*(WARNING: This journal entry contains some graphic details that may be troubling for individuals who may have endured sexual violence and assault in their past. I certainly do not want to trigger horrific memories or cause any re-traumatizing pain for everyone. I cannot tell my story, however, without accurately recording truthful accounts of things that may, at times, have been ugly or dark. Therefore, please proceed with caution.
A new friend of mine, who won’t be reading this post, has nonetheless encouraged me to write this entry, hoping that I might achieves some level of catharsis. To my new friend: thank you for your encouragement and honesty.)*
The teasing and taunting continued through my junior high school years and further added to my festering depression. Classmates accused me of being a “faggot,” although I seriously doubt that they had any real insight into the term. Several of the nuns in this Catholic school scolded me for acting effeminate. My parents punished me whenever they observed me being “girly,” whatever the fuck that means. Thoughts of suicide began entering into my conscious. I could not imagine how things would possibly get better.
But things could get worse–and they did. I entered high school holding onto the slightest hope that I could get a fresh start. All the mockery and bullying that I had endured up until this point would be part of my past and not part of my future–so I had hoped. Instead, the ugliness of my life would take an even uglier turn.
One cold and damp October afternoon I waited for my mother to pick me up from school as I had missed the bus due to a disciplinary detention. (I had gotten into a skirmish with a boy who had plucked my last nerve.) As I stood there, just inside the gymnasium, I heard the familiar chant: “Hey it’s mama tits! Hey faggot!” I stood there frozen, feeling especially vulnerable. These were upperclassmen, members of the varsity basketball team. Even though I was new to the school, apparently my reputation preceded me.
In what seemed to be a flash, the team surrounded me and started pushing me around from one to another. One of the boys grabbed me by my necktie and forced me to my knees.
“Hey faggot, suck his dick. You know you want it, queer!”
Soon I found myself gagging on a penis as my head was held and pushed down on the erect shaft. Tears were flowing down my cheeks. Two other cocks were mashed against my face and I was ordered to suck them both. I was struggling but to no avail. These were very strong athletes and the level of violence was escalating.
Before long I was shoved to a bench and a couple of these goddamn jocks pulled my pants to my ankles.
“Let’s fuck the faggot,” one of the boys shouted out. In an instant, one of them rammed some thing hard and rigid into my virgin ass. No lube. No preparation. Just painful insertion of some foreign object. I began bleeding. I could feel the heat of my blood running freely from my just-fucked hole. The pain was excruciating.
I’m not sure where thing might have gone had it not been for my English teacher who happened upon the scene. “Knock it off,” he said. But he said it with the conviction of a young child telling an older sibling to stop annoying her. The teacher, turned and walked away without once checking on me or my safety. I suppose ignorance is bliss for some people.
As quickly as this sexual assault started, it broke up. The jocks gathered up their stuff and left me, a quivering blob, on the bench. Waves of emotion washed over me-humiliation, guilt, fear, anger, and confusion.
I have blotted out or repressed the immediate aftermath of my rape. I don’t, for example, recall my mom picking me up or driving me home. I don’t remember what we talked about. The only thing I do remember is locking myself in the bathroom and hand-washing the blood out of my underpants.
Felt very alone.
When I write next, I will try to describe the emotional blizzard in the aftermath of my ordeal.
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