My Rape


This isn’t well written or nuanced, just the facts. I just had to get it down. It’s also graphic. I will be coming back as things come up. 

This isn’t a post about running away. That is what my family thinks of the episode. I let that misconception stand for 40 years. I faded away.
I was 15 years old in 1974. I had just discovered the gay cruising areas and met a man, Bobby who protectively took me under his wing. He really was nice, gave me rides home. I even introduced him to my parents.

The Friday night of Memorial Day weekend I ran into him and asked why the streets were so empty. Everyone went to Atlantic City to start the summer. He told me about gay bars on New York Avenue and the gay beach in front of the Claridge Hotel.

On Sunday after completing a long neglected chore, I decided I was going out. I don’t think I said I was going anywhere, so I stayed out of sight. I honestly didn’t know how far away Atlantic City was, but I knew my father used to drive there with his buddies to drink. When I got out of town I started to hitchhike in the general direction. I wasn’t even sure where it was, somewhere past Philadelphia.

My plan wasn’t very well thought out: I would get there. Look for a boyfriend. Then hitchhike home by morning. I had a pack of cigarettes and a few dollars .

I didn’t get to Atlantic City until 1 or 2 in the morning. The bars stayed open 23 hours a day. I hung out on New York Ave for I don’t know how long. No one talked to me, but the streets were festive. I don’t remember how I found them, but friends of Bobby’s put me up for the night, just the sofa for one night, they weren’t going to feed me.

I don’t remember why not being home didn’t seem like a big deal. When I got to the beach, it was already packed. Within minutes I saw a boy my age on the beach! I’ve only ever seen grown men in cruising areas. This trip was worth it!

Here on a sunny beach I found Billy. We didn’t talk because he was deaf. It was only minutes before I was introduced to his guardian, Richard DuPont. He suggested lunch, but I had spent my money. I was hungry. He would treat! Young, hungry and broke, Richard knew everything he needed to start.

After lunch he sent Billy back to their hotel. Richard was very protective of Billy and had observed I seemed to like him. Billy stayed with him in NYC. I told him I was in AC looking for a boyfriend. He said the best place for that is the VIllage, Christopher Street pier. I’ve never been. I could go with him, stay at his place. He’d even pay for my bus ticket.

New York City is where the revolution was! They were “proud”! I wasn’t sure what that meant, but it was way better then how I felt. Maybe we, Billy and I could be like boyfriends at Richard’s place, maybe I could hold him and caress his wavy hair. After the theater I was crazy obsessed with finding a boyfriend because that would make everything OK. If a clean, beautiful boy loved me, the huge dark hole in me wouldn’t hurt any more. I wouldn’t be lonely. I didn’t have any of those words, I didn’t even know I was in pain, I just was. Every cell in my body needed someone to heal me, their purity would cleanse me and make me whole.

At the bus terminal Richard gave me change to call home. I was to say I was OK, bussing tables at a restaurant and staying with friends. God they sobbed when they heard my voice. Was I OK? I was OK. Richard put his finger on the receiver. It was time to hang up. We got on the bus. I asked where Billy was. He’s be joining us in a few days.

Richard was a male model. He ate a ton of vitamins and smeared them on his skin. Besides the weird sheen, the smell of them oozed out of him. I believed his odd appearance may actually read well on film. He was lying about his age, but his vanity was understandable, it was his livelihood. It must have been a good career, he lived in a duplex on Lexington Ave. You could even see part of the Chrysler building out of one of his windows.

I think I am confused on the days, I don’t know what happened to Tuesday and Wednesday. I only remember eating once. He bought me a cheeseburger and fries and lectured me about health food.

I will always remember the last day there. I think it was Thursday. We took a cab down to the Christopher Street Pier. He gave me some money for food and drove off. I waited hours to see anything but full grown men. But I never did. Late in the afternoon I started to walk back to Richards.

I think I was gawking. At the base of the Empire State building a really good looking, muscular man started to talk to me. He said he lived across the street and I could come up for a drink if I wanted to. I nervously, excitedly agreed. Yes, I was hoping that meant sex. To date I hadn’t had successful sex with anyone. The two mutual attempts had been failures, but dealt with in a forgiving fashion. Looking back, of course the last thing I would want was sex, I wanted to be held, I wanted to make out. That is what I thought sex was, or should be. I was revolted by any “real” sex. I didn’t know I was already in a catch 22, I desperately needed to be held, but I hated being touched. A real bodybuilder had invited me to his apartment, if he held me everything would be Ok.

