Age 15

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Sleeping In Cars

Wymore Tech was attended by black male students predominantly. There were six white students that I was able to count.

The school was a place to begin learning skills that would lead to working in a trade. I don’t recall what I was enrolled in, or how long I was there before being threatened by a larger black student over my lunch-money in the boy’s restroom. But I do know that that was the last day I actually went inside the school.



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Farewell Mr. P

Days after I returning home from the Texas Job Corps, my mother, likely having the thought pop into her head, announced that one of our neighbors, Mr. P, was dead. She said that someone had shot him at his house. She then added that he apparently had been having sex with men. I’m not sure how she knew that, or thought it appropriate to share such intimate details with her 15 year-old son.

I hadn’t seen Mr. P since Bill had hi-jacked me away from him, but I wondered why I hadn’t gone back. The news that he was dead didn’t impact me emotionally. But there was a sense of loss. The person that provided me with my first validating experiences was now dead.

Bills Friends

Bill was still a large part of my mother’s life, Even when my father was living at home. Looking back, I can’t decide whether he never figured out that they had connected while he was away or not. He either didn’t know, or care. But whatever the case, Bill was in my life, because he was in theirs. And he would continue to manipulate my family into letting him care for me.

Occasionally he’d ‘borrow’ me for some errands, or work around his property. Other times he would have me overnight to stay with his ‘step-son’ Denn, or to give my parents a break. During the suspensions from school, he was always available to ‘put me to work’ as well.

Bill’s friends, aside from Zoey, were typically his peers. Older men, in various stages of decay and obesity, that enjoyed smoking, drinking, and being away from their homes and wives in liberal doses. They also appreciated Bill’s charity in sharing me with them, and the indulgences they were able to demand of me.

These increasingly regular excursions began with Bill encouraging and watching his friend’s living-room interlude with me. And later escalated with Bill joining in, and sometimes a group of three or four taking turns.

Licking an Ashtray

The memories of naked, sweaty, drunken, elderly men hovering above, or laying on top me still resides vividly in my mind. So too does the memory of those that insisted on kissing me as they choreographed their current fantasy.

The stink of cigarettes, alcohol, chewing tobacco, and faint odor of urine was a recurring theme (along with the abrasive stubble of their facial hair) with every encounter. I dreaded it, much more than the submissiveness I accommodated them with.

The Excursion









The group encounters waned after time. But were replaced by individual visits, generally transpiring later in the evenings.

Bill’s friends would stop by to visit him, and get an okay to pop in on me as well if I were over for the night. There usually wasn’t a knock. Just a flood of noise from the living-room TV, and the light from the hallway bulb.

Some were returning home from drinking at the fish camp. Some were on their way to ‘pick up a pack of smokes’, or milk from the convenience store before returning home. All of them had about 30 minutes to kill. Most of them had a common secret.

In the group, around other men, they would want to get a blowjob or fuck me. But behind this closed door, the majority would also suck me, and some would have me fuck them. They all would finish up with an affirmation that we wouldn’t mention the ‘gay’ bits to the others.


I met Lynn through a friend. I would borrow my parents little Ford Courier pickup and go to see her at her mom’s house in Bonnieville. She came home with me, to my shed, eventually, and we listened to music for some time.

She asked if I was attracted to her. I was, but I was quite nervous just being alone with her, and very unsure and self-conscious about what to do next. I said that I was, and she laughed, then leaned in to me and began kissing me.

There were many times that I had thought about having sex with her, but there were immediately fears that followed. What would happen if I couldn’t actually enjoy her? What if I am only able to maintain my excitement with men? What if I respond the same as I did with Kim at the fish camp? She began rubbing my crotch, I unbuttoned her shirt. Everything turned out well.

We were together for about a year. I never told her about the abuse I had experienced. About the abuse I was still involved with. But I did show eventually show her the handcuffs I had stolen from Bill. She adamantly told me to put them away again.

She didn’t tell me everything either. Not till I met her again much later. She didn’t tell me that her step-father was having sex with her. Or that she had been forced to have sex with her teacher from school, or her neighbor, or the many others that had sexually abused her so far.

I don’t remember what happened to us. For the longest time I did remember the door closing as she left, but I eventually forgot about that, her, and everything we had done.







Unhealthy Habitats

 Also Orlando’s Orange Blossom Trail were dozens of strip clubs, X-rated bookstores, and adult sex-toy/video arcades. Bill had introduced me to these places. He had given me a handful of tokens and told me to get lost while he conducted business with the man at the counter.

The main room was packed with magazine racks along the walls, with cover-photos offering a dizzying variety of erotic tastes. They were arranged by area. Pictorial sexual fantasies featuring lesbians, groups, inter-racial, leather, bondage, anal, oral, and normal couple sex. The gay magazines were always in a secluded corner.

The bulk of the room hosted rows of tables stacked with sex toys. As though a gorged pornigraphic cornucopia had purged itself of grossly exaggerated rubbery body parts. On the shelves were whips, chains, lotions, exotic clothing, vibrators, inflatable partners, and assorted restraints. Lone men shuffled about examining the implements, and perusing the magazines. No one made eye-contact.

