I read the stories of men who were tortured and put through hell. Some describe it as painful and horrifying, but I don't use those words. It was never painful, and as a child I didn't feel coerced. Sometimes I feel that because it didn't hurt, or I wasn't physically forced that I wasn't actually abused. That somehow I must have wanted it on some level.

The physical sensations themselves felt "good". Of course I had no idea what "good" actually meant, but my body responded the way it was supposed to respond. I have never known what to call what James did to me, so I labelled it sexual abuse. I hate calling it oral sex, because the word sex implies some sort of consent in my eyes. It's not like I knew what the hell was going on at the time, and he always offered me an out. Told me I can tell him to stop at any time, but I don't remember telling him to stop. I remember enjoying the physical sensations. How was I to know that something that felt good was actually wrong?

Some men here say things like I didn't know what was going on, but a part of me knew it was wrong. Well I didn't feel like that. I had no effing clue it was wrong, and I still struggle to see that. I am upset tonight, and I feel triggered. I haven't had thoughts like these in awhile, but they are surfacing right now and I don't like it. I am feeling anxious, and I should be sleeping, but I feel awake. And here I am still struggling with sex addiction, trying to recapture that high I got when I was 5. That intense feeling that I wasn't prepared to experience, but it happened. He sexually abused me. And despite talking like it happened to someone else, it didn't. No amount of third person pronouns can change the fact that I was that God forsaken little boy lying over his knees in that dark shed, in that sandbox. That was my fate.
I am the warrior.