Targeted Child

I am a gay man. I was a molested kid. Not a story everyone wants to read or know. Sadly, I have come to realize that this story is not uncommon. But children do not understand what is happening, when it is happening, and cannot rationalize a response quick enough to respond to the damage being done. Much later in life, the price tag is so large, it remains a debt to be paid to that experience throughout your adulthood.

My best friend’s dad molested me. He was a deacon in our Evangelical church, in a small southern Oklahoma town. He had a wife and two children. I was only 8. I was the youngest of five in a poor family with VERY young parents who were struggling with their much too early in life choices. My mother had five children in a 9-year span, starting at age 17. My father was absent MOST of the time, as an over-the-road trucker, so he had little to do with the chaos he left after his none-so-frequent home visits. Even then, he sat tapping his foot and looking at the clock so he could be gone again early Monday, not to return until a weekend or even two had passed.

So, relief was my mother’s reaction when she was asked if I could go along with my friend’s family when they went to Lake of the Ozarks. I would be out of her hair, taken care of by someone else, and would have a good time. All good in theory.

The trip started out innocent enough. I loved being with my friend and his sister and parents. Their family was so different from mine. Their dad was home every night. Their mom seemed available and interested in what they were doing, and nothing seemed to be an irritation, and she was happy while we were traveling. I had played at their home before, even though we went to different schools. But we shared Sunday School class.

I loved the cabin and the lake. We all went down to the beach. But then his father asked me to go back to the cabin with him, to retrieve some things for the beach. When we got there, he suggested that the pants I had on should be changed to a bathing suit, even though I did not know how to swim, and was terrified of water.

No problem. I was very shy about my body, even at that young age, so I went to change in the bathroom, but he said I should keep the door open. He watched me drop my little jeans and reach for the suit, but then stepped into the room and sat on the edge of the tub.

He commented on my penis and asked me if I wanted to see his. I had NEVER seen my own father even without a shirt, and I remember not knowing how to answer such a question. I was only EIGHT. So, he dropped his own pants. I did not know what an erection was, nor why his penis was getting bigger and did not know what to do when he took my hand and had me touch it.

He was not hurting me. He was not forcing me. Attention of any kind is very different to a child who never has any attention, and this was just new and confusing. I don’t remember much more other than being cautioned that I must not tell anyone about this, because other people would be mad at him and at me, and that would be just terrible and upset everyone, and this had to be “our secret”.

No one paid much attention to me at home, other than my two nearest sisters in age, and certainly, this was too confusing to talk to my mother about, and most certainly not my father. And, my sisters did not have a penis, that I knew of, in my very limited knowledge of the body.

This same scenario happened a few more times during that week. Just touching. Just looking. And more reinforcement about “not telling anyone our secret”.

Having a secret with another adult was exciting and having no understanding of sex and what was really happening left me very unequipped to deal with the situation.

After that week, he would find excuses to pick me up to take me for a “treat”, or a drive, or to help with a family project at home. My mother seemed glad to let me go, and I knew that at some point I would get more of that “attention.”

He found an excuse for me to stay over at their home one weekend, and during that night, somewhere in the night while everyone was sleeping, he came and slipped into the bed he had made sure I was in. That bed was on a sleeping porch, and not with my friend or anyone else, and he “wanted to make sure I wasn’t scared.”

That was the first time he showed me how he masturbated, and what masturbation was. There was a lot of whispering. This all felt good, even as an 8-year-old. We did not get caught. These encounters continued.

During the next year, a kindly old gentleman from our church, who also taught Sunday School, invited me to go fishing with him and his wife. There was NO molestation here, just lessons about fishing, wonderful care and attention from his wife, and the fun of fishing. They took me often “down to the river”, and we camped and fished.

One weekend, the wife’s brother showed up, and he came along. I had seen him at our church, only a few times. I did not know that he was friends with “the molester”, but now I know he came along because that was going to give him access to me on the trip. He was very hairy, and muscular, and masculine. I liked him because he was an adult paying attention to me.

