My other story
(Thank you to YouMeI for sharing his story, which inspired me to do the same)
I've never really told this story to anyone, and only in the past few months did I finally open up and share it with my wife. In this forum it is really nothing anyone hasn't heard before. But I feel as though when I hear others stories, it helps me to cope and heal, and so I am sharing mine in hopes that it will help someone else.
When I was young, I think around age 6-8 but I'm not really sure, was when I was first sexually abused. My mother was friends with a woman who lived in the same neighborhood as us, and who also shared our same last name. This woman had a son who was older than me, I am guessing he was probably 13? We would go over their house to visit sometimes, and as the ladies chatted it up and drank their tea, they sent me up to his room to play.
At the time, I was very much into toy cars, such as Matchbox and Hot Wheels cars. He had a big, plastic car case full of miniatures in there. I can still remember the plastic smell of the cheap, thin vinyl it was made out of, and the light blue trays full of tiny square holes and little compartments that each car was placed into. There must have been around 50 cars in there, but for me, there was one that really stood out. It was an Aston Martin spy car, just like the ones from the James Bond movies. What I loved most about it were the little mechanical features it had. When you pressed a button on the car, a "bullet proof screen" would pop up in the back of the car. It was one of things you just couldn't help but play with, making the screen pop up, resetting it and doing it over and over again. As a 6 year old boy it fascinated me.
Every time I came over, I would run upstairs and ask him if he could open his closet and let me see all the cars, and I always went for the Aston Martin right away. One day, I remember he did something odd. When I asked to play with the car, he suddenly seemed to have an emotional attachment to it, and told me how it was his favorite car, and so on. He didn't seem to want to let me play with it anymore, which made me very upset as I really looked forward to playing with that specific car all the time. But then he suggested something along the lines of, "Well, if I let you play with my car, what will you do for me?".
There is a blank spot for me there. I don't remember exactly what was said after that, how I felt or what I said, all I know is that the toy car was in that moment pretty much all that existed in the world, and I wanted it so badly that I would pretty much anything for it. I guess that's how most 6 year olds think and feel, right?
He was a tall boy with thick, curly hair and a thin build, thin lips and a gaunt face. I remember he wore these brick red, ToughSkin jeans from Sears, and a t-shirt with some band on it. I think it may have been Alice Cooper. He sat on the edge of the bed and instructed me to kneel down between his legs. He told me to unzip his pants, and then had me pull his white Fruit of the Loom's down and pull his dick out, lifting his balls over the waistband of the undies. It was gross, I didn't want to, and it felt so disgusting in my hands. I had never been that close up to a penis before, and I can remember the fleshy smell of it, the warmth from his body as it emanated from the open zipper. He began to tell me what to do to him, to put it in my mouth, to swirl my tongue around and to suck up and down. I didn't have a lot of patience to keep going, so he had to keep prodding me to do more, to lick up and down the shaft, to lick his balls. I remember there were all these loose threads inside the zipper of his jeans, the same brick red color, and they kept getting in my mouth as I worked on him. How strange now to think that the threads stand out to me, they were so annoying. I couldn't take as much of him in as he wanted because my mouth was so small, and because it was just so gross, but he seemed to enjoy it and encouraged me to keep going.
At some point, we switched places. He unzipped my pants and took my penis out and then put it in his mouth. It felt really good. He could fit all of me in his mouth, and it was warm and wet, and he had much more focus and persistence than I did. I don't remember ejaculating and don't think I did. It felt...weird. Wrong. I knew what was going on was something bad, something a good boy doesn't do, and at that time I was the kind of kid who never did bad things. It felt good but I wanted him to stop, I just wanted the car. He was telling me to do it however, so I had to do it. That's how 6 years old works. It went back and forth a few times, him on me, me on him, until he finally started to tell me to "not stop" and then the warm, thick, bleachy taste of his spunk was in my mouth. He made me put everything back in his pants and zip him up, and then he finally told me I was allowed to play with the car.
This happened over and over again each time we went to visit, I don't remember how often that was, but it was several times at least. As time went on, things progressed. Pants came off, things got inserted into me, and at some point he invited his big, fat, ugly (bully) friend over and said that I needed to do to his friend what I did to him. As much as I hated having to service my abuser, he was at least... gentle I guess. This fat bully was not. While I didn't have the words to put to the feelings at the time, I would say that I felt like a prostitute that day. I felt used and gross and dirty.
One day he tried to insert himself into me from behind, but couldn't get very far, I was much too tight and it hurt too much. Instead, he picked up a #2 pencil and stuck into my behind, eraser end first. He didn't use any lube however and so the pencil was very rough and hurt me. Later, my mom and I walked home and it hurt the whole way. My mother made me drop my pants so she could see what was hurting so much, and saw how red and irritated it was. I was so embarrassed and felt so guilty. I knew it was wrong, what I did. She got upset with me and asked me what the heck happened, so I broke down crying and told her about the pencil. She told me she didn't believe me, that I must have been "experimenting" and playing with myself, and she was very upset that I was being so dishonest and blaming the boy for this. The next day we returned to their house and she made apologize to the boy in front of her and his mother, for lying about him and trying to get him in trouble. I did. After that, we didn't visit there again and it was never spoken of again.
I dunno. I put it all in a box long ago, that's what I do. I forgave him and while I clearly never forgot about it, it also didn't enter my mind. No triggers, no nightmares. I do have some ED issues although my background is so complicated, who knows how that plays in? There was so much abuse and emotional neglect back then that this was simply a drop in a rather large bucket. Only now am I finally digging through the toybox of abuse and pulling things out to really look at them. I can't assume that nothing matters anymore.
Thank you for reading this. If you got this far then you are a real trooper, and I appreciate you allowing me to share my story.