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Dark Passengers Series

Dark Passenger: A Funeral I Did Not Attend

I did not go to a funeral this weekend.

My molester finally kicked the bucket and finds himself in descent to hell or whatever suffering in afterlife the asshole deserves. Truth is, I’m not sure I believe in much of an afterlife anymore. But nonetheless, he’s gone.

The funeral was yesterday and family friends attempted to pressure both me and my sister to attend.

Now you must realize most people do not know what this man did to us — more especially, what he did to me,

Today I was speaking with a friend who said he was “floored” by what my sister told him about this wonderful outstanding citizen of the community. My sister refused to attend the funeral because of inappropriate touching of her. This came from the friend as to scold me for not attending the funeral, not in an understanding way.

I then went ahead and gave a brief overview of my abuse. At first, there was disbelief, but I think the margarine incident clinched it.

He broke down into tears and asked me to stop talking. And I was forgiven for not attending the funeral.

But tell me why I cannot sleep tonight. Tell me why it is on my mind?

 

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Dark Passengers Series

Dark Passenger: How Should I Feel?

Tonight I sit with a weird feeling creeping up my spine. I find myself reduced back to a boy, curled up in guilt and a little confused.

Long-time readers will know my story but I imagine most won’t, so I should set the stage with my original Dark Passenger. The man who launched the twisted fuck I would become. In a very real and unusually strange sense, that man indeed is the genesis of a myself, out and very comfortable and confident in my skin. While I would like to think I’d eventually maneuvered my way out of the closet, I doubt seriously if I’d ever become as tolerant of others or even admitted to myself or other what a barebacking sleaze I can be.

As a youth, I was molested by this man. Most of the entries regarding him and what he did can be found here, if you choose to read:

If you choose not, it’s fine. Know that from some point until around 18, I had sexual encounters with this man — a neighbor and trusted friend of my parents.

So the reason for my odd sensation is the call today to notify me that my molester is in hospice.

The call to me is not unusual, I guess, since he and his wife were friends of my parents and, now that both my parents are dead, the community feels as if someone in my family should be notified and, technically, I am the head of the family. The local community is not aware what this sleaze did to me or countless others.

I spoke on the phone in an even tone, thanking the person for the notification. It wasn’t a time to be emotional. But now that I sit alone with the thought of him dying, I feel something. Perhaps it is the last of my own childhood finally passing away with the man who stole it from me, since so much left me when my parents left in the last few years. Perhaps it’s a kind of happiness or vengeance, knowing the fucker is finally suffering and will befall his own fate he promised me — that one-way ticket to hell. Or maybe it’s my own fear that I might be closer to death as well.

Or is it the fear that I might become the molester like him. The other day, a 14-year-old on Twitter solicited me. Now he had been posing as a 23-year-old. And when he admitted to being 14, I blocked him. And as I wrote, I volunteered at times for my own molestation. I wonder if the world were wired when I was 14 what I might have done.

So I sit, quietly contemplating a big-dicked old man as he teeters at the edge of the abyss. And I wonder why I give a shit and I wonder why I even care.

 

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Dark Passengers Series

Dark Passenger: Margarine for Fucking

When I arrived, he was already naked. He’d called over to as my Mom if I could come over and assist him with some project. I don’t recall what he really needed me to do. It was made up anyway. I think it was hot Southern spring day. I remember birds. Lots of song birds. Or at least the sounds of spring birds.

I hesitated at first. I didn’t want to go. Or did I? Maybe I did. Perhaps I want to see his cock. No! I don’t. I don’t want to put my hands around his firm, thick, huge cock. I don’t want to stroke it and put it in my mouth, lick it and taste him. Even though I’d dreamed about cocks in my mouth.

In the pit of my stomach, I felt a little sick. Sick? Maybe butterflies. That sickness dropped lower and began tickling at the base of my balls. My cock began to rise.

I walked into the house and he was in his living room, naked and stroking his gigantic cock. And when I say GIGANTIC, I mean it was more massive and dense than the thousands of cocks I have seen since … with the exception of a few, most of those on African American men.

As I look back, I wonder if this was actually our third encounter. But I distinctly remember him being naked and waiting. And in a moment, I was naked too.

We didn’t lay down. We didn’t go to a bed. He guided my head to his cock and I began the frustrating job of sucking his huge cock. My 11- or 12-year-old mouth wasn’t big enough to make a dent on his cock. So he suggested we try something else.

He left to the bathroom. He rustled around and looked for something. Something he couldn’t find. Of course, I was rock hard, anxious and just wanted him to come back. He came out of the bathroom and ducked into the kitchen. He came out with a stick of margarine.

Yes, margarine.

I had no idea why he was bringing me butter substitute. He told me to stand up and turn around. I felt a cold slab against the crack of my ass. I turned around to see him slathering it over the head of his cock.

“This will hurt a little, but just relax.”

He pushed me over to support myself. His cock found my hole and he pushed.

Lube aside, we’re talking about a massive cock of more than six inches around and he somehow thought it would go into my ass. The ass of a 130 pound kid. No way. In fact, I never had an opportunity to complain. He never put enough force behind his pushing to ever get inside. After attempts (and my horniness), he gave up.

I was on my knees soon and started sucking. The buttery taste seemed a little weird but I adjusted. It didn’t take long for him to begin shooting. His spunk abruptly entered my mouth. I did the logical thing and swallowed.

He recovered and I stood, hoping for a reciprocal blowjob. He grabbed my cock and started jerking. I didn’t say anything much. He just jerked without much attention.

“Did you swallow it?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“You shouldn’t do that,” he said. Then, after a pause. “This is a bad thing. We shouldn’t do this. You know, you’re going to go to hell for this. Your prick is broken too. It’s not supposed to point that way….”

But he was jerking me. He was getting me close. I didn’t hear him. I shot suddenly, blowing across the room. He then complained since some of my load landed on a sofa. It was the first time someone got me off. It was the first time I wasn’t doing donuts in the gym that I had this sensation. But I couldn’t focus on this.

He was angry. He was telling me how much trouble I was in. He was saying what hell would be like for me. A cloud of extreme guilt descended on me. It buried me in a few moments. I was depressed. I was sad. I was guilty. I never wanted to do it again.

 

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