His place was neat, clean with “modern” furniture. A large abstract painting was on the wall. I sat on the sofa as he went to make the drinks. He gave me a whiskey on the rocks. We talked a little bit. He was a dentist. He wasn’t into talking and said to drink up.

It seemed so quick. Suddenly he was standing without his shirt, flexing and posing. He demanded I come worship him. I didn’t know exactly what that meant, but earlier I wanted to touch him. I still did, so I thought I would stand up and start touching him. I could barely stand, I was wasted.

I was so weak and drunker than I had ever been. I didn’t understand. I had started drinking a lot in the last few months, a bit of whiskey wouldn’t have knocked me down like this. It wasn’t just whiskey. In my confusion I knew he drugged me.

I was on the floor and he took my cloths off. He got me face down, a pillow under my hips and fucked me. Jammed it hard. I was a virgin. I think it was dry. I’ve never remembered any lube. For as fucked up as I was I felt the pain rip my gut apart. I was so scared and was screaming. He grabbed my hair and said he would throw me down the steps if I didn’t shut the fuck up. He relished saying it. He got off on saying it. Everyone wants to feel my heart pounding in me. He enjoyed threatening me. If any neighbors heard me, I was dead. I believed him. I was going to die, either from the fucking or something else. He was tearing my insides apart. Whatever he gave me only immobilized me, it didn’t numb pain or diminish panic. I was helpless. He was already so damn strong but he had to reduce me to this, had to make me weaker with the drugs.

His demands to relax were stupid, how the hell could I when it hurt so much? But I took it. I fucking took it quietly. I had to stay quite through it or he’d kill me.

When he was done I felt like I had the shits and sat on the toilet. I didn’t know it was just the cum in my ass. I thought he broke something in me and it would all just dump out. I was afraid to let anything out. I really thought I was ruptured and I wouldn’t be able to hold it in. While I sat there, he took a glass and pissed in. He put it up to my lips and told me to drink it. I wouldn’t drink it, I wouldn’t even part my lips, so he splashed it in my face. His warm stinking piss was all over me, in my hair, dripping down me. I didn’t want it in my eyes, in my nose, my mouth. I tried to wipe it dry with my arms. I didn’t want to touch my face with my hands, just used my arm. He snickered.

He asked where I belonged. I told him Richard. His number was in my back pocket. He gestured towards the shower. I rinsed off. I don’t remember soaping. I was to drugged to stand up right.

Richard came and him and Jeff, Jeff the dentist talked. It was like I was being picked up after school or something. I got dressed or I was dressed and we left.

Richard was pissed that I was so high and lectured me about doped up runaways not being tolerated in this neighborhood. I was still weak, but he wouldn’t carry me, I had to walk myself.

At Richard’s place he was lecturing me about not screaming. The customers don’t like it. Yes customers, he had Jeff pay him. I did really badly. I need to get better. Slumped over the wooden arm on a daybed he pulled my pants down and started stretching my asshole with cucumbers, different sizes. Stretching me out, so I could take getting fucked with out screaming. I couldn’t fight back. It wasn’t worth it. He wouldn’t stop until I relaxed.

I passed out or fell asleep. A few hours later I woke up. He wasn’t in the room. I put on the clothes he dressed me in, stole some change from his desk and ran out of the building. It was about 3 or 4 in the morning. I was going home.

I ran to a subway station. I didn’t know where to go, but I had to get away. Got on a train. Safe. He couldn’t find me now.  I was so fucking scared. I was just a country kid. I’d never rode a subway. I was out in this huge city that never ended. The train went over a bridge and was above ground and I didn’t know where I was. I went to the end of the line. I had to ride it back, it was the wrong direction. A creepy guy with a beard was staring at me.

I got off at Times Square, that made sense. I found the entrance to the Lincoln tunnel just as the sun came up. A big truck picked me up.

My mother was a school teacher. This was the week she went camping with her class in the Poconos. I decided to head there instead of home near Allentown. She was at Camp Mosey Wood, in the Poconos somewhere. I’d find it.

Jesus Fucking Christ?! Writing this I am so scared all over again. How the fuck was I going to find some stupid little camp ground? I didn’t even know what town it was in.

