*Possible Triggers*
click here for part one

I have been loath to admit, as well as to address, the following subject because I am embarrassed to admit that it was my own mother who ‘caused’ my homosexuality. While I was not born Gay, as a great many men are, I am not unhappy being Queer. I’ve long since made my peace with my sexuality and am in good place with it. But had it not been for my mother’s behaviours and attitudes I would not have turned away from my natural heterosexuality to embrace the homosexual behaviour that I was taught by my male abusers. I like females – or at least I like the parts that make them female. I’m almost embarrassed to admit this, but saying it any other way doesn’t change the facts. I like females - I don’t, however, like women.

When a boy, a woman taught me to hate women. Before I qualify that statement, I’m proud to say that over these last ten years I have worked through this and gratefully I am no longer the misogynist I once was. The reason I am posting this at all is so as to tell of the covert sexual abuse I endured and how still to this day, at the age of fifty two, I am dealing with much of its fallout.

My earliest recollection is from the age of four years old. My mother was screaming at me that she was going to teach me a lesson: “When I’m through with you, you little bastard, you’ll leave me alone. I’m sick of you hanging on to me and never giving me any breathing room. Come here! I said come here, now!” Not having much choice in the matter, I did as I was told. My mother then grabbed me by the back of the head and forced my face between her legs right up against her sex. I had no idea why she was doing this and all I could think was that I couldn’t breathe. Every time I did try to draw breath the scent of her sex filled all of my senses and was I sickened and repulsed beyond describing. I can’t now recall how long I was held in this position, but at the time it seemed to me that it would go on forever. When she released me, she simply threw me to the floor saying: “That ought to teach you, you little prick, leave me the fuck alone.”

I was raised by a woman whose self loathing permeated all of my formative years and having only her as a reference point for life, I adopted all of her attitudes as being the only and absolute truth about womankind. Rita-Jean, my mother, never once had a good thing to say about any woman she would encounter. It was always things like: “Would you just look at that stupid bitch”, or “if that dumb C*** thinks she’s smart then she’s got another thought coming”, and on and on. I have lost count of the times I heard her talking to herself and saying things like: “Christ, Rita-Jean, could you possibly be more stupid.”

Rita-Jean’s attitude about men was certainly no better as they were all: “Pricks, perverts, dumb-asses, liars and cheats.” And my formative years continued in this way.

I must have been about seven or eight years old when I walked in on this conversation between my mother and some other women: “Christ only knows what he’s going to be able to do with that later on, maybe he’ll learn to use his tongue (cackle, cackle) because the poor little shit sure ain’t got no dick I can tell you. It’s just a stubby little thing – Oh, there you are, I was just talking about you.”

When I was nine years old, she threw me to floor and kicked me in the genitals, not once but twice (I can’t now recall what I had done to deserve this). And then it was: “Oh, stop your faking (I was on the point of retching), it can’t hurt that much, not with the little you’ve got there.” It was my uncle who took me to the emergency room. Rita-Jean berated and ridiculed him for making so much out of nothing.

The final indignity came the following year. For skipping school I was to be taught a lesson (just one more of so many). She made me strip naked and lie on the bed. And then it started, the psychological torture before the final act: “You know that we don’t have to do this, right? -Yes mommy- If you were to promise to behave that would be enough you know -Yes mommy- Do you think now that you can do the things that you’re supposed to -Yes mommy- Maybe I should let you up then, eh-Yes mommy." She then took two steps back and for a moment I did believe it was over and I started to sit up. Then from behind her back she pulled out a double folded rubber skipping rope and before I could brace myself for what was coming... Whoosh, Twack! She proceeded to whip me from head to foot, front and back until she was exhausted and could not raise her arm one more time. She finished with“Goddamn you, you little prick, the things you make me do.”

The summer of 1969 I was eleven years old. As per usual, the moment school let out for the summer I was packed off somewhere - anywhere - not to return home until the new school year. I found myself in some jerked-off farming/mill village with relatives that I had never met. A disinterested aunt and two very interested cousins; Brian was seventeen and Tim was thirteen. If no one else in my life had ever taken an interest in me or had found me charming in any way, those two more than made up for it. Now, I’m not blaming Rita-Jean for what follows because she truly could not have known what was waiting for me there. However, had she not been so blatantly uncaring of me perhaps, just perhaps, I could be one of those men today who have no idea what it’s like to have been raped. I’ve told the rest of this in part one and I won’t repeat here. I’ll just add this. When I complied with the sexual demands made of me that summer, it was because my self-esteem was already non-existent. Rita-Jean had made me a non-person. I did not question the rightness or wrongness of the things my cousins and their friends did to me. I was just a thing. To be harmed, ridiculed and debased in any way anyone saw fit. When I was placed on my knees in the middle of a circle jerk so that the guys could cum all over me, I did not complain. I didn’t even bother to try and wipe their semen out of my eyes. I just stayed there ‘till I was told I could get up.

Rita-Jean had long since taken my natural male pride and my dignity; I had absolutely no means of defending myself. She never once handled me in sexual manner or made sexual overtures. But her treatment and debasement of me, in my mind, no less constitute sexual abuse if she had gone down on me!

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