I Was Molested, Chapter 1

I Was Molested, Chapter 1

 

Am I a victim?

IMG_2681The thought of calling myself a victim of molestation is nauseating. I’ve been down this road before and each time I get to the finish line, the road extends another block. In my head, the word “victim” sounds weak. Everyone is a victim of something. Why can’t I just get over it? I can’t get over it because I am living proof that the truth doesn’t always set you free. Will telling my story cause more pain and heartache for me, or will it allow me to break free, butterfly-like, from a cocoon of secrets?

What happened?

 

8 years 2In order to protect those who decided to shift my world before I knew what sex meant, I am refraining from naming the people involved in the crime. I don’t remember my age at the time of the incident that occurred while my parents were on vacation, but my gut tells me that I was about eight-years-old. It was at a time before I had pubic hair and had not yet considered the act of sex. I was sitting on the couch in the den of my family’s home with a man (friend/family member). We had been watching cartoons when he subtly landed his hand near my crotch. He inched his thumb and forefinger towards my penis and attempted to squeeze it through my shorts. At first, I wasn’t sure what he was trying to accomplish. But he explained that we were playing “Can you find it?” That made more sense. I told him that his hand was in the wrong spot and I guided his thumb and forefinger to the actual location of my penis, which was barely large enough to crease the cottony pajama material. It was now my turn to try and find his penis. I remember putting my hand where I estimated his penis would be above his blue jeans. I looked up at him smiling down at me and shaking his head like I had made a wrong guess. He proudly redirected me, “up, up, up, left.”   I was in disbelief when I saw the surreal enormity of the outline of his penis.   “That’s not it!” I exclaimed in disbelief. I remember reaching for his penis like a child greedily reaches for a gift on Christmas morning. “I found it” I said with excitement. I had won. Unfortunately, “Can you find it” ended abruptly when we heard the footsteps of his wife approaching. I remember the excitement that I felt when we played that game. It was our secret game and it made me feel special.

Initial Consequences:

That’s it. That’s all that happened. If the story ended here, I might have been able to walk away with a minor emotional scratch or scar. But that’s not my story. This experience may (or may not) have taught me that I yearned for attention from a man or an adult. This became especially confusing around puberty when I began fantasizing about men, including the molester. Was I fantasizing about the attention I received from this guy because I was gay or because it made me feel important to have the undivided attention and sexual arousal from an adult? I think it was both.

Either way, I hated myself for potentially being gay. I was confused, depressed, lonely, and too weak to kill myself. This state of mind opened me up for a second chapter (Chapter 2 will be shared at another time) of child abuse and a promising future of yearning for and obtaining instant sexual gratification. By the time I was 17, I was dabbling in an assortment of drugs, and letting others treat my body as a blow-up sex doll. I was like a wild animal seeking the same gratification from others that I had received from my perpetrators. Yes, perpetrators – plural – because there would be more than one.

The Unexpected Twist to My Story Our Story

Addiction is a progressive illness. The progress of mine seemed to be gauged by the increasing layers of secrets and emotional trauma that I was harboring. When I was 21 years-old and a sophomore in college pursuing my degree in psychology, my past and my secrets were comfortably compartmentalized and hidden by a thin layer of substance abuse, fraternity life, and scholastics.

That normal routine was interrupted by a phone call from a distressed family member that changed everything. When I answered his call, I could tell by the somber tone of the greeting that this was not going to be a casual conversation. Frankly, it was a relief to have the opportunity to listen to someone seeking my help. I had been seeing a therapist at the Student Health Center at this time for depression and chemical dependency. He was lightly sobbing and was having a difficult time revealing what was troubling him. I knew that if he was anything like myself, that there was little chance he was ready to share the core issue. So I dared to use a method that no one had ever tried with me; the blunt, no BS, un-sugarcoated approach. I asked him three questions that unearthed a decade of repressed feelings and memories.

Question #1:

“Were you raped?”

Answer:

“No.”

Question #2:

“Were you molested?”

Answer:

“Yes.”

Question #3:

“Was it (Perpetrator’s name)?”

Answer:

Yes.

Victim – Question:

“How did you know?”

Me – Answer:

“Because he molested ME TOO.”

