NOTE to the Mod Team,

I posted this last summer, but since then I have re-registred and had asked Nathan to cancel my firt account. As a result all the posts that I had made have been deleted. So my survivor that follows is a re-post. Thanks guys. Part 2 will follow in a couple of days.



When I was four years old I was molested by a teenage boy. Now I know how that sounds bad but the sad truth of it is that his attention toward me was my lifeline. My mother couldn't stand the sight of me most days and she would lock me outside so that I wouldn't bother her. My stepfather was cruelty personified. My abuser however, liked me! He smiled at me and said nice things to me. He caressed me and kissed me and made me feel loved, valuable. OK, so I didn't really understand his continual insistence on the "game" we always played when he would strip me naked in the bushes behind our house, but he was so important to my emotional survival in those years that I refused him nothing. I have to say also that I never once felt threatened by him and I have no recall whatever that he ever physically hurt me. I know today that in that regard I was so much luckier than many. It wasn't until many, many years later that I discovered the harm he did cause me was to rob me of my ability and my natural right to say no to the unacceptable, the undesirable. When he was finally done with me and then moved on, he took with him all of my natural boundaries of self-protection. For the better part of twenty years, any man only had to imply, or direct me to, sexual activity whether I wanted it or not and I simply had to comply. I had no power to say no. I can't count the times when I found myself on my knees for some fool doing his bidding, hating it and myself for it - asking myself: "Why am I here, why don't I just leave? I don't want to be doing this". But there I would stay ‘till the job was done and he gave me permission to leave. That's what being molested with kindness and gentleness did to me. It imprisoned me in sexual obedience. Nice legacy, huh?

So when at the age of eleven I was gang raped by my seventeen year old cousin and three of his friends, it could be said that I had already been primed for the picking. I truly put up no resistance whatever. My cousin, Brian, after having taught me how to fellate him as well as my younger cousin Tim every morning before leaving the bedroom we all shared, started making me ask him repeatedly to F*** me. I had only a vague idea of that was. I knew that it had something to do with what men did to women, but what exactly it entailed I could not have said. This constantly asking him to f*** me went on for days and I did it because every time that Brian made me ask for it, all of his friends would just howl with laughter. It made me feel like I to was part of the gang. I was too naïve to realise that everybody was laughing at me and not with me.

When the day finally came, Brian said to me something to the effect of: "You've been so sweet about asking for it all this time, how can I possibly deprive you of the pleasure any longer? Today sweetboy is your day". I was no stranger to physical abuse, my mother was a histrionic and violent woman and she once had striped me naked and proceeded to whip me from head to toe, front and back with a double folded rubber skipping rope. I had been punched, slapped, kicked down flights of stairs and on and on. Pain, I was used to that. But what Brian did to me that afternoon down by the swimming hole was nothing like I had ever experienced before. It was the second time in my short life that I truly thought that I was going to die. I was held down and gang-raped by four teenage boys. My seventeen year old cousin pushed me on my back in the grass and lifted my ankles to another guy who knelt with his knees in my armpits and sat his balls in my face, I was pinned. I felt myself being split in half. That's the only way I can describe it. Brian, my cousin took his turn first - when my screaming became too loud and when my begging him to stop started to bother him, Brian told the guy sitting on my face to stick his dick down my throat to shut me up. I could only just barely breathe and I think that I kept passing out. I had this knowing in my heart that they were trying to kill me (at least that’s what I kept thinking to myself) – in my young mind I thought that a body could not withstand that kind of pain and that a person could still live. I truly believed that I was dying and I couldn't understand why my cousin had decided to kill me - up to that point I had done everything that I had been ordered to do. I hadn't ever disobeyed so why kill me - it just didn't make sense. I remember the second guy taking his turn in me, but by the third guy I really wasn't there anymore. After the third guy finished in me, the guy sitting on my face unloaded down my throat.

When they were done with me, they let me up and one of them made me lick him clean – I was completely mortified and I remember thinking that it would have been so much better for me if had indeed died. After that, I remember being on my knees and thanking each guy for teaching me how to be a good bitch-boy. I don’t know whose idea that was, but I simply did as I was told. I remember somebody patting me on the head and telling that I was a good fuck and I remember saying thank you. I also vaguely remember thinking that this is what it feels like to be dead.

Brian had to piggy-back me home that afternoon because my legs wouldn't hold me. I spent then next four days in bed with my aunt hovering by my side and insisting that I not ever mention what had been done to me. She kept saying that other people wouldn't understand that Brian and his friends meant me no harm and that if the church ladies found out they might not want her to be a part of their comity anymore, and bla-bla-bla……

A few days later, they brought another boy around - he was a little younger than me. I think that he someone’s brother but I’m not sure now. They made us act like f*** together for their amusement- kissing and sucking each other and other vile things. It was so totally embarrassing. They kept slapping us and pushing us around and telling us what freakin' disgusting little pigs we were, insisting over & over that we tell them how much we liked it. One or maybe it was two, of the guys pissed on us and made us drink some of it and made us tell him that it tasted good - it was more than I could take and I started crying and begging them to stop. I kept looking around for my cousins hoping that at least one of them would make it stop, but when I did catch Brian’s eye I noticed that he was in on all of it too. Something in me just gave up at that point.

I remember that someone held my face in the dirt by the back of my neck and made me stick my butt in the air - I thought they were going to f*** again and I braced for it. Instead I got whipped with a belt for being such a cry baby. At some point I had no more tears and when I stopped crying and making any sound at all, they let me up. I had learned my lesson - do as you're told and don't ever complain.

With my butt still stinging and burning, they made me sixty nine with the other boy and they kept telling me to wet him real good - slobber all over him. I was still too naïve to know what they were preparing to do. They made me put his ankles under my armpits while I sat on his face. They forced me to watch while they raped him.....three guys, just like me. Forty + years later and I still can't get the pictures out of my head - I watched that boy bleed while they were doing him and I felt nothing for him, I was only just relieved for me that they were doing it to him and not me. I kept my silence about that for thirty years, too ashamed that I had participated in another boy's rape and destruction. When I finally told (with not nearly as much detail as I've just given here) it broke the spell that the event had over me. I was able to cry it out and then move on.......

At fourteen I left my mother's house and traveled over two thousand miles away to the other end of the country. I would have kept going if I hadn't hit the ocean as a barrier to my escape. I now found myself in downtown Vancouver and on my second day there, some older guy asked me how much I charged. Charged? For what, I asked? He said: "How much to let me blow you"? Blow me? Blow my mind was more like it. I had no idea a boy could get money for sex. I learned fast though. In no time I was making my hundred dollars a day - in 1972 fellas, that was serious cash. And for the following fourteen years that's how I made my living.

At twenty eight I was so used up and disabused by my life that I didn't have the ambition or the strength to kill myself. And then I had a spiritual awakening that has lead me here today at fifty one years old, recovering still, yes, but getting better all the time. Once I had been victimised which caused me to become a victim. I then transitioned from victim to survivor (survivor: no longer a victim but not really living though, just sort of in between) and I am now in process of getting to where I set out for at the beginning of my reconstruction process. I am transitioning from survivor to Thrivor! It is said that the wisest of souls are the most deeply scarred ones. Geez, maybe I'll become a Sage! Ha!

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My Story 1
My Story 2
The longest journey we take is to self-discovery