Notes on the rape

The rape.

I have never written well about being raped. I’ve scratched down thousands of words, many scattered, mostly dispensing the facts, sometimes conveying my horror. But I’ve never produced a good piece of writing about it.

What do I want you to understand about my experience? It hardened me. I left New York the following morning a street kid, willing to let anyone suck me for $5 when I needed it. I left a punk, you could suck me, but I’d never get off.

Is that what I want you to know? Is that who I wanted to be, a bitter wise ass who held back the goods? Yes and no. Beforehand I told every john they could, but I wouldn’t. A bit too honest to be considered an act of revenge.

Yes I was angry, but the tricks only procured provisions for my mission; finding a boyfriend. It took a lot of time away from home and school. I was on foot, miles away from where I should have been. It took a lot of cigarettes and burgers to be out so far and so long.

I needed a boyfriend more than before the rape. Just as being molested in the theater amplified my emptiness into a nagging hunger, the rape completely shut me down, and I was starving. I was incapable of what I so desperately believed would make me whole. But the recipe was toxic, this boyfriend had to be a magic straight boy, not a broken queer like me. His love had to be a dire crisis that only I could solve. Our lives together could only be that moment right before my kiss healed him. Because it would break the magic and we would crumble down in to our ugly everyday, just two fags neither getting what he needed.

Is that what I want you to know, just how choked my thinking was?

I want to write the piece that puts it to bed. But when I look at it, I can’t muster the imagination to hold it in a comprehensive arc. To this day, it’s still below words. I will do it, just not today.

4 thoughts on “Notes on the rape

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  1. Tim and I were really dear friends. He marched, alone (except I knew), with a coffin in 1988. It was his statement against AIDS. He’s an artist, and when I met him, I needed his friendship, like a lifeline. I can barely bear knowing he’s not in my life, the dear man.

    I have been and am emotional, it seems I’m gay, and it probably wouldn’t end my world, but I don’t have the attraction. What’s gotten me through life are a few close friend memories. I don’t have them any more, I’m alone with a situation I can’t endure, but must.

    I hope writing my story in parts gives me what I suppose it’s going to? I wonder about others sharing theirs and have read maybe a few hundred by now. To me, it’s so intensely personal, but I have gotten rebellious about being honest. I’ve always been, and in dealing with my trauma, I’m constantly telling on myself to my T. I make efforts to steer my course and define what that’s supposed to be. I have intense doubts, and a stubbornness that evokes throwing caution to the wind and not giving a f. I have gotten a so-be-it attitude since late last year. I’m being reckless and just doing connections with those whom I can relate. I still have a lot of anxiety, and vigilance caution, so in many ways I still stifle possibilities.

    I’ve been following trans issues since 2015… sigh, and I don’t know any trans people. It’s not to say that I haven’t met any, but none are in my acquaintance. I wish it weren’t so (but why?), and the same is true about a broader ideal of what I think connections would be. Yet, who am I, I’m nobody, and it’s like, don’t say I am, I’m not. I don’t know anyone, and no one really knows me. Work doesn’t count. I don’t socialize, that’s what I mean. Well, I do have old friends I barely see; maybe once a year? My T says to change that.

    So, it’s like I’m being online to just do what I think I would like to do if it were in person with some close people. Lol. I’ll keep going, and hope you’re doing well.

    Best wishes and hopes to you.


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