The conversation stunned us. We both realized that we were not alone or at fault for what had happened. I wish I could say that I was comforted to no longer be alone. Instead, it filled me with rage. I realized that my childhood encounter with this adult wasn’t a “special bonding.” It was a crime scene.

I Am A Survivor of Child Abuse

IMG_2122 2In retrospect, this conversation initiated a series of life events that forever altered my life’s path. As a young adult, it was finally confirmed by association with the other victim that I was the product of sexual child abuse (the word “misconduct” is insulting). I had so many questions, emotions, and feelings come up that it left me feeling off-balance and rudderless.

Most people don’t understand the complexity of recovering from child abuse. In this situation, the duration of the actual abuse was about five minutes.  I carried the secret with me for over 10 years before I was comfortable sharing it with one person. When a victim shares their story, the recipient of the information now has the responsibility to process it, inform another person (or people), or keep the secret. When I shared the secret with my parents, they became victims and blamed themselves for the abuser’s action. When extended family members found out about the abuse, they shamed my parents for “allowing” it to happen and how they “handled” the situation. I can’t help but think of how this is also going to affect the perpetrator’s children who were my friends when I was younger. The victim list keeps growing.

I kept the secret because of shame and fear of how people would react. And when I found the courage to tell people what happened to me when I was eight years-old, I had to live through the abuse again while I was simultaneously feeling responsible for possibly placing a strain on my parent’s relationships with extended family and others related to the incident. What’s worse? Harboring a secret of my child abuse? Or revealing my secret that will inevitably split up families and put me on trial for public scrutiny?

It has been over 20 years since I came to realize what happened was molestation. I sit here now, ready to tell all, but I can’t. I can’t express the details because the perpetrator is still involved in my family’s life. And the other victim is not comfortable sharing his story. All I can do is share bits and pieces of my struggles so maybe another person dealing with this type of abuse can find some relief.

To The Survivor:

If you are a product of abuse, you are not alone.  If you are withholding secrets to save someone else’s face, you are not alone.  If you are just realizing now that abuse is part of your story, I can relate.

To the Perpetrator:

Hopefully this story will find its way into your hands so you can better understand the devastating after-affects of your self-seeking actions.

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Two Years Later – Memoirs of Losing Dad

 

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Two Years Later

(Right now 11/18/18)

I’d be lying if I said that I couldn’t believe it has been two years (today) since my dad passed away. He’s missed two of my birthdays, three of my trips home to Dallas, 1 and ½ boyfriends, a family vacation, and a few phone calls when I really needed to speak with him. It’s real, it’s been two years, and it has taken me this long to publish some of the phases of reluctant acceptance.

 

Six Months Before

About six months before his death, my dad gifted me 120,000 American Airlines Advantage miles. I had been talking to him about my burning desire to travel to Europe. He asked me if there was any place in particular that I’d like to go. I responded “Paris, France, England, London, Hungary, Slovakia, Greece, Spain, oh…definitely Italy, and Lithuania.” I think it was quite clear that I didn’t know where I wanted to go. I just wanted to go explore “somewhere/anywhere” that wasn’t here. I booked a flight to Paris and a few weeks before my trip, I had to cancel because work had been very slow and I couldn’t financially justify the trip.

 

In Retrospect of One Month Before

On October 18, 2016, exactly one month before my dad’s passing, I received a voicemail from my mom asking me to please call her back. I returned the call and she explained that dad had been experiencing shoulder pain and had x-rays taken to find out what was causing the discomfort. The physician informed them that the shoulder issue was secondary and that he was more concerned about the tumor-like mass that showed up on the x-ray of my father’s right lung. About an hour later, I called my dad and there was IMG_2694about a sentence of small talk before I asked him, “How are you doing”? He subtly spoke the words “mom says she told you about the x-rays.” I concurred that she had. I asked him, “Are you scared?” He said, “Yes, I am.” I agreed with my dad that I too was scared and assured him that he wasn’t alone.

I booked my flight home to Dallas for the eve before his surgery; I believed I was coming home to help my mom and sister to aid in my dad’s recovery. I typically play devil’s advocate and attempt to imagine the worst possible outcome. This way, I am prepared to endure, accept, and move forward through any unforeseen yet anticipated situations. However, this time I chose to be superstitious. Ignorance was bliss and I believed that positive thinking would bring a positive outcome.

