Age 13

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Information 1971-1972



Fort Christmas Baptist Church

I was invited to the church by a girl who rode the bus to school with me. I went to a ‘youth group’ several times, and to regular services after a while.

Mr. P was a Deacon at the Christmas Baptist Church. His wife had died years before, and he was a fixture in the church by the time I had started there. He was a tall and slender, elderly man with thinning hair and dark tanned skin. He didn’t like me. I didn’t like him. Our only interaction till now had been a suggestion I made during a church discussion, and him interrupting me, saying that I wasn’t an ‘official member of the church’. I was embarrassed.

After church one Sunday he motioned me aside, and asked me if I wanted to earn some money doing yard-work for him. I didn’t like the idea of working for him, but I did want to earn the money. I said I would.

Mister Phillips

Mr. P lived about four miles from our place. Less if I cut through the pastures along the way. I arrived at Mr. P’s place at the appointed time.

He had several acres of land, and a cinder-block single-story home with an attached carport. There were a few rows of trees that had been planted between the roadway and the house that now mostly obscured it from traffic passing by. There were split logs stacked along the side of the carport, and a tool-shed behind the house. Alongside and behind the large backyard were rows of mature orange trees.

My job for the day was to load a rusty wheelbarrow with fallen twigs and branches that were scattered throughout the yard. Mr. P sat in a lawn chair in the carport and directed. As the wheelbarrow filled, he had me push it towards the orange trees behind the house, and place the contents on top of an existing burn-pile. It was summer, sunny, hot, and humid.

The work went quickly. It wasn’t long before the yard was clear. Mr. P had me part the wheelbarrow alongside the tool-shed, and invited me into the house for something to drink. The window A/C was on, and the air in the house felt refreshingly cool and dry. I expected to receive a glass of warm tap water, and then return outdoors for the next project. Mr. P directed me to sit on the couch, and then went to rummage about in the refrigerator.

“All I have is a cold beer.” he said. And brought it out of the kitchen before I could respond. “Do your parents let you drink beer?” he followed up. I told him that I’ve never had any. He popped the top and handed it to me. “Give it a try. We won’t tell them.” he said. Throughout my time with him that morning I expected that at any time he would bark some form of disapproval at me. But instead, I was finding him to be unexpectedly friendly.

Mr. P returned to the kitchen to get a beer for himself, and then seated himself beside me on the couch. He told me I did a great job, but was worried about me working so hard in the heat. He asked if my leg muscles were sore, and then slid down to sit on the floor and began to rub my legs. I didn’t know what I should do, and continued sipping on my beer. He removed my shoes and socks to help ‘cool me off’, and continued rubbing my legs, one at a time. He commented that my muscles seemed so tight, and then suggested that he give me a massage to help me loosen up.

He had me strip out of my short pants and tee-shirt, saying that he would throw my clothes into the wash while we waited. After getting the laundry started, he returned and had me lay face-down on the couch. Mr. P massaged my back, neck, shoulders, legs, and repeated a few times. He commented about how strong my muscles were, and how smooth my skin was. How he liked the freckles on my shoulders.

He them had me turn over on my back. Legs, shoulders, legs, higher, then higher. He rubbed the insides of my thighs, and then accidentally brushed his forearm against my penis, which had become erect by then. After a few more brushes, he finally cupped it with his hand over my underwear, and began to gently rub me. “Does that feel good?”, he asked. I said yes. He then removed that last bit of clothing, slid his hand up and down on me several times, then took me into his mouth.

I was in uncharted land. It was scary, but pleasurable. He was doing things that no one had ever done, that I didn’t know could be done, but he was gentle, reassuring, building me up with his words. Admiring who I was.

He had me shower, dried my clothes, paid me for the work I had done, and drove me to the end of my street. Before I got out of his car he asked me if I would like to come over to his house again. I immediately said “yes.”








Bill was a cowboy. He had a green pickup truck. He rode horses, rounded up cattle, drank, wore a cowboy hat, and sometimes said he was a cop.

Bill knew Mr. P, and would sometimes stop by while I was there. He saw that there were sometimes a couple open beer cans on the coffee table. He noticed that I was often only wearing a pair of pants. And he asked lots of questions. Mr. P attempted to steer the conversation in other directions, but it was clear that Bill was all the wiser. Where do you go to school, Bill asked. How old are you? Where do you live? What are you doing over here so much?

