“Well. Okay.” His face is now unreadable, a slate hiding his emotions. He goes to the door, pauses with his hand on the light switch.

“Good night,” he says, flicking off the switch. The room plunges into darkness. I can see him, a dark featureless shadow framed in the doorway, silhouetted by the hall light.

“Good night, dad,” I say, turning over as is my wont, towards the crevice between the bed and the wall. That’s how I often slept – my nose stuck in that crevice, breathing in the cool air from beneath the bed.

Over the years I have replayed that scene in my mind, wondering. My mom was devoid of physical affection – I don’t remember her ever hugging us. During my childhood and teenage years, I don’t remember them ever saying they loved us, except as a tool, such as “We are doing this (a punishment) because we love you.” That was the only time love was ever mentioned – as a reason for a punishment. Why would I suddenly decide to put an end to the only source of parental affection available to me? Why did I do that – and yet seek an even more intimate form of affection from my peers and the teenager next door?

I suspect I know why. I guess I write this as a warning something to look for in your child, though I cannot be sure this was the reason, nor do I wish to raise undue suspicions. But I think – and this is just a thought – that my uneasiness arose from what was happening between the teenager and I. That I was afraid my dad would go further, as the teenager did. That that kiss would turn into something else; something more adult and demanding. The press of his body against mine – I guess it subconsciously reminded me of something, what was happening to me two or three times a week during the summer; a little less during the school year.

My brother and I both discussed this in a sidelong sort of fashion. We never admit the sexual abuse that happened. But we both agree: dad never touched us “like that”. He never did anything sexual to or towards us. He never (to the best of our faulty recollections) – touched us inappropriately. There was only one time he ‘touched’ me in a way that was bad, but that was for a medical procedure, and if it hadn’t been for the sexual abuse by the teenager, it wouldn’t still stick out in my mind. I’ll write about that sometime later.

The majority of my ‘selves’ regret that day, my decision – but the little child inside still doesn’t. I don’t know why. To this day I can feel his firm resolution on the issue. (In my mind I can see him shaking his head “no”, still stubbornly refusing to change his mind.) Strange. This is one of the problems with my kind of madness. Having these ‘beings’ within you, some fighting other parts of your mind.

But I think – and this is the warning, the admonition – that when a small child suddenly, out of the blue, refuses or no longer wants a parent’s affection – when it suddenly becomes uncomfortable to the child, makes them uneasy – it may indicate . . . something.

Just a thought. Perhaps a warning,. I don’t know. Like I said: I’m still not sure why I felt so uneasy about my dad hugging me anymore – but I have my suspicions.

And sometimes suspicions are grounded in fact.

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.


(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 . . .)

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….


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…

*Warning: Potential ‘triggers’ for Fellow Survivors & Friends* 😦

I can’t blame a single adult in our childhood community for any of the sexual abuse that went on.  It was all (to the best of our knowledge) committed by the children . . . and the children’s ‘father’, if you want to label the one who ‘started’ the abuse that went on.

It was a Children’s Conspiracy; and One of Silence as well.

None of us children told.  Not one of us; not to the best of my knowledge.  Sure – the signs must have been there (remembering limping in; piss running down my leg from where the teenager had “peed in there”.  Why didn’t mamma suspect something was going on?)

No; we all knew it was ‘something bad’ and something ‘dark’ to be hidden and done in secret corners; this ‘secret’ thing we had.  Fucking each other in the ass; sucking one another dink-um.

And the teenager was at the beginning of the herd.

So was he innocent or guilty (as I am thinking some of the times)?

This guy had a hard life ahead; hell, he had a hard one at the time.  Thirteen years old and here he is working with his father – a mason – busting his ass all of the time.  Doing a “man’s” job and a man’s day’s labor for his dad – helping to support his own family … fucking his brother in the ass … doing his own little sister (she was several years younger than I) . . .

and so was it HIS fault in doing this sort of thing?

We aren’t really knowing; not really – and yet knowing THIS sort of sick and twisted thing: he was a part and product of his own environment;  just as WE are.  And WE could have been HIM – quite easily – for he was leading ALL of us children down that merry path – having sex with him and having it with some others . . .

I remember the times …

warm summer’s day … up in the treehouse … forty feet up in the air … just me and ‘him’ (the teenager’s little brother – and my best friend) … looking at porno magazines (they were just simple black and white sort of things; catalogues I’m thinking; but enough – moving on) … and then I ask him (bored with my own pictures) to pull his pants on down …

Him and me staring at the house.  (this is why we didn’t get caught for so long; meaning NEVER).  He’s in the barn; so are we and we’re staring over the door at the house (his own one) further on …. and I’m fucking him in the ass …

so anyone who is looking will just see two little boys (dirty brown faces) peering at them over the shed’s half-door….