The trucker told me what highway went to the mountains. I got a ride, then another. A guy offered me money to play with my dick. I needed food. I didn’t fucking care, big fucking deal. He was missing a finger. He was nice. I bought breakfast at McDonalds. Some other guy tried to sucked me off and that took care of lunch.

Yeah, Richard won, I was a whore. I didn’t even know it, think about it, consider it. I didn’t care. I wasn’t hungry and I had cigarettes.

I made it to the exit for the camp. I had no idea how far away the camp was. (Ijust looked, it was 5.9 miles from the intersection). Only one car passed. Why would they pick up a kid in a rhinestone studded shirt in the middle of the woods? I heard animals in the trees, some were big. I didn’t know if there were bears out there or not. I picked up a stick just in case. And smoked, nothing likes smoke. Just more fear.

I made it to the camp at sunset. They were at the pond floating candles in little paper boats. My twin was the first to see me walking down the slope. My mom cried. She put me in a tent by myself. Got me a plate of food. Asked if I needed cigarettes or a beer. I took the beer.


6 thoughts on “My Rape

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  1. And-this is bravery at the highest; honest-and straight forward truth.
    I was interviewed a few years ago on a NPR station/program in NYC-and after they interviewed me they opened up phones for callers to ask questions; some cat called and inquired of my sexual orientation. I had to tell him I never had the chance to sort that feeling out.
    The interview was about my living as a male rape survivor…dig this-not feeling the survived part!
    When I was six or seven-my eleven year old sister died.
    She was chums with a neighbor boy named Walter; he was what was termed as ‘spastic’ in the 1950’s. We kids could understand his words; we interpreted for the neighborhood adults.
    Well-Walter had to have been molesting my sister before she died-her death related to anything about him-because immediately after she was gone Walter would come take me to the woods. He built forts there-out of old discarded things that concealed what was going on in them.
    My first visual in life of masturbation was Walter-and because he was stricken with body distortions-his actions as he did this were horrific; a lasting thought until eventually learning it felt good.
    His ‘lessons’ on the other hand-did not feel good.
    He was 15 to my 7 or 8 year old body-and many of the lessons were not so pleasant. He called us queers-but in fact-I felt it was him and I hated every bit of it.
    My family eventually moved.
    It does not matter-move a hundred miles away and by damned if the molesters are like given facts.

    I can tell you the same feelings you had in high school. Scared. I’m a non-jock and no knowledge of touchdowns to strikes-hated the coaches and football sport guys.
    My 9th grade English literature teacher, Miss Wagner, was another lesson giver; hers felt so wonderful that I wanted to be in school all the time-only to get to have sex with her.
    I think-she got pregnant.
    That-will always remain a mystery; the boys dean insinuated such-hopeless for any answer; ever.
    Crazy thinking of it all now. I joined the military. You’ve read my blog.

    The problem is the distortion of what happened in detention barrack D.
    I live with a few disassociated characters inside of me. Chet, Zim, and the girl. She does not focus on a name. I try to kill her-all the time-but small things like finding a stray female under garment at the laundry is like a church revival to a Pentecostal mother. I constantly battle the girl.
    Zim-and Chet are annoying pests. Just to tell you.
    I am a father, to children in my life to this day-with grandchildren who have a fond grandpa name for me-and we all are family and all have love.
    But missing?
    Who was I going to be before all this happened?

    Your relating to going to Atlantic City age 15 seeking a boyfriend.
    An experience I never had. It sounded-natural.
    Thank you-for sharing your story-too.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Hi Jay,

      Everyday when you open your eyes, you are a survivor!
      You have gone through so much, yet you work to not just keep yourself going, but publicly advocating for other survivors of MST (Military Sexual Trauma). That is an accomplishment!

      What a flood of memories. Childhood sexual abuse really scrambles your ability to discover for yourself where your attractions are pointing. I am sorry Walter did what he did to you.

      I’m sorry you ever asked yourself “Who I was going to be before all this happened?”. We can’t know. What I think is important is what you’ve done since. Nothing is ever a waste. You have the courage to speak up. That is no small thing to the survivor suffering in silence and shame, for them to hear your brave words is a comfort. Who you would have been is unknowable, but you have every reason to be proud of who you are.

      Stay strong Jay, stay strong.

      -Brian Dennis

      Liked by 1 person

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