My flight arrived the night before his surgery at Dallas Love Field Airport just before dinnertime. As always, my dad asked the family where we wanted to eat even though we all knew that there were three restaurants where he liked to dine. Predictably, my recommendation would be somewhere with relatively fast service that served fish because I am an ADHD pescatarian. My sister, Lara would make a recommendation of some place that she liked and had a gut feeling that I would like as well.  My mom wouldIMG_2811 indicate that she would try to find something on the menu that she likes. Lara would then explain that she was fine eating anywhere and that everyone else just needs to make a decision.  My mom would say she’s fine eating anywhere, followed by a statement indicating that she doesn’t really need to eat. As anticipated, my dad offered one of his three favorite restaurants, Pappadeaux. And we all agreed to go with his recommendation.

I remember sitting at a half-booth table and we all ordered iced tea. I can’t remember what we ate, but I do remember the conversation throughout that dinner to be very light. There was no discussion about how we should handle any unusual outcomes from the surgery. It was like we were all playing along with the idea that nothing bad could happen.

God I wish I could go back to that dinner and say Dad, I love you and we need to discuss a few potential outcomes. If you can’t speak, what is the best way for us to communicate with you? If you can’t breathe without a tube down your throat, are you okay with the administration of a tracheotomy? At what point should we turn off your life support?IMG_2600

 

 

Unable to write for three months.

 

 

 

Three Months After

At about 7am on November 18, 2016, three months ago today, I was awakened by a phone call from my sister, Lara. She said, “I’m sorry to wake you. I just got a call from the nurse on-call at the hospital… Dad passed away.”

I can barely remember the rest of the call, or how I walked into my mother’s bedroom and listened to my sister delicately break the news to my mom on speakerphone. The look on my mother’s face was of shock and disbelief. The nonsensical questions and conversation that followed between the three of us seemed to be silenced by a high-pitched static. I hung up the phone with my sister after agreeing to meet her at the hospital to say one final goodbye to our dad’s lifeless body. Attempting to comfort my mom, I embraced her and surrendered to a deep cry into her shoulder that lasted about a minute. She responded with a whimper then seemed to go into a state of complete shock. I think I had been emotionally preparing for this outcome for about a week. And in that moment, my mom was faced with the reality that her 50-year companion was not coming home.

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Five Months

At five months, I feel like the dust is beginning to settle from losing my dad. It feels like I am moving away from “What just happened?” to “This just happened.” I had someone come up to me yesterday and say, “I am glad to see that you are seemingly getting better”. It’s true. I am getting better. And frankly, I needed someone to come and tell me that because I need to get better.

The first two months after dad’s death, I had no problem accepting help, phone-calls, coffee dates, meals, etc. But in the third month, I retreated to unhealthy old behavior; isolation, bingeing and purging, acting out sexually, and bingeing on TV/Netflix/Showtime.

I just found myself staring at and into my ceiling and I whispered aloud, “What’s next? Whois next? Is my mom next? Will I go before my sister? Or will she go before me? I don’t want to die but I don’t want to be the last one standing. Did my dad give up on us because we weren’t sufficient? Was I not the man he wanted me to be? Is he looking down on me now insisting that these thoughts are all wrong? Or is he glad that it’s over?

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Seven Months and a day

It’s 2:23 am on July 19, 2017 and I have been stirring restlessly in bed. So I decided to surrender and force myself to write something – anything – in an attempt to try to clear these endless thoughts.

At seven months, I still think about my dad’s passing daily. However, the thought process remains above surface level.  How often am I supposed to dig in and think about the permanence of his absence? How long should I hold my breath of grief before I start to drown in it?

My birthday is on July 23rdand I will not be receiving a note from him this year telling me how proud he is of my progress. I miss the way my dad would really step into my mind and praise me for not giving up. He really understood my battle with self-hate. I think he could relate to it.

Eight Months

The last few months could be described as my great escape. I have avoided feelings as much as possible. I have lost touch with most of my friends. Some have let me go and some I have pushed away. I don’t rely on anyone and my faith has been limited. Anger is my most familiar emotion. I need to escape my escape and come back to reality. Reality scares me because I don’t know who I am, what I want, or what I do.

