My incredibly clear recollections of him and how he started the molestation end somewhere in a blur, as I wrote. I cannot count how many times it happened, but flashes of memories showing this place and that place — a bathroom, the woods, a basement, the shed. I smell the musty mix of his balls and his pipe, but I never really remember his face. I just see his cock, hard and huge, hanging there relaxed and in front of my face as I knelt down to suck it.
The post-ejaculation depression always brought on the verbal abuse of my descent into hell along with the crippling guilt. I can still feel that guilt, deep in my guts, but it’s a pin-prick compared to the all-consuming self-loathing that filled my hours after succumbing to my lust.
What happens next surprised even me and helped set my course toward some form of normalcy.
* * *
I met Vince as a freshman in high school. Tall and lanky like myself with the same bowl haircut, similar struggles with zits. But his extroverted, I-don’t-give-a-fuck personality proved to be the yang to my yin. We ran track together, something I attempted to fit into the normalcy of high school. We both sucked and our consistent position in the back of the pack led us to strike up a friendship.
Of course, beginning to feel close to someone led me to other feeling, especially since he was indeed a real male. He even had some chest hair to prove it.
As school kinds would, our conversations eventually turned to sex — and liking “girls.” He tried very hard to pin me down on who I liked. We would play a 20 questions like game where I thought I could be at least a little honest. The last conversation of this collection would be the one I can recall to this day.
I’d hinted that “she” rides his bus. He began naming girls, to each I’d respond, “No.” Then, at some point, he tried to determined whether “she” disembarked before or after him. Of course, I was in a corner because “she” got off the bus at the same stop as him.
There was a long pause.
“Is it me?” he asked.
“What?” I stammered. I could feel my heart beating in my ears. My stomach lurched forward. I thought I was going to throw up.
“Do you like me?” he asked.
I couldn’t answer. My eyes blurred with tears and fear gripped me. I couldn’t find an answer.
“Are you telling me you’re gay?”
That word. Oh that word. That I could answer, “No. I don’t think so.” But then I needed to say something. “Maybe I’m bi, but I don’t know.”
“But you like me?” he persisted.
The word, “Yes” popped out of my mouth before I could swallow it.
From somewhere downstairs, my mom began calling me for dinner. At that moment. Now? Really mom? The calls became more persistent.
“COMING!” I yelled. “Listen, I got to go. My mom is calling me.”
“Cool,” he said. “You know what I’m going to do?”
“No, what?” I said, thinking that he’d actually begin calling what few friends I had to tell them I was a “homo.”
“I’m going to jerk off,” he responded.
I lost my voice again.
“I think it’s really hot you’re into me,” he said. “And I got a stiffy to prove it. Let’s talk later.”
We did talk later. And often. Vince was actually the first guy with whom I ever had phone sex. I would talk about what the girls would do to him and he would hump his bed on the other end of the line. And he’d try to give me some fantasy about men, but it wasn’t a fulfilling as listening to his voice.
At some point, though, I told Vince about the man next door. I don’t recall how it came up or what really transpired. But for all of my fucked-up sense of who I was and my after-life destination, Vince turned out to be the catalyst to turn it all around.
“Dude, you’ve got to stop it and report him to the police,” Vince said.
“But Vince, people would then find out and everybody would think I was a fag!”
“Yea, you’re right,” he said. “But maybe there’s something else we can do.”
Our discussions regarding what to do about him were few since we focused mostly on our own libidos. Our relationship grew over the phone, but physically meeting and actually touching never happened much, until one summer afternoon when Vince called me and invited me over for a sleepover.
I don’t think my cock ever deflated throughout that day and early evening until we were able to finally retire to the basement.
Despite what the man took from me, I count Vince as my first. And technically, he was.
During the evening and early morning, Vince got off seven times. I shot three. Vince was a machine. His cock — similar in size, girth and hardness to mine — never went soft. Oh, and it pointed at his hairy belly button, just like mine. So I wasn’t deformed.
I sucked Vince off twice and licked his balls while he jerked off. At this point, I’d avoided cumming for fear of the painful results that would happen with such a release. Then, Vince requested the act I was probably most curious about.
“You want to fuck me?” he asked. Vince, being as “straight” as he was, refused to suck me. He would touch my cock, but only for short periods. It weirded him out. But he could endure my mouth and hand. Somehow, in his world, sticking my cock into his ass wasn’t as invasive as his mouth.
We found suntan lotion as lube and I rolled on top of him. He felt the usual pain, but for us, it was a new sensation. I pulled out as soon as I’d entered, from the awkward position of two lanky teenage boys, one lying on top of the other.
The next attempt proved more successful and Vince accepted me. If you’ve ever heard of the old show, “Love American Style,” the sex act was always represented by fireworks. Well, my memory of those few moments is so closely related. I saw fireworks, only that the sky was completely filled with these hot colors and none of the black could be seen. Dizzy and hopeful, my hard cock plunged into his virgin hole. I don’t know if we fucked for one minute or twenty. I lost all track of time and place. The pleasure overwhelmed all my senses. Even shooting my load deep into the bowels of this straight boy left me spent but incredibly dazed. I rolled off, smelling a mixture of cocoa butter, shit and our sweat.
“My turn!” Vince said.
Soon he was on top of me in the same awkward position and shoving his cock into my bare hole.
Where the man failed, Vince succeeded. His cock went in. The explosive joy and pleasure I’d experienced just moments before were replaced by sharp, gut-wrenching pain. I could only see red spikes and I begged for Vince to take it out, let it end.
“Just a minute more!” His breath was hot on my neck and he whispered for me to wait just a little bit longer.
He shot in my ass, but I didn’t care. I just wanted him off me. I wanted it to end.
* * *
That night turned out to be a little much for us both. Vince and I never really reconnected and, when school started back up, he avoided me as much as possible. However, Vince did do more for me than he will ever really know.
Truth is, I wanted to share that with Vince. With the 20-year high school reunion upon us, I watched for Vince to RSVP to the online tool and update his profile. Then one day, I logged on to find Vince missing from the roster completely. I sent the organizer a note.
Her e-mail response was abrupt.
“Oh, we moved him to the ‘in memoriam’ section,” she wrote. “He was killed while serving in the Navy shortly after high school. I think it was a car accident.”
I could never share with Vince how his little tryst with me started me on a path of self-worth, where I could value myself and actually enjoy the sex acts I knew I lusted after. In my universe, Vince would never grow old. He would always be the 15-year-old boy who opened me up to the potential.