Hi, guys.

Some of you have known me and had interactions with me for quite some time. I first came to MS in September of 2008, and posted my story "in verse" but not in detail. I found MS through an internet search when I was desperate to try to start putting my life back together. A few months earlier, in May, I had met with another guy I'd met online for sex. My wife found out shortly afterwards (I hadn't been thorough in covering my tracks on the computer). She, of course, with good reason, wanted a divorce; I pleaded with her to stay with me, to try counseling. She very graciously agreed. About a month or two into counseling, we were driving home after a session, and while discussing some issues we'd just addressed in therapy, I just kind of blurted out that I'd been abused. You'd think that would be a good thing, but it resulted in my remembering many things I never, ever wanted to remember, ever again. Oh, and in case your wondering, my wife's response to my blurting out about the abuse was, "Well that explains a lot." I'm sure that'll resonate with some of you guys.

For some of you who don't really know me, some basic info: When this whole thing blew up in late spring/early summer 2008, I'd been married to my wife for 23 years, and had five kids (2 deceased; 3 surviving). I'd spent almost seven years in the Air Force, attaining the rank of staff sergeant in under four years, of which I was extremely proud because it really represented the most masculine thing I'd ever accomplished in my life. I met my wife in church, and it was love at first sight. Literally. She was in the choir, and as the choir entered, my eyes fell upon her and instantly a thought ran through my head: "I'm going to marry her." Just one year later, that's exactly what happened. But before that COULD happen, I had to give up my Air Force career because she said she wouldn't marry me until I got out because she didn't want to have to keep moving around constantly. This was actually a good thing, because she encouraged me to go back to college, and to substitute teach. Both of these led me to my current career of 20+ years in education. I spent 11 years as a learning disabilities specialist, three years as a high school assistant principal overseeing instruction, and am now starting my seventh year as a director of special education and student services, for a public school system. Wife, kids, nice (if modest) house, four cars, successful career, worship leader and vice chairman of the church administrative how the hell did I end up screwing around with some creep in an upstairs room in a Masonic Lodge on the way to a professional conference, you may ask? Let's take a horrifying stroll down memory lane...

I was born the fourth of six kids to an upper-middle class couple in suburban Long Island, NY. Pop was a Madison Avenue advertising executive; Mom stayed at home with the kids and Kathleen, the housekeeper. My three older siblings were each one year apart. Three year gap, then me. Then a seven year gap, and my little brother and sister were born in 1968 and 1970, respectively. So I'm kind of in the middle, not really connecting with the older or younger siblings.

We attended a private school run by our Lutheran church. In kindergarten, my teacher, Mrs. Robertson, made fun of me in front of the whole class because I wrote my "3" backwards. She also pulled my hair numerous times throughout the year. I had never been in school before, or anywhere away from home, so I just thought that's what teachers did. In first grade I found out that teachers could actually be sweet, loving, and nurturing. Until they get pregnant and go out on maternity leave for the rest of the year. In second grade, I found out that the good experiences in first grade were just a fluke. My second grade teacher, to a seven-year-old, anyway, was a monster. Ms. Schultz was what used to be derogatorilly referred to as a hunchback, with a severe spinal deformity. She had a deep scratchy voice, and a severe looking pixy cut which did NOT AT ALL seem pixy-like. And those pointy-tipped cat's-eyes-shaped plastic glass frames from the sixties. I suppose years of taunts and teasing had made her a bitter, evil bitch. And as a little boy, I was not athletic or very boyish at all. An easy target, but the other kids at that little private school were really nice to me, and helped me make it through those awful days, like this particular one: My older sister was really the only one at home who paid much attention to me when I was little. Sometimes she'd let me play dolls with her. I had some GI Joes, so I thought that was the same thing. Well, one day at recess, I was playing with this little boy doll my sister had let me bring (I think that series was called "Little Kiddles"). When Ms. Schultz saw that, she said loudly, "Okay, girlies, time to put your little dollies away!" I was mortified. She called me a girl. Seven year old boys do NOT like to be called girls, especially in front of their friends, especially by an adult. School improved greatly the next year in third grade, when Mrs. Zulauf acknowledged my artistic and written creativity. She was a loving teacher who finally saw some good in me and TOLD people so. (Just an aside: also during 3rd grade, I was invited over a school friend's house on a Saturday. He intoduced me to his father's porn. Been hooked for 41 years now, damn him). That school only went through the sixth grade. During my last year, my sixth grade teacher (who was also the principal) would frequently pull me up on his lap and kiss me. I don't think he ever touched me inappropriately aside from the kissing, but I remember feeling really uncomfortable when he did that. In spite of that, I had some good friends at that school, but I had to say goodbye to them that year. I was off to public junior high. But first, summer break, when my oldest brother would finally start to pay some attention to me. Or at least to my asshole. Memories are still not completely clear. I remember him examining me, and having me examine him. I do not know if it progressed to penetration. If it did, maybe it was gentle, because I don't remember it the way I do a later incident. But I'll get to that later.