Nine Months

 

I traveled to New York City and stayed in a friend’s apartment for 3 weeks and I wasn’t ready to leave. The city that never sleeps was perfect for my night owl sleeping habit. The energy and the people of the city kept my adrenaline pumping for the entirety of the vacation. Then I met a man two days before I left. I had an ongoing joke with the friend I was staying with that I wanted to meet a guy from Brooklyn. The man turned out to be from Brooklyn. And it was almost like a sign from God that s/he was watching. So after 36 hours of time spent with “Brooklyn,” I was hooked. It was like speed dating. I know it’s premature, but I have started to consider a move to Manhattan. But before I do that, I need to be okay where I am… and I am not okay just yet.

Phew. I am ready for bed.

Ten Months

My friend Josh’s dad is in the hospital with stage 4 cancer. Although we had just met a couple weeks before at a convention while I was in New York, it was somewhat healing IMG_6690.JPGto communicate with and try to help someone going through the process of losing his dad.

 

Ten and ½ Months

Josh’s dad passed away today. I realized tonight that even with the consoling expertise I had developed with my dad’s passing, there is nothing I could say or do that would ease the process for someone in mourning.

 

11 Months

“Brooklyn” came to visit for the eleven days leading up to the 11-month- Anniversary of my dad’s death. I picked him up and drove him straight to my happy place, Palm Springs. “Brooks” is a very special man; he understands me, he is kind, and demonstrates a cute IMG_1273form of obsessive-compulsive disorder. We hit a bump in the road halfway through the trip and I was afraid we had reached our potential. I was wrong. We worked through it and it made me like him more. I feel comfortable speaking with him about my dad because he had lost his dad to cancer ten years ago.

 

11 and ½ Months

AmI supposed to go home and be with my family for my dad’s Yahrzeit (year anniversary of death)? My dad was cremated, so there isn’t an official location for me to return to. As of now, he is sitting on a shelf in my sister’s closet. My mom didn’t know what to do with
it. Dad insisted for many years that he wanted to be cremated. Why would it be so important to him? I never asked. Unfortunately, he never got around to telling us where he wanted his ashes to go. So now we have a ten-pound box wrapped in a green velvet

RenderedImagebag. I have a feeling that he didn’t care where his remains would end up. And that’s fine, but a little selfish. Dad, if you are listening, that was kind of “inconsiderate”.

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One Year and Four Months

(WARNING: I have reluctantly decided to leave this month unedited because raw is healthier than sugarcoated)

Denial. I have moved on but I have a phantom parameter around the loss of my dad that is not to be touched. It’s my no fly zone. It’s keeping me away from following my dreams. It’s my excuse to give up. I feel like there are quite a few unresolved “Daddy issues.” My inability to go into my mourning zone is guarded by anger. What the fuck are we supposed to do with your ashes? Where do we go to speak to you? Were you too fucking lazy to snap into reality for a few minutes? And when I asked you if you thought you were going to die, your tears started to well up in your eyes like you suddenly had a deep desire to live. Did you even consider our feelings before you could no longer respond to us? I had to watch you suffocate five times! The family agreed to give you a tracheotomy when you were unconscious. And that fucking doctor that put off my suggestion for a week before he finally did the procedure… right when you were so weak that you couldn’t survive it. Those fucking nurses that had no clue who you were, what was going on, or how to help? It was as if no one in the immediate family was allowed to sleep or dad would die. Every fucking time we left the hospital; somehow he would end up intubated by morning. And the fucking fuck-head nurses that we hired to make sure the local nurses were doing their job properly had no clue what was going on. What the fuck was the criterion for these second-hand nurse-fucking fuck-heads? So many things could have prevented this.

Who am I kidding? Death is the end of all of our stories. There are “better” ways to go, but rarely do we say “wow, that really was an amazing, beautiful death.” I think I might be experiencing an anger phase of mourning… possibly.

“Brooklyn”, if you are the one: I want to be buried in a cemetery next to a family member, friend, or spouse (you). I don’t care too much about the quality or fanciness of the coffin. I like a mahogany brown. Please don’t get the cheapest coffin.  I have standards. Get the coffin that is just a little more expensive than the cheapest. If my dad’s ashes are still floating around, please sneak the green velvet box (dad) into my casket so my mom and sister can finally get some closure.