Like a hidden passageway, tucked between two racks was a curtained opening. Beyond that were a labyrinth of doors along a maze of hallways. most were partially open, and beckoned with video teasers from television screens behind a square of plexiglass. A cacophony of recorded sexual sounds wafted up from the roofless stalls. Punctuated by the metallic clacking of inserted tokens and stall door locks opening and closing. This new world was intoxicating.

The stalls were dank and dark, with sticky floors and a single chair positioned opposite the video screen. Next to that was the token operated timer and a knob for selecting assorted videos. I dropped a token in, and began exploring the channels until I could resist no more. With my pants to my knees, and my vision adjusted to the dim light, I finally noticed the motion to my left. There was a four-inch circular hole in the wall into the next stall, and someone was beckoning with their fingers.

I froze… What’s going on? But it only took a few more seconds to arrive at a possible answer. He wants to touch me, I thought. I slowly edged closer to the hole, fearing that there could be dire consequences to placing my penis through an anonymous opening. Finally, the fingers gently grasped me, and then there was a familiar warm moist sensation around me. I heard the door in the adjacent stall quickly unlatch afterwards, and light from the hallway shone through the now empty hole. By the time I exited my stall the hallway was empty. The man had left.

The encounter puzzled me for years. Why would a total stranger be motivated to engage in such a transaction? I expected he would either have demanded payment, in-kind or cash, or would want to befriend me, now that we had broken the ice.

Going Down

My situation had become mind-numbing. The care and affirmation I experienced with Mr. P. seemed to have died with him. Living at Bill’s house was chaotic and unsettled, but still more attractive than the alternative of returning home. Trading a parade of encounters for the isolation of a box was never a serious option.

I believe there was hope that another supportive relationship would filter through the chaff to take me away. But by now I had realized and accepted that I was weak. I had become acutely familiar with the flood of regret and shame that filled me after being used. But the next occasion would almost always begin with the excitement of being seduced, and the desire of discovering connection. I had been strong enough to draw a line on being beat by teachers, and even my mother, but I couldn’t say no to this. I had come to embrace abuse.

Three West

I had spent the day at Randy and Debbie’s apartment. We had hot dogs for dinner, and were drinking beer and watching TV.

During a trip to their bathroom I noticed a bottle of Debbie’s prescription pills sitting on the counter, and took a couple. With each return trip between bottles of beer I took a few more. Apparently I ended up taking all of them.

I woke up in a hospital. Sylvia, my Art teacher was there. She had brought a pad of paper and colored pencils for me. I was admitted to Three-West for three days. Florida allows people to be involuntarily committed for observation after circumstances such as mine. I hadn’t taken the pills for a reason. I didn’t have a plan… consciously, at least. Sylvia visited each day. She cared about me, but never knew what was going on in my life.

I was released after three days. Got a ride to Randy’s to collect my motorcycle, and went home. My parents didn’t ask where I had been. I’m not sure my absence was out of the ordinary by this point. The time away, and the thing I had done, left me feeling very disconnected. And I wanted to remain that way. I didn’t want to go back to Bill’s again.

A Moving Target

I didn’t go back again. But I didn’t stay either. I found excuses to always be moving. To be nowhere.

I rode the motorcycle to friend’s houses, to my grandmother’s, to the beach, everywhere I could. But I didn’t stay long. My father complained one day that I wouldn’t walk 60 feet to collect the eggs from the chicken pen, but I would drive 60 miles to deliver them to my grandmother’s home.

I would sleep most of the day, and go out most of the night. Sometimes I would just ride to Orlando, up I-4 to Daytona, down to Cocoa, and back to Christmas. I wouldn’t have stopped anywhere where other people were, but might park on the beach in Daytona at midnight. Or spend a couple hours sitting underneath a bridge along the river in Cocoa. Arriving home as dawn broke, riding up our foggy Cemetery Road. Back into my little shed.

The Passenger

It was on one of these rides that I picked up a hitchhiker. It was after dark, and I was heading home from Orlando. Along Highway 50, not far from 420 was a man hitchhiking. The road is dark, with only trees for miles ahead.

I pulled over, and he jogged up. He was a young man, in his mid-twenties, and dressed in a professional manner. I told him I didn’t have an extra helmet, but since it was dark no one would be able to tell. He said he was going to Sharps as he got on the bike, and we headed east, past Christmas.

It wasn’t long that above the sound of the engine and wind he asked me if I ‘played around’. His question caught me by surprise. After all the men that had used me I was trying to avoid putting myself in that position again. I was prone to accept the abuse, but here I could still avoid it. I told him “no”.

He then asked, “Do you care if I do?”. Do I care if he plays around? I don’t care what he does. I answered “no” again. And with that, as we sped eastward through the dark, heading to his home, his right hand slid from my waist to between my legs. How had I not anticipated that?

Losing Trust

Gary, Larry, Teddy, and Arthur were brothers…






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