Hello everyone. I've been lurking for a single night, so I don't know everything about the forum yet. I've been feeling pretty awful, so I've been looking for information on male survivors of rape. For those with particular sensitivities, though, this is a trigger warning. I've never actually written my entire story before, but I'll do it now since I believe I've found a sympathetic audience. I'm not sure where to post this because I've been abused by both males and females. However, I consider my female abusers to be the primary sources of my misery because I have the most complaints about them.

Right before I turned 6, my mother enrolled me in kindergarten. I immediately met my first bullies – two kids I'll call A and B. Before nap time, they would position themselves to be near me. I tried to sleep, but they tied knots in their socks and hit me with them. The teacher didn't believe me and told me not to be a tattletale, so I tried to ignore them instead. The bullying escalated until, one day beneath a table, during nap time when the lights were off, A told me “let me stick my wiener in your butt or I'll hit you.” I have tried to remember what happened next, but my memory flashes forward to another scene, where, behind a wall where the teachers supervising recess couldn't see us, A, B, and their friend, C, made me participate in oral sex. My complaints about these boys annoyed my teacher since she already did not believe me when I said they were bullying me. After an incident in which I innocently pocketed a dolphin-shaped comb that belonged to B from a desk I thought was assigned to no one and the teacher sent me to the principal's office where I was forced to confess to theft and apologize to my rapist, I ceased to trust adults. For many years, I wondered why I felt utterly unable to confide in my parents about what happened in kindergarten. The spankings didn't help. I remember that I once hid every belt in the house and that I had a hiding place for myself in a closet. I remember hiding in the closet several times, but I can't remember why I was in trouble.

So, I said I had female abusers, too. The rest of these paragraphs are about them. From the age of 3, I was acquainted with a girl (let's call her D) who abused me. Our families were friends, so we were often left to play together unsupervised in our rooms or in the yard, where each family had a variety of portable buildings and vehicles where I remember playing. Before I was old enough to go to kindergarten but around 5 years old, I remember having to repeatedly rescue this girl's pet kitten from her. She would carry the kitten around in a laundry detergent box with toys and other items, squishing the poor creature into the box if necessary. I saw her slap the kitten for fighting back, pick it up by the tail, and otherwise mistreat it. Whenever she wasn't around, the kitten came to me and I took care of it. This made her angry and jealous, and one day the kitten disappeared. She told me it had been stolen and I never questioned her. Recounting the story leaves me feeling more uneasy about the kitten's ultimate fate than I did previously. She treated me just as roughly, but even today, I feel more compassion for the cat than I do for myself.

I can't recall when D's physical bullying evolved into sexual bullying, but I remember being 8 and sitting in the back yard with D telling me that since we had “slept together” she was now pregnant. She wasn't, but I don't recall many specific memories of playing with her despite my best efforts to dredge them up. I know that we were around each other frequently, but I only have one stray memory of having an erection right before I knew she would be coming over. I remember my mom slapping my hands for touching it and telling me that I was being nasty. Whatever happened with D, it took a back seat in my mind to an astounding new discovery – pornography! I found my first Hustlers and Penthouses prowling through my dad truck's with my best childhood friend. We were 7. My dad was upset with us, but he was understanding. My mother was furious. I remember being slapped for trying to take an issue of Playboy to my room. I rediscovered the magazines in the garage, though, and I discovered masturbation next.

Oddly enough, from an early age to approximately 8, I intruded on my parents' showers. I could and did bathe by myself on many occasions, but I preferred to bathe with my mother present. I remember my dad complaining about it, but I would shower with him sometimes, as well. I also slept in their bed, right between them, and experienced awful nightmares when I would be forced to sleep alone. A and B continued to bully me throughout elementary school, but the sexual assaults ended after kindergarten and their bullying ended in Jr. High. At 13, I had my first orgasm while looking at porn. I was terrified and I felt dirty. Later that year, I began to cut the hair that had started to grow on my chest and legs. I frantically ripped my peach-fuzz mustache out using masking tape. Boys at school would stare at my hair and make comments. To this day, I can't tell if they were jealous or if they were honestly making fun of me, but it always felt more like the latter than the former.

In High School, I fell in love for the very first time. E was a brilliant but troubled girl who liked me because I accepted her for being the lesbian she said she was. She broke up with her girlfriend a few months after meeting me and told me that I was different from other guys and that she wanted to give men one more chance. I was head over heels for her then, but, moreover, E confided in me that she had been raped by an older man. I sincerely believed I could love her back to happiness. However, she began to criticize my every expression of affection. I didn't kiss her correctly. I didn't fondle her breasts in the right way. She would show me the proper way. Soon, I was shamed into letting her try to give me a handjob in a public theater. I was too nervous for it to go well, so E started saying that I must be gay. I never told her about my experiences in kindergarten, so I was mortified. I felt suddenly exposed, as if she knew everything already.