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Two Years – Today – 11/18/18

If you are a friend or family member and you are reading this, you haven’t seen me around. And if you have, it was brief and I probably stayed around just long enough to show you that “I’m fine,” “I’m Good.” Our phone calls, voice-mails, and text messages have been lacking depth. I am sorry for not being present and accountable. I am IMG_6778confident that this is my turning point. I wouldn’t be inviting you in if I weren’t ready.

 

Summary of the Last Year

 

Two close friends passed away, I chaired an amazing convention, attended and DJ’d the most beautiful wedding I’ve ever seen, went on a cruise to the Carribean with my mom and sister, contributed several new videos to my whoshotinpalmsprings.com YouTube channel, worked a booth at Palm Springs Gay Pride, and had someone take a picture of my ass (before it deflates).

My long distance relationship with “Brooklyn” ended somewhat abruptly. I don’t think I was ready to date. The idea of having a long distance relationship seemed like a good compromise at the time. But distance didn’t make the heart grow fonder. It just made us distant. The day after we broke up, I started seeing another great guy -“Long Beach.” Once again, I wasn’t ready for a relationship.   I thought I was ready, but I think I was just filling the void… again.  They may not know it (until now), but I am forever grateful for the experiences we shared.

Off to EuropeSouth America

I have been pretty quiet the last five months. And I am starting to feel strength and direction. I feel my dad’s encouragement today.  When my dad gave me the 120,000 American Airlines Advantage miles to go to Europe and back, I wasn’t exactly sure where I would stay, what I would do, or why I was going.

A month ago, I met “Sao Paulo” at Triangle Inn resort in Palm Springs. We got along great

 


for two days and he invited me to come visit him in Brazil. On November 28, 2018, I am flying to South America. The first weekend we will be in Sao Paulo, the second weekend will be in Rio.

Three years ago I met “Lima” on Grindr (a social media dating app predominantly for gay men) and we spent two days together in Los Angeles. He suggested that I come visit him in Lima. After Rio, I will be flying to see “Lima” in Lima.  Then I plan on finding my way to Machu Pichu. I have always dreamt of seeing the “Seven Wonders of the World.” Thank you Dad for gifting me tickets to follow my dreams.

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Lucky 13

lucky 13Lucky 13? I have to be honest. The thought of turning thirteen years sober was not pleasant. Apparently, I have some internalized superstition about the number “13” meaning bad luck.

Had you asked me 13 years ago what I would be doing today, it is quite likely that I would have said, “Please God, let me be sober”. I was desperate, exhausted, and willing to finally ask for help. I was pretty much agnostic at that time, but my desire to escape survival mode and start living inspired me to seek a power other than myself.

I remember my last line of crystal meth like it was yesterday. I had been pondering the idea of quitting for a few months and didn’t know till a week before the “finish line” that I was ready to quit. My addiction towards all drugs was a juggling act.  I smoked weed and bumped K to relax, sleep, eat, laugh, and escape my chaotic thoughts. I did Special K (Ketamine, not the cereal) to fall into a different universe that would sometimes give me hints to what my life’s potential would be. I remember flying over a concert-filled venue looking down at my fans that were cheering for me. Apparently they saw my potential. I think I was singing to them or maybe taking a break from my DJ set to fly by and give a round of hi-fives to the roaring crowd. Regardless of what my skill actually was, a few bumps of K before lying back on my waterbed was the perfect formula for inviting my fans into my trip (K-Hole).

I want to say that I didn’t drink too much. According to Lacie, the cocktail waitress at the bar where I used to DJ three nights a week, I was consuming quite a bit of alcohol. I remember running into her years after I got sober and made a comment that “alcohol wasn’t really a problem. I told her “I would have a couple Corona and a few shots of Patron – and would always finish my last drink before 11pm so I could responsibly drive home.” She looked stunned at my response and replied, “Those were triple shots of Patron”. Either way, my drinking wasn’t so bad compared to the bar regulars that could easily have had their names engraved next to their barstools. I could really take or leave the booze, weed, K, and other drugs. But Crystal or any other form of speed that would keep me up for days had seduced my inner-consciousness into a co-dependent marriage. Thirteen years ago today, that horrific relationship resolutely ended in divorce.

So what does that all mean today? It means that since Monday, March 28, 2005, I have been lucky enough to begin changing my life. How is thirteen years just the beginning? It’s just a gut. I have a strong feeling that the best is yet to come and I am starting to see my potential naturally.     

