Admitting the Truth - Sexually Molested

I realize everything I've posted up to this point has been really trashy--a fair reflection of a good portion of my sex life--but I've wanted to write about something publicly for so long, and I haven't been able. That is, until a few weeks ago.

A few weeks ago I was out drinking with a few friends and the most uncommon of commonalities was discovered between myself a good female friend (who I don't know extraordinarily well because I have only known her for a year, who I'll call Amelia). We were drunk, and moving to more drunk. It was the point in the night after a delicious three course dinner with a good group of people all meeting together for the first time in months. The atmosphere was heady. There were drinks before dinner and during dinner, but shots after dinner. Those are probably what did the trick.

Sitting amongst friends, and next to Amelia, we were tossing jokes about sex with men between the two of us, and I commented on how open she was about her views on sex and her personal sex-life. "Can I tell you a secret?" she leaned over and asked.

"Sure," I said, drunk and not exactly sure what I was getting myself into.

"I was molested when I was 8."

This is not what I expected to hear. Who would bare their soul at a dinner party out in the city amongst friends? A drunk on, probably. To me? A very drunk friend. After all, I'm not exactly known for having tight lips.

But her secret hit closer to home than she expected because I was also sexually molested when I was a kid, 10 years old.

I was a late bloomer growing up, one of the last of my friends to actually hit puberty and sprout up. At 10 I still looked like a babyfat-filled 8-year-old. It wasn't exactly something I was proud of, but I had always been a little skinny, had always been just a little taller than most (no longer true!), had always been soft-spoken besides. Being behind the growing curve had never hurt much of my chances at popularity or acceptance, so even at 10, people were still willing to talk to me, still willing to see me as a relative equal.

But I was still a child. Other people had started to understand things about the world, and my testicles hadn't even dropped. I was sorely behind the learning curve in almost every way. This is what the social workers and police explain as my attractive points to the pervert who made me suck his cock.

It was during summer. My parents were working. My older brother, who was 16 and just had his license was driving around that afternoon. I was left alone in the house: not a rare phenomenon. I was young, but responsible. The good kid. I didn't get into trouble, and if I did, I hid it well.

It all seems like a nightmare right now. Or a cheesy afterschool special. Looking back on it now, it's like he was following a script.

He was our neighbor. Someone we didn't know well at all, but someone we would always see jogging in the early morning, or mowing his lawn on Saturday mornings. He'll be Mr. L. Mr. L stopped by the house around 2 PM. My older brother had just left to go work out with the football team for optional early summer training, and both parents were still at work, and wouldn't be home for hours. When he knocked, looking for my dad, supposedly, I told him where everyone was, and that I was alone. What did I have to fear? He was a neighbor.

We invested a lot of social capital in that word: neighbor. It meant a lot. It meant trust. He lived close by. He was a part of our community. He was single and older. About 40 or 45 at this point. Not fat, and actually decently shaped. A constant early morning runner. He asked if he could come in and get some water--"Goodness it's hot." I said sure, and had him come in.

I walked to the fridge and he followed. I got a glass, asked if he wanted ice (he did) and poured him a glass of water.

He asked how old I was. He asked what I was interested in. He thanked me for the water. He said he'd be gone as soon as he finished the glass. He drank slowly.

He wasn't wearing a shirt when he came to the door. Just a pair of athletic shorts, and some tennis shoes. I assumed he had been running.

He turned the conversation to weird when he asked if my dad had ever asked me to "pop" me. I said no, and fell for the bait without even realizing what it was.

"What's a 'pop'?" I asked.

Let me show you, he said, smiling. He told me to come here, and when I was standing next to him, he pulled down his shorts. He took hold of his penis and said this was his pop. When you suck on it, like a lollipop, it tastes good and makes people feel better. "It's how people get happy," he explained. "Try it, you'll like it."

So I licked it. It had a scent of baby powder and soap. It didn't taste bad. So I took another lick.

When he started to get hard, he took control of my head and started to facefuck me. I got really uncomfortable, and my face started to hurt, and I was choking a little bit, and crying too. I started to hit him with my little fists and he eased up. "Whoa, there. Sorry little guy. I guess if your dad hasn't asked you to do this, you probably aren't too used to it."

"I guess not," I said through tears.

"Well, thanks for the water, little guy!" he practically shouted. "I guess I better be on my way."

"Ok," I sniffed.

I walked him to the door and closed and locked it. I didn't know what had just happened, but I started to cry in earnest right then and there in the foyer.

I didn't say anything for months. It wasn't until a long time later that I asked my brother about "pop" and explained to him what happened. He flipped out. He practically yelled at me about every little detail. Then he told my parents. My mom started hugging me, and all of a sudden everyone was around me and asking questions, and I thought they were mad at me because I had done or said something wrong. I was ashamed. I didn't want to say anything. I started crying. I woudn't say a word. I ran to my room and locked the door. My dad was beating on it for hours, but I didn't budge. I slept there all night without food. When I finally came out they were there, waiting for me, and I couldn't say a word. We refer to those days as my silent period. I couldn't speak.

Finally, the police were called in. I gave a report. They interviewed other children around the neighborhood, but I was the only one with a story. Mr. L was arrested. Mr. L left the neighborhood and that was the end of it. He has been a nightmare, an embarrassment. A shame-maker.

I'm sorry if this wasn't interesting to read. I just had to get that off my chest. It's hard to write about it, but ever since Amelia brought it up, I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. I thought putting it down in words would help. I hope it does. I just want to completely forget it ever happened sometimes.