John P. McKenna Junior High School. Made Hell look like a vacation destination. The place was out of control. I was constantly called names and picked on, and had not one friend the entire two years I was there. Also, I was very late hitting puberty, and looked like about maybe a ten year old while I was there. The gym locker room was hell. Everyone but me, it seemed, had huge, hairy genitals. The worst memory I have was one day, when everyone was in the halls heading to buses or bike racks to leave, a bunch of boys threw me into the phone booth in the hallway, and held the door shut. They would only open it to spit on me, and this seemed to go on for a long time. I was spat upon over and over again. Finally, my math teacher (another bitch) happened by. She made eye contact with me as I wildly gestured to her. Then she looked away and kept walking. I guess they finally let me go when they decided they didn't want to miss their own buses. When I got home, I informed my mother for the umpteenth time that I was not going back to that school, and that I wanted to go to the Lutheran junior high, where most of my friends from elementary school had gone. But I was reminded again that my parents couldn't afford it because they were sending my other older brother (not the perp) to military school. Sorry, John, no money for you. We like to see your brother in his sailor suit. It doesn't matter if you get made fun of, spit on, beaten up, or even killed. Your brother, after all, wants to be a marine biologist. Kay, Mom. On another day, I was riding my bike along a bike trail that ran beside a creek. One of the bullies from school stopped me, threw my bike in the creek, and beat the shit out of me. I didn't know how to defend myself. I already knew I was weak. I already knew no one liked me or gave a shit about me. Through my sobs I asked him, "Why are you doing this to me?" His answer was, "Because you're a FAG." Oh, that's what I am. Everybody at school keeps saying it. My older brothers keep saying it. So I'm a FAG. A lower life form. FAG. FAG. That's what I am.

During junior high and most of high school, the only friends I had were at church, in the youth group. So I spent a lot of time there, because I felt like there was some level of tolerance, maybe even caring there. It seemed like maybe they hadn't figured out yet that I was this FAG. So one time, during eigth grade, I was at church for some youth event (don't remember specifics). What I do remember was going to the men's room. I went in to pee, and there was the vicar (in the Lutheran church, a vicar is a third year seminary student assigned to a parish to assist the pastor(s) -- sort of along the lines of a student teacher). Well, I really liked the vicar. He was always nice to me, and he was really good looking, and I kind of had a boy-crush on him. Plus he had this really nice Chevy Impala. On this particular day, I also got to see what his penis looked like. As I peed, he kind of backed away from his urinal so I could see the equipment. I was facinated. Scared. Nervous. Aroused? I just kept staring at it. It was so big. I was drawn to it like I was drawn to it's owner. I didn't say a word. He didn't say a word. He tucked it away, and walked out of the men's room.

During high school, I wasn't tortured by classmates as much as I was just ignored. Fine by me. I already knew the score. Keep a low profile and if I'm lucky, they'll leave the fag alone. I will throw out some kudos here, though. You know Alec Baldwin, the actor? Well, his younger brother, Danny (Daniel Baldwin - of Homicide: Life on the Streets tv series) was in my gym class. He was also on the football team, so he had clout. He told other guys to leave me alone and stop picking on me, and he himself would talk to me, almost as though I was a human. I good guy. Moving on...

Two very significant events happened during tenth grade. My paternal grandfather (he was also my Godfather) died unexpectedly. I was very close to him, and everyone always said I was a miniature version of him. It was a really hard loss for me. The second significant event is intertwined with my grandfather's death. My grandmother had been infirm for a long time, and could not live on her own with my grandfather gone. So my parents had a contractor convert our two car garage into an attached "apartment" for her. The contractor drove a very expensive car, and made many references to the mob (La Cosa Nostra). He was also a letch, and was always eying my older sister. Coincidently, my older sister and I look alike (brunette, hazel), while the other four siblings look like each other (blond/blue). One day during the apartment project, I was home, but no one else was. I think my mother may have gone shopping. The contractor decided to take a break and rape me. This I remember clearly. I thought I was being torn in two. I thought I wasn't going to live through it. I thought I was disgusting for letting it happen. I thought, no, I knew, that I was worthless. Less than human. A FAG. A fag who lets men - big, hairy, Italian men with supposed mob connections - fuck him like a girl. I bled heavily for two days. On the first day I couldn't keep enough paper in my underwear to absorb it all. At the end of the day, during Health class, I went to the boys room. My underwear had gotten so saturated that I had to throw them in the garbage can, and stuff a bunch of toilet paper up inside of me and hope I could get home without it soaking through. I lived close to the high school, thankfully.

After that, I started having some, shall we say, "unusual" behaviors. For example, I would find my brothers semen-soaked underwear or pajama bottoms and suck on them. I would strut around naked in the locker room at the public pool, staring obviously at the boys and men in the showers. At 19, I had a brief sexual relationship with one of my friends from the church youth group. The first time I performed oral sex on him, it scared the hell out of me, and I would no longer take his calls or have anything to do with him. (I finally tracked him down last year on Facebook and apologized for dumping him like that). So just like that, I decided I'd live the straight life (in numerous meanings of the expression). Fast forward four years, I'm married. Fast forward another 36 years, and I'm still dealing with the fallout.

I know this was long, and I appreciate your sticking with me if you were able to. Thanks, guys, for all your support.



Wish that I could cry
Fall upon my knees
Find a way to lie
About a home Iíll never see

It may sound absurd...but donít be naive
Even heroes have the right to bleed
I may be disturbed...but wonít you concede
Even heroes have the right to dream
Itís not easy to be me