He suggested that he share my tent. That night was constant touching, play masturbating, and oral sex on me, as a nine-year-old boy. This was all quite new, and much past the bounds of what I had already experienced. I liked him, and I was not uncomfortable, or being hurt, I just did not understand what was happening, but I knew that no one should know about it, and he also reinforced that idea.

These fishing trips went all through the weekends of my 9-year-old summer. Then, that fall, something was happening to my body. At nine, I had rapid body hair growth, my voice started changing, and I was constantly finding some way to get alone and masturbate.

That spring, the fishing trips started again. The brother “Willie Don” showed up again. More long nights of sexual play, between a man easily in his fifties and a boy of 9 almost ten. But then, suddenly confusing things really started happening. Big open sores appeared on my scrotum. A bad stench was always in my underwear. Big patches of skin would blister on my scrotum and legs and I would peel it off and treat myself with hydrogen peroxide. I bought it at the little corner store by selling pop bottles I collected. I did not tell anyone. I was scared. I knew I was sick but did not know what to do, and suddenly both of my “adult friends” disappeared.

I finally became so ill that my mother must have noticed my very soiled and smelly underwear, and at that point, I had lost a considerable amount of weight and was feverish, and very sick. I have a picture of me during that time, and the illness shows.

I was briefly hospitalized, then when I was picked up, it was by an Uncle and Aunt who farmed in a neighboring community. I did not know why. No one ever explained to me what was going on or asked me any questions about how this might have happened to me. No one explained anything to me.

I was with them for a couple of weeks, to rest and get better, then returned home. My mother was very cold to me, and I do not recall my father’s reaction, but he was never present in my life anyway, on a regular basis, so I am not surprised at that.

I had no further contact with the two men who had molested me for that two-year period.

My young friend’s parents got a divorce. This was very unusual in those days, especially among the tight-knit church families. My initial molester no longer came to my church. I never put any of these incidents together in a cause-and-effect train of thought.

My illness must have been a huge embarrassment to my parents when questioned by the doctors. I am quite certain that they had no idea how to respond, and to my knowledge had no idea how I had contracted this disease.

But they both treated me very coldly after that, and with a degree of hostility. They both blamed me, and themselves, perhaps, for the embarrassment that they had to endure at the hands of educated doctors and nurses.

I did not have another sexual encounter with anyone, until my sophomore year of college. I dated girls in high school, but avoided sex and sexual play of any kind, much to their surprise and frustration, I am sure.

In my first year of college, I remember wondering about the white patches on the skin of my scrotum. Memories of childhood started flooding back. I came to realize that I had contracted syphilis.

As a freshman in university, I researched sexual diseases. All the symptoms were there. Early sexual maturity and body changes were part of this as well. I suffered greatly in middle school due to my extremely hairy pre-teen body and an early growth spurt. I was one of the tallest ninth-grade students, but one of the shortest seniors. Teasing and attention were relentless. Gym class was an ongoing nightmare.

In adolescence, I was always keenly aware of masculine men and hairy men on TV, and in real life. There was no one to explain what being gay or homosexual was. I had no role models or reference points. There was one Uncle no one could explain. He was single. He had a ranch hand he lived with to help him on his property. On some level I understood this, but not very well.

By college, I was figuring this out. I tried to go to some counseling. I could not come right out and tell the truth, as I did not trust my counselor. Looking back at the period of molestation was like looking at an old-fashioned “flip book” where images went faster the more you flipped the pages.

The damage this early molestation caused me has been the root of so much relationship trouble throughout my life. The repercussions have been great and long-lasting. Problems with trust. Problems with loyalty and with fidelity. Problems with detachment and personality disorders, and unexplained or uncontrolled anger. Compulsion.

And, I had the further very confusing task of deciding if I was a gay man, or a sexual molestation survivor. This led to a period of running away, and an ill-advised marriage that I thought would “fix” me.

Those are stories for another day. I became a nice guy. I have a husband who loves me. I have never confronted this story. I know that I am not alone. My hope is that parents will take a cautionary note and PAY ATTENTION to their children and who is around them, and who gains access to them. And I hope that someone else will read my story and know that if they were also molested, they are not alone. It gets better. But the damage remains.