Something that a lot of people don’t understand about the addict mind (and I will refer to my own rather than speak for a group) is that I am addicted to anything that will temporarily relieve me of my harmful thought process that inevitably wants me dead if it goes untreated.

There is nothing anyone can say or do that will fool my natural, “stinking thinking.” For me, desperation was my best friend. It led my seemingly lifeless, skinny, infected corpse to individuals and groups that had figured out different methods of combating my mental “dis-ease (uneasy).” I prefer that word to disease because it’s easier for me to accept my terminal mental state as an inconvenience, handicap, or nuisance rather than a sickness.   From them, I learned that my situation was called alcoholism and the sooner that I surrender to this word (that I hated because alcohol wasn’t “my thing”); the quicker I was going to recover.

Since March 28, 2005, I have slowly learned how to better take care of myself. I have sought help from groups, taken direction from an individual that I call my sponsor, and found a therapist that I can be honest with (imagine that- not lying to a therapist). I have learned that it is absolutely essential for me to incorporate people that I trust in my thought process so I don’t hurt myself or someone else. Isolation is not my friend.

Am I happy? Yes, today in this very moment at 1:30 AM on March 29, 2018 I am completely content. Three days ago, I was engaging in a pretty uncomfortable argument with the guy I have been seeing since July. The silver lining is that I feel we learned something about each other. Rather than angry or sad, I felt compassionate, then loved. He lives in Manhattan, about 3000 miles away. But for some reason, my heart wants me to speak with him at the end of every day. How many couples can honestly say they speak for about thirty minutes a day to each other? How many couples can honestly say that they can’t wait to see each other?

I have learned how to live in gratitude. Living in gratitude does not mean I am always happy. It means that I have the ability to acknowledge each day as a gift. On November 18, 2016, my dad passed away a month after an unsuccessful attempt to remove a tumor from his lung. This was the worst month of my life. I felt emotions that I had only partially imagined. But somehow, I was able to reach into my sobriety toolbox and find a few things to be grateful for. My immediate and extended family and friends came together and took care of me. I felt needed when I was able to return a hug and take care of them. The experience turned me into a crier. I can’t even watch an episode of The Voice without crying. I love that my dad has given me the gift of being emotionally fearless.

Months later, I came down with an infection in my lungs, and found myself in the hospital for eleven days. Each day I was there seemed to get longer and it was difficult to feel gratitude at that time. But in retrospect, I spent few days without a visit from a friend. Some visits were from people who barely knew me. The experience taught me to see each day as a gift and every sick friend as an opportunity.

Clearly, there have been some setbacks the last couple of years. Sobriety has taught me that setbacks are only detrimental if you don’t see them as an opportunity to learn and grow. At my celebratory dinner tonight, my friend Paulo and I were discussing my angst of turning 13. He informed me that the number 13 is a holy number in the Jewish faith and that it is the age when a boy has his Bar Mitzvah. Paulo was surprised when I informed him that I had a Bar Mitzvah. Every once in a while, it takes a friend to help me see the silver lining. A Bar Mitzvah is defined as a “son of responsibility”. I like the sound of that and I’m ready to fly towards my potential.

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Pussy, Suicide, and Spring Break

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Due to the seemingly offensive nature of this blog that had some negative after-effects, I feel the need to prepare you for what you are about to read.  Please note that this writing is based on a flashback of a boyish, immature mentality that objectified women and their anatomy.    The boy was well-trained by a straight world that encouraged the objectification of women.  Ironically, my only true friends were women. 

For my second blog writing that I promised to release over a week ago, I had to combine a couple ideas.  I wanted to write about Spring Break because I had just returned from Palm Springs with a couple gay guys (ages 22 and 23) that were on Spring Break from college.  I also wanted to share a bit of my closeted adolescence that adds more significance to reliving Spring Break as a gay adult. 

It is hard for anyone that is not gay to understand what gays and lesbians tolerate growing up in a straight-centric world. 

Welcome to my adolescence…

When I was a kid, I looked forward to spring the same way a suffocating man seeks oxygen.  Like many teens, adolescence was not my friend.  Not only was I socially awkward, but I was a gay kid trapped in a straight guy’s life.  However, I did have myself fooled into loving pussy because it was the right thing to do.  Conversations with friends would frequently revolve around the bases.  It fascinated me to find out what girls had been fingered and what guys were doing it to them.  I’m not sure if I was getting off on it, or was just trying to make sure I didn’t fall too far behind.  It was probably both.