Staring at the house again (only this is a different one).  He (Someone else; another friend) …. is behind me on his knees … doing ‘things’ … I’m leaning on the rough concrete; elbows down; face staring; watching the windows of the house (his momma’s in there) … while he ‘has his fun’ …. waiting for my turn to come.

The grownups never KNEW ANYTHING . . .

The closest I ever got caught was in a doghouse during a great storm…my dad came out and caught us two (me and another friend) … engaged in some intimate action.  But we had saw him coming and ducked and pulled and getting our clothes on as those feet came on closer …. hearts panicking and pulsing and mouth numb from sucking … quitting and getting our clothes on ..

“What are you doing in there?!”  is all he said.
“Nothing,” was the cure.
He never asked again.

Why mom never caught on to those drawings we did … the ones of little kids fucking one another in the ass …. it was right THERE for her to see!  And yet what did she do with it?  She folded it up and put it in with our toys ….

Don’t you think a parent should think something is ‘wrong with it’ when her 8 year old kid tells the neighbor kid’s oldest daughter that he knows what her ‘thing’ looks like – and then ‘shows her’ with his hands?

Instead we got the ‘sex education talk’.  At 8 years old.  We were very much interested in all the mechanics of this thing.  Brother was not so much interested as he was into being disgusted.

He didn’t make very much as a sexually molested kid.  He wasn’t ‘into it’ like I was – really into this thing.

How GOOD it felt … not the “lovin’ ” so much as the other … feeling warm hands on my back; stroking my head; soft murmurs and things; ENCOURAGEMENT … not warning words; not them hateful glances my momma was giving me and things ….

It’s no wonder we kids kept things so silent.

It was the only way we hid.

Me and Little Mikie

That’s how little Mikie feels . . . picking words out of our heads.

He’s felt that way for a long long time – we know, we’ve used those words before:

“A Used Condom”.

That’s how he feels (and felt) after this thing; the “Rape of Little Mikie” combined with “A Groomed Child Rejected: Part Two“.

We’ve had that feeling since we were 17 or so; definitely by the age of 21; or 24; 26.

I guess we’ve had that feeling all along; ever since that thing happened (the rejection).

And then “The Groomed Child Betrayed” – something yet to be ‘published’.

I know a lot of women (and men, tho’ we aren’t allowed to admit this thing) know what it feels like to be used – a used condom in the making.

They call it ‘rape’ but we went along (sad fact to say but it is there – and we truly and really did not know any better.  Had we known we would have never gone along or gotten along with it.)

But it’s sad.

Imagine an 8 or 9 year old child experiencing this thing: the sensation of being a used condom.  Something to hold another man’s sperm; nothing else anymore: just a THING – something sickened for someone else’s pleasure.

And that was a man and that was a child and look what he’s done to him.  Us selves included sometimes (hurting him; hiding him inside – hiding him from ourselves sometimes (see the Ice World thing.)

Matthew is one who is especially good at that thing.  He hid the child from us for 14 years.  Or so.  Or so he thought.  Or so …. something.  He had come to hate him: this ‘feeling thing’ – and all feeling besides (besides rage and depression that is.  And loneliness, too: he felt that kind of thing.  Still does.  Waiting on some man lover to come and save him, I’m reckoning; guessing, not knowing / don’t knowing that thing.  Knowing he tried with his uncle sometimes (that didn’t work out good.)  Knowing he tried with others and failed.  Knowing he failed all the time (while keeping us alive – good work, Matthew – even if you almost died doing that sort of thing – and killing US beside you).  Yeah, there’s bitterness in those tears, even if we’re not allowed to shed them (another Matthew kinda thing there, folks.  See his views on women and emotion; published just today.)

We (he?) hates this thing; all kinds of things (yeah, it’s him.)  Confusing to us sometimes (not him; the emotions) – for he was once a “Controller” – able to take control of our emotions and things (including some of our own actions) – making them ‘his’ to control – which means he has a lotta swing and power in his grasp (even if I am 53 years old.)  A teenager self run rampant over the ramparts; lord of the castle kinda thing.

An empty castle I’m sorta expecting /suspecting; this kinda sorta thing.

And we’re hating it while trying not to hate HIM for creating it … embracing him in our own mind (while he throws OFF our embraces; not wanting any sort of thing .. to do with love and emotions; something which he had once denied when we were 13-1/2; especially and specifically to DO this sort of thing: cutting off ALL emotions and feelings deep inside of him.

And it worked well, this thing … almost for 17 years (?).