One fateful day, E introduced me to marijuana, and while I was unbelievably high, she pushed me against her bedroom door and sat on my erection. We didn't have condoms available and I had not come to her house that day intending to have sex with her, so I told her to get off and pushed her back, but it was too late. I felt a familiar jolt and realized I had just lost my virginity, for what that experience was worth. Then, E laughed at me, told me that she had just raped me, and that I was definitely gay. We then endured three months of desperate silence together as our relationship and friendship unraveled. After a particularly bad fight, I told both her parents and mine that she was pregnant. I was too humiliated by what had happened to tell my parents the whole truth, and so they blamed me for what happened. They punished me instead of showing me any support. I was grounded for months, I wasn't allowed to be at the clinic with E when she had an abortion, and then, everyone in my deeply conservative community discovered the details of my secret life. I was already a laughingstock because I was afraid when E raped me, and all the guys said I didn't “act right” or last long enough to pleasure her, so I must definitely be gay. After news of E's abortion got out, became an accomplice to murder in the minds of my community. I lived in fear of my life. Adults had become my bullies. I was an A/B student, and now I struggled to make C's in certain classes. I never confronted these teachers about trying to fail me because they always had some clever excuse that related to bad handwriting, not showing your work for math problems, tardiness, etc. E caught her equal share of hell for the abortion, too. She was bullied so badly that she dropped out of high school. My parents wouldn't let me leave. I often came home to a quiet house and hateful stares. I had brought shame on the family, they told me.

During all this, I had maintained my friendship with D. After E's abortion, however, D would have nothing more to do with me. Her parting words to me were: “After everything I did to you, I'm surprised you're not gay.” At that point, my only remaining friends were guys who knew about my experience with E and constantly made jokes about it to me. That was the best I had. Then, my mother humiliated me one final time by dragging me to the free clinic to get tested for every STI you've ever heard about, lecturing me the entire time.

I made it to college and tried to turn off my mind. I told myself that I hadn't been abused and I made a new life built entirely of lies – but it didn't work. I was recently relieved to find myself alone after living with a male roommate. I hated his habit of sitting around in his boxers, I hated having to look at his mostly naked body, I hated his liberated, devil-may-care attitude toward his own sexuality. I identify as bisexual, but I have always been too intimidated by men to actually want to have sex with them. When it comes to men, I am constantly afraid of being humiliated for some physical imperfection or for having a smaller penis. I react as if I'm going to be bullied, or called a faggot at any moment. However, I experience identical anxieties around women. I've learned enough about myself by now that I can tell you that I read sexual interest as aggression and shy away from it. When that happens, I can rarely meta-think fast enough to stop myself and be polite. I dislike being touched, wearing revealing clothing and people who wear such clothing, I despise and avoid conversations about sex, and I really hate being tickled. Try to tickle me, and you'll draw back a stump. Of course, I don't date casually or hook up with random, practically anonymous people. I couldn't do it without having a panic attack. Porn is safe and can't give you any diseases. Porn can't get pregnant. Porn can't get you stoned and shove you against a door.

As far as my past relationships go, blinding myself with denial and attempting to start anew blew up in my face because I could not trust my ex-partner. Next, I tried finding someone just as damaged as me. She lied to me about her hard drug use and sex parties, and she was unfaithful during the early days of the relationship. But--- she started talking about marriage and children, and I was flattered! After she had drawn me in, the guilt-tripping, gas-lighting and psychological abuse emerged from behind verbal abuse that I had disregarded as being her bad temper. When I finally told her about my experience with E, she said “oooh, that's hot!” and I cut the story short, avoiding mentioning A, B, and D. I left her when I realized I was only paying for her to sit around, pop pills, hang out with her friends, and do nothing to improve her lot in life. After her, I've determined that people seem to want to rape my body, my mind, or my wallet, so I don't make time to interact with most people because they aren't worth the trouble.

I still dream of a romantic relationship with a woman, so much that I'd almost say I'm straight, but I doubt I'll ever meet a woman who will stop short of mocking me and my misadventures, let alone one who would sacrifice time that could be filled with joy and adventure to deal with me when I feel like my heart's been ripped out and I'm overcome by contradictory emotions and impulses. I wish I could feel safe and loved, and that desire is so strong that it appears to others as creepy desperation, so, I'm trapped. My only rational choice seems to be to accept the looming shadow of a lifetime of loneliness for what it is – an inevitability. Still, I'd rather not be left alone with my boiling hatred for the human species that grows with every awkward conversation and encounter; that seems unhealthy, so, maybe I should get a kitten.

The End.