Being a late bloomer, I was extremely evasive of anyone getting down in my business.  Let’s just say I was underdeveloped and spent a lot of time praying to God for growth, girth, and grass on the field.  Oftentimes I would refer to my family’s copy of ‘Where Did I Come From’ for clues on when my next development would take place.  My obsession for pubes led me to my father’s cabinet in his restroom where he kept his Rogaine.  I remember the cool feeling as I squeezed the syringe of miracle grow to my Vienna sausage area.

Fortunately, it was not long after that when I developed and harvested a fine layer of hair in all the right places.  But with growth comes responsibility.  I was fearful and excited about my new equipment.  Although I had the sexual energy of a stud, I knew that there was a glitch in the system… the homo feelings glitch.  The plan was to proceed towards the female species with blinders that would deflect any doubt of my heterosexuality. 

Some would say my accomplishments were victorious (or Oscar worthy).  When I was seventeen, I experienced mutual oral sex for the first time with a very special girl (let’s call her Beverly).  I went to her parents’ pad where we decided to go for a Jacuzzi.  We made out and Bev’s tongue entered my lips like nobody’s business and pried open my jaw .  It seemed like it had a mind of its own… practically raping my mouth.  Because I have a short tongue that is tied down by skin to the lower part of my mouth, I was unable to return the “favor”.  A few minutes into the tongue battle, the hot tub became steamier.  Bev reached down to my swim trunks, untied my draw-string, ripped apart the Velcro fly, and her hand began to creep seductively towards my manhood.  I was excited she was approaching my unit because I desperately yearned to earn hand job status.  But in order to earn this high ranking, I was going to have to rise to the occasion.

The initial excitement boner began to mellow in Bev’s eager palm and I knew I was in trouble.  The job was taking longer than expected and it was becoming quite obvious that my kosher dill had become less interested.   Beverly gazed into my eyes with a knowing grin and proceeded to make her way down.  I could practically hear the ‘Jaws’ theme as she went in for the kill.  I closed my eyes and began to fantasize about Ricky Schroeder, Dolph Lundgren, Madonna, my guy friends, their dads, her brother- and the list goes on.   The moist, warm mouth couldn’t fool me… this wasn’t working.  There was only so much Bev could do with my Floner (floppy boner) before she looked up at me suggesting she had done something wrong.

I redirected our session to some reverse pleasure because I wanted to resume control and redeem myself.  I walked my fingers to her wicker basket and entered.  Hearing her respond with deep breaths and feeling her warmth and wetness, I was beginning to feel like a man.  She sat upon the edge of the pool’s hot tub where I proceeded to move my face forward into the enchanted forest.  Based on many porn movies that I had been watching (borrowed from my dad’s secret stash), I had a good idea of what to do.  I guided my vibrating, handicapped tongue into her honey pot and was determined to bring her to total ecstasy.  But then something unexpected happened.   I noticed a strange metallic flavor… the kind of flavor that wasn’t dangerously rotten, but did sort of taste like aluminum foil.  I hesitated at first, but then I could practically hear my peers cheering me on… “Eat the pussy, pussy is good”.  I waffled in thought with my face inches away from the subtle spoilage… and said to myself, “Eat this pussy, this pussy is good”.  So that’s what I did.  I didn’t completely understand the appeal.  But hey, if this is what makes girls happy, consider me a gentleman. I was privileged to go back for seconds and thirds later that week.

I didn’t want to lose momentum, so soon after, I had the golden opportunity to try the cunnilingus on another girl.  I was a bit perplexed by her odorless, almost tasteless vagina and made it a point to tell her that I was so happy her female parts didn’t taste like metal.  Who need flowers when you can give a girl a compliment like that?

 

Adolescence piece seamlessly changing to the subject of Spring Break

 

When you think of Spring Break, what comes to mind?  Road trips, beach trips, and ski trips with the family?  Getting together with friends and doing silly, crazy things?  Maybe you remember playing truth or Dare, double-dare, double-dog-dare, triple dare, and playing “I never”.   For me, it’s all of the above.  Of course adding a driver’s license and some wheels to the equation changed everything. 