Until we met this woman and her family …

no, it started before this thing..

another woman and HER family

and then it all went wrong (not her fault, MINE (M3) for feeling this thing: that we should have a family of our own)

and so it went well until this wife and thing cut us off from the family that had bound us / bind us to this thing called “loving one another” meaning loving someone else kinda thing.

women.  You just can’t trust ’em.  We’ve learned that lesson well – that one taking us over and under things – into a living hell.

oh well.

Can’t trust ’em (Matthew speaking there.  He’s had a lot of control over the last few days.  Wife’s fault, he’s saying.  Surely she is (the one at fault) for her ‘making us there’ – meaning something, I don’t know what.  Letting him type a bit between the words . . . because we’re hurting . . . .

and little Mikie is feeling like a used condom again.

Too sad for words.  (but can’t say them: see that “not feeling” thing again”.

If you can see how this all ties together – you are doing better than we can.

Just know: we are trying, and trying to love together.

sometimes it’s just hard.

Signing off:

Mikie and Friends.


We are camping in our back yard; me the teenager and I.

We’ve set up the military puptent (everything around here is military, except the outside world – and I guess that includes everything outside the house as well as in – though we are living inside the house, where things are much better – and worse at the same time.  The outside world is a civilian neighborhood.  A sandlot and stuff -that’s the neighborhood we live in; surrounded by decent neighbors (most of them) and our friends.

This family is called ‘neighborhood’ – and neighborhood is one big family – tighter than that.  Our family doesn’t have what this neighborhood does: a sense of belonging and rightousness; loving hugs and things.  A woman who teaches us piano, and treats us as if we were one of her own sons.  (She has 3 of them; and a daughter on the way.)

But its come nightfall, and I and the teenager and my best friend – or perhaps it was my little brother – I’m not sure – he left in the middle of the night to go sleep in the house, leaving me and the teenager alone.

We are surrounded by the smell of dark canvas; OD green it is called.  Olive Drab (kinda like our own life: Olive Drab is covering everything, and every thing we get in.  Olive Drab is the color of our skin; when we bleed blood it is green.  I know because our momma has told us so: we are Army within and without and in all times and things.

Olive Drab kinda describes my life in these things.

And we are in the tent, and the smell is of old canvas – Olive Drab: an Army thing.  You would have to go stand close or in an old Army tent to know this smell.  Once it hits you – once you’ve ‘been in’ – you’ll never forget this thing.  (back me up on this, old soldier friends of mine – yeah YOU out there who have been in the military.  YOU know this smell.  Tell them what it brings: the friendship and the comfort of Olive Drab – and that gentle undercurrent of fear.  Smelling it you know you are back ‘home’.  Wherever that one is.  For this time of your life.)

The teenager turns next to me.  I am a small child (but a BIG one inside!) – about 8 or 9 years of age, I’m reckoning.  Not much older than that.  (I’m thinking the teenager had this thing for younger kids; ones about half my age.  We have outgrown him and his pedophilic tastes.)

“Please fuck me in the ass,” I remember begging him.

He looks at me.  I’m curled up in my soft warm blanket.  Only its not a blanket at all.  Its this thing like a giant green worm.  Its called “Sleeping Bag, Arctic”  It will keep you warm down to -30 some odd degrees or something.  It is filled with warm douse queen warm feathers. (He means “Goose down, Army, military or something.)  It is OD green.  Just like our lives are at this time.

He rolls over and looks at me.  The flashlight is dying; a yellow beam.  It is so low – and the canvas so thick – that not a single beam escapes.

“I don’t want to,” he says.

I beg him some more.  I put my hand on his arm.  I’m praying that he will love me.

“Please cornhole me in the ass,” I’m begging him again, over and over.  There are tears in my eyes.  I want this thing, knowing in some way it is a BAD thing I am doing – the parents will KILL us if they find out – but I can’t help it.

I’m wanting this thing called “love” – the thing that’s been missing my entire life, even unto now.

And so he does it.  Rolling me on my belly, he pulls my shorts down (painfully, grasping and grabbing and yanking on them.)  Then he does my underwear.  Yanking and pulling them down to my knees.

And then he spreads my ass and rolling on top of me (there is nowhere to stand; we have done this thing standing again before I think; I know I am: he fills my ass with pee sometimes and it trickles down my leg and then I go home wondering: will my mom find out?  Will she see/smell this thing?  This dried urine on my ass and thighs and things?  But she never does.)