Not long afterwards, Bill appeared at my school as it let out for the day. He was standing along the sidewalk where the busses load, and offered me a ride home. “I was passing by, and thought I’d save you a trip on the bus.” he explained. And off we went. He drove slow and steady, and took the longer ‘419’ back-way towards Christmas. He asked about school, my family, friends, asked if I had a girlfriend. Then asked several questions about Mr. P. Finally, he point-blank asked if ‘Jimmy’ was having sex with me. I froze. How could he know? I thought. Was I in trouble? Would my parents find out?… I admitted that he was. Bill didn’t ask any more questions.

Bill did make a stop at his house, though. Had me in, and in short order had me in his bed. We were naked, and I thought he would massage me, and then go down on me like Mr. P. The visits with Mr. P were always pleasurable. He was attentive, affirming, gentle, and gave me plenty of verbal reassurances. He would usually suck me off, then masturbate onto my stomach. Afterwards we would shower together.

Bill’s approach was immediately different. He laid back against the pillows and spread his legs out. I didn’t know what to do, or expect. “Come here” he motioned. I moved closer between his legs, and he grabbed me and pushed my head towards his limp penis. I was terrified. I said that I hadn’t done that before. He said it was time to learn. He had a Polaroid camera on the night table, and took several photos of me working on him. After he came he pushed me away and got up to dress. “Hurry up and get dressed” he said. I obeyed.

He drove me home, and said he would show the photos to my parents if I told anyone what we had done. We drove into my yard and stopped at the house. We both got out, and my mother came out of the house. “Hi, I’m Bill” he introduced himself. I went inside and threw up in the bathroom.

By the time I came back outside,  my mother and Bill were having an enthusiastic conversation about riding horses. He told her that he gave me a ride home because I had missed the bus and was hitchhiking on the highway. He glanced at me and commented that it wasn’t safe for me to be doing that. I went to my room, got in bed, and cried.










Liar Bill

Denn and I became friends. He smiled a lot, was supportive, Protective, and tender.

Denn called him ‘Liar Bill’ behind his back. It didn’t take long before I did as well… “I’ll untie you whenever you say.”, “If it hurts, just let me know and I’ll stop.”, “I won’t cum in your mouth.”





The Fish Camp

Along Highway 50, between Christmas and Titusville was the fish camp. I don’t think it actually had a name. It was situated on the north side of the four-lane, hanging over the swampy St. Johns River. Endless acres of tea-brown water that meandered northward at a snail’s pace. The source was the Everglades, a couple-hundred miles to the south, and it emptied into the Atlantic at Jacksonville, FL, 150 more miles to the north.

This was the eastern edge of Orange County. Route 50 narrowed here to a two-lane before crossing the dark water, and then transversed the marshy landscape for another 12 miles before emerging onto solid ground again. The terrain was a mix of Scrub-Oaks, stunted Palm trees, and miles of Palmetto bushes. Much of the land was free-range pasture for cattle, the rest belonged to an assortment of possums, racoons, armadillos, alligators, bob-cats and possibly an elusive Florida Panther.

The fish camp was a place to buy bait, beer, groceries, or launch a boat. It was a handful of old wooden buildings, including a cramped little store, covered pavilion, residence, an unused building used for storage, and a bar. Tony and Kim lived there with their family. He was in his late teens, she was 14, a year older than me. I don’t recall ever seeing either of them on the school bus.

Kenny and Albert invited me to go with them to the fish camp. They told me I could ‘get laid’ there. Apparently, it was a continuing arrangement that they would head up there, spend the night in one of the out-buildings, enjoy some beer and socializing, then return home the next day. It was a five-mile hike.

I remember spending some time meeting Kim, and hanging out around the camp with some other kids. That evening, after dark, Kenny collected me and led me to the building where Kim was waiting. To my horror, so were a several more boys, including her brother. The ritual hook-up began with Tony, and then followed the pecking-order until it became my turn. I was so uncomfortable with the situation that I wasn’t able to generate an erection, but the room was dimly light, and I went through the motions as though I had. As I climbed off of her after a reasonable amount of time, I dreaded the possibility that she would announce the ruse to the rest of the group. She didn’t.

I never returned to the fish camp.