For Spring Break of my senior year in high school, some friends and I drove to South Padre Island.  The small Island on the Southern Texas border was well known for its party reputation and encompassed a strip of bars and hotels along the coast.    Scott, Jason, and I were best bros self- titled (by Scott) as “Babe Magnets” because we all had convertibles.   We felt way sexy when we packed ourselves and luggage into my fancy, red, Chrysler LeBaron convertible.  I didn’t know at the time that the red convertible Lebaron comes in third place of gayest cars in history following the convertible Miata and Mini-Coop.  Babe Magnets (three Jews) came fully equipped with cash, weed, fake ID’s from Arkansas and Alabama, hair gel, and condoms.   I can assure you that the cash, weed, IDs, and hair gel were used frivolously.  The condoms were a symbol of us being responsible.  Imagine Girls Gone Wild meeting up with the cast of Half Baked (Jewish version-oy!).  Frankly, we didn’t have much game.  But we did talk about pussy all the time like it was some party that all girls had invited us to… but forgot to leave us the address.  Oftentimes, I would find a girl to make out with… but I would bow out of the situation for various reasons.    Sometimes I was conveniently too drunk.  If I was sober (er), I would start thinking about the girl being somebody’s baby… and how my actions may scar her for life (even though I was limp).

Being gay was a complete buzz-kill for Spring Break.   Looking back, I was a fool trying to trick myself into having a good time.  I was always living a straight (dorky) party-boy life that was anti-climactic.  I remember being so jealous when my friends would successfully ejaculate with a hook up.  It was if they had cheated on me.  If I wasn’t able to successfully climax with a babe that was magnetized, then no one should.  In retrospect, I was a bit selfish, jealous/envious, and territorial (very much like the lesbian).

This game of role-play, me playing straight on high school spring break, transferred flawlessly to college spring break.  Even though I was out west at The University of Arizona, It was the same situation with a different cast.  The new “babe magnets” were now in form of my fraternity, Sigma Nu.  The main difference was my fraternity bros didn’t speak pussy with a southern, Yiddish accent.  Sure enough, pussy talk led me and my brothers to Padre Island where I felt a haze of disappointing déjà vu.  The only difference was I had a female friend of mine meet me there who was also “bisexual”.  Meredith and I came out to each other as being bi shortly before this “vacation”.  It was our secret and we had an agreement that it was okay to use each other if we needed to defend our precious heterosexuality.  I was able to impress my bros by making out with Meredith in our hotel’s hot tub and switching bathing suit bottoms with her.  Funny story… young adults acting silly, being stupid- this was all very apparent. 

So let’s flip this humorous Blog/Essay/Chapter and get REAL.

Nothing was real… hookups, drunken fraternity party smiles, beer bongs, spring breaks, religion, relationships…

My life was a fucking joke!  Nobody knew me- not even my best fucking friend and closest fucking blood-relative.  The slightest real feeling I had would be self-assassinated to defend the honor of my family, my friends, my fraternity, my synagogue.  Everything I did was fabricated to hide my homosexuality.  I was so scared and lonely that my only fantasy was death.   I couldn’t pray myself out of this nightmare because my Jewish congregation did not recognize homosexuality.  I sought love and acceptance in horrible places that I can’t share openly about just yet… because I still have such deep shame.  Many, many chapters of shame…

To Myself,

Breathe Jonathan, breathe. 

Life is different now.  Your parents know and love you.  You and Lara (sister) share survival stories that have created a bond that no one else could understand.  Your friends are all real friends.  You change lives by sharing your pain and accomplishments.  You have purpose.  Cry, it’s okay.  You have the freedom to laugh gayly, be proud, be sad, be angry, be wonderful, be cocky, be insecure, be slutty, be a role model, and be real…. Be human.  How many people do you know that can be all of those things? 

In closing of this blog/wave/letter/chapter/feeling….

When you see gay people gathering for gay prides all over the world, feel free to think of my childhood Spring Break.  Feel free to attend the festivals and witness tortured souls that have been freed.

When you see another gay teen suicide on the news… think about all of the gay suicides that didn’t make the news. 

 

When you see a gay couple on TV and feel discomfort, imagine the discomfort that these two individuals survived in order to find one another. 

When you see a ballot that says legalize gay marriage, please check “yes”.

 

 

 

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