And then he’s doing it but it HURTS this time; he isn’t using his finger and spit this time; he’s doing it bone dry.  But I’m loving him (sort of; it HURTS this time and he’s being ROUGH with me – not slapping me around this time, but hurting me somewhere deep inside – inside in a lot of places and ways I’ve never imagined before; never expected to be hurt this way by him; never even saw this one coming.  But I should have.  I am a child of 9 years old.  I should know this thing.  There’s been subtle hints before: him pushing me away in favor of my younger brother who is  slightly older than I – but looks much younger; plus he’s pale and thin and weak in the body and mind.  Not like me who is strong and fit and a husky child with blonde hair.  Crewcut you know: military mind; father running our life – even when he’s not there.  Off to war or something; he’s always off doing something.  Even when he’s there.)

But we look adorable, that I am knowing.  Adorable enough for this thing (hoping we do, because we want to be LOVED by him, one and all and everyone about and around us.)  Silly dreams us children are having: wanting to be loved.  By anyone and everyone and getting nothing in return.

That’s the way it is I suppose sometimes: you find yourself reaching out only to have your hand slipping away – or slapped or something.

Like a slap in the face this thing is; what is coming in our futures.  And we just don’t know it yet.

Our entire life has been on giant slap in the face sometimes.  I should have saw it coming.

He rolls off.  He’s not done – but he is.  A growing sense of frustration.  We look at him sad, twisting our head to look at the head against the green canvas walls.  He looks mad at us.  We were enjoying the feeling of his skin; skin against our backs and things.  Hands on our arms; holding us down somewhat as he put this thing in; hurting us and things.

And we enjoyed it – but not that last part.  The hurting and things.

And he tells us?

“You were goddamn lousy.  You aren’t no good.  You ain’t worth doing it with.  Your ass stinks like shit.  I’m gonna be leaving you alone forever; you’re never gonna come back.  I don’t want you doing this thing with me anymore, this cornholing thing.”  And then he laughs (quite cruely, hurting, taunting)  “I want you to find more small children for me.  That kid and you next door.  I want him.”

And then he laughs some more – cruelly and mocking.  We are starting to cry those little pitiful tears of childhood lost; a childhood that never truly began.

And he turns over and falls asleep, turning the light off (in so many freakin’ ways, and the light in our souls: this loving him) – leaving us to cry and wonder, rolling on our back and staring at this thing

This Olive Drab our life has become.  You can’t even see the stars outside.

It is too dark, this thing.

(Final note: author’s note: Imagine you are that small child.  You’ve just been rejected by this friend of yours; the one you have been loving and playing with for four and five small years.  Your dad is always gone; your mom a mean and small cruel bitch – as bitchy as they come, and even crueler sometimes: locking you in your room for hours; sometimes .. sometimes it seemed for years.  Yes, we did this thing: locking ourselves in our “rooms” for years – years and years and years without end.  sometimes we are doing it right now; hurting inside, comforting our small child crying – he gets hurt so easily and so readily … and we are crying for him

But never on the outside.  We can’t cry for him.  Not really.  Not for anyone – even you my friends, even when we see YOU twisted and tortured in pain.

But know this: we are crying within forever – for you, for us, for them – and everything that you ever went though

Including him, this small child of mine.

Rejection hurts us.  And this is but ONE small reason why.

Because we were rejected by him: the one who loves us and wants us.

Even if he was fucking us in the end.

(Tags chosen/reason:  Therapy: to help us.  Spreading Child Abuse: because we did.  Love: because we were wanting those things.  Memories: because it is, even if no one else remembers – it ws REAL this very thing – dark down to the core of our being, we know this one is true.  Child Molestation: duh.  Family: because we had none; and after this – not even our friend.  Children: because we are one, at least one of 5 within.  Child Abuse: I reckon it was, in some ways.  To this day we have a hard time telling (which leads to guilt and things – unsurity).  Child Exploitation: because he was exploiting us and other children in our neighborhood – and using us to ‘recruit’ through exploiting them on our own, bringing them to him and into his own ‘fold’ (and hold and loving  …. but the other children weren’t so willing, not as willing as I).  Experiences in Learning: because we learned something in this thing: love hurts one, VERY badly indeed (giving rise to the Matthew being in the end.)

And finally Marriage: in that in every sense of the way and word, we were married to him.  Loving him … even now (a bit; not as much as before) – and holding him and seeking his comfort

All the while pleasing him.

Even if he did pee in our ass sometimes (and I suppose THAT says something about how HE saw us children in the hood – something to be used by him – and then discarded and thrown away.)

It hurts, this thing; even NOW it friggin’ hurts so bad.

I know I’m supposed to cry but I can’t.  Matthew is stepping in; separating child from one another – sending them on to our Island Paradise – protecting us from him and one another – and protecting his own self through these dark emotions

Olive green.  And Olive Drab.  They are both the same thing in my eyes.  (and if you can’t see life and death in that – I suppose you are blinder than we are/I am) – signed Matthew and Mikie and friends.

Our Island Paradise: Me and Little Mikie