Part 9 - Gay, Straight or Something Completely "Other"?

For every male survivor of childhood sexual abuse, you will hear a story unique to that individual. Although we all seem to have quite a few side-effects in common, our different cultural, social and economic environments affect how we reacted and acted out in response to the abuse.

One of the side effects very commonly experienced by men, especially when the abuse was perpetrated upon them by another male, is a sense of gender confusion. I wish I had known how "normal" my feelings were back when I was still a kid. It would have saved me a great deal of grief, to say the least, because for me, the question of gender identity tormented me for most of my childhood and continued to haunt me as an adult heterosexual male, even after years of marriage and raising children.

At the time the abuse began, I'd like to think I was just a typical little boy. To the best of my memory, I was average size and weight and looked and acted just like the other boys in my school and neighborhood. I don't remember when the bullying started other than it was before the 5th grade. I know that, because that's when I began to intentionally overeat. It sounds sound both funny and foolish now; but at the time, I was tired of getting picked on and beat up and had the idea that if I was bigger than my tormentors, they would leave me alone. The irony was that, although I stopped being physically beat up at school, I found myself now being ridiculed for being FAT. When I entered Junior High School, it went from being teased about being fat to being teased about having "baby titties". Yeah, that was one of my nicknames: BT, as in Baby Titties.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Growing up in the Midwest during the 70s, it was common for boys to tease one another with words like fag, faggot, femme, queer, girl. I got called those words a lot. It started with Gary the Fairy and proceeded to Gary the Fruit, Gary the Fag or simply Faggot. I was not a homosexual then or now; but those were the words used to taunt me. As I've already written, I was bullied as a kid. I got beat up a lot: in the home by my abuser, in my neighborhood by the kids across the street and on the school playground. Kids who get bullied get a reputation for being weak. Expressions like "fruit", "fairy", "femme" or "faggot" implied that a boy was weak...weak like a girl. Considering that I got beat up by girls as well as boys, I guess I must have been really, really weak.

The teasing continued even after the physical bullying ground to a halt. It actually got worse for awhile, the teasing that is, in 5th and 6th grade when I failed to impress with my lack of athletic abilities. I remember being lined up to be picked for teams and me being one of the last...me being the kid nobody wanted. I was weak and I was a freak. I remember competing for the President's Physical Fitness Award and how badly I failed. My Gym Teacher made a point of telling his other classes they couldn't do worse than Gary. I could only do 3 sit ups at that time. In the eyes of my peers and even my teacher, I was weak and I was a loser.

So at this time, I'm being teased with words like "faggot", "fruit" and "gay", I'm no athlete, I'm shy and a bit nerdy and my biggest brother is anally raping me at home. What conclusion would you reach if you were me? I was about 6 years old when the abuse started, with little understanding of gender roles other than boys became Daddies and girls became Mommies; but by the time the abuse came to a halt I was mired in phrases, accusations and the realization that I did not measure up to the ideal of manliness perpetuated in that culture. Was I gay? Did these kids know what was happening to me behind closed doors? Could they see right through me? Was it that obvious to everyone else but me?

As I already shared, upon entering Jr High I got saddled with the nickname BT or Baby Titties. Partly due to my new-found obesity; but also a genetic trait inherited by quite a few of the males in my family regardless of body fat. The official medical term is gynecomastia; but it's more commonly known as man-boobs. I didn't know either of those terms when I was a kid, and I didn't know any other boys with my same problem. All I know is that when I came home crying about my condition, I was told it was spoken of in my Dad's side of the family as a "curse" and there was nothing I could do about it. My mother told me that by the way, not my father. I don't remember him ever speaking about it.

So picture me as a teenager being called a "girl" by the other boys, a failure as an athlete and consequently having little interest in sports, weak and easily beat up, having been sexually abused by an older male for a period of years and then having continued for a brief time by my own choice with my fellow victim. I had baby titties. My parents had told me for as long as I could remember that they had wanted me to be a girl since they already had 1 girl and 2 boys. I had all kinds of thoughts, most of them completely non-rational but at the time serious as all get out and deeply troubling to me. I didn't know if I was gay. Looking back, I'm sure I wasn't; but at that time I wasn't sure. I questioned if maybe I was a freak of nature, like a hermaphrodite. No disrespect towards people who truly are born with both sets of sexual organs; but at that time I really didn't understand the term, I just knew it meant half man/half woman. Jr High to High School we're talking the late 70s here and talk shows about sex change operations with people saying they were born the wrong gender had become very popular. Was that me? Was I born the wrong gender? Was I half boy and half girl? Did my parents wish that I be born a girl come partially true? Was I a man with breasts? Did I have female hormones inside of me battling the male hormones for dominance?

"I wish my brother George were here"

I feel so stupid writing this now; but these thoughts dogged me for years. I really didn't  know what I was. All I knew was that I was not normal. For a couple of reasons, I made great efforts to at least publicly identify myself as heterosexual; but on the inside I was never 100% certain. Looking back, I realize a lot of my difficulty was due to unreasonable stereotypes. My father joked about homosexuals and hippies. Believe it or not, there's a connection there. Dad was a redneck, and proud of it. He always made fun of hippie guys with their long hair, questioned if they were really men since they looked like ladies from behind and he loved making fun of homosexual men, talking with a high-pitched voice and a lisp. My father impressed upon me the difference between a real man and a faggot. The problem for me was that in my mind, I didn't measure up to the stereotypical real man...so I must have been a faggot or something "other".

But back to those stereotypes and how they messed with my mind for so many years. The stereotypical homosexual, in my mind, was effeminate, spoke with a lisp, tended to be weak (limp wristed), preferred Fine Arts over sports, enjoyed doing things considered woman's work (like cooking), didn't date girls, were always somewhat "queer" (in the sense of being eccentric), tended to be artistic, etc.

When I was in 1st grade, I went to speech therapy to correct a lisp. I was not athletic and sports bored me. I preferred to read a book rather than watch football. I was weak and easily bullied. I leaned towards being artistic without ever actually being an artist: I was a musician, I acted, I wrote plays and poetry. I enjoyed cooking and liked to help my mom in the kitchen. I didn't date girls and I was a bit on the weird side. On top of that, I had experienced gay sex both as a victim as well as by my own choice (with my fellow victim). With all the kids in my neighborhood and school teasing me, saying that I was gay...while I earnestly tried to reject that label, I kept struggling with whether or not it was the truth. I know. I know. I'm beating a dead horse here. I've already pretty much stated the exact same thing 2 or 3 times above. It's just, the reality is that the roots run deep and it has taken a very, very long time to reconcile my self-image with the Truth. Thank God I've got some really terrific GAY friends who have helped me work through this. And I do mean THANK GOD!

Reading about the propensity of men sexually abused as boys who struggle with questions of gender identity helped me a lot. Also, realizing that the "gay sex" I experienced as a young boy wasn't really gay sex at all. It was much more like prison rape than anything else. The older boy who sexually abused me did not then or now self-identify as homosexual. He used heterosexual pornography to inspire himself, even though gay porn  was available (or in the very least, Playgirl magazine which could be bought over the counter). HE WAS NOT GAY...so him imposing himself sexually upon me does not, in itself, make me gay.

A friend of mine explained it to me this way: "When you're at the beach, who's butt are you looking at? Hers or his?" That may be a bit simplistic; but at least as far as my own self-identity goes, I have always and only been sexually attracted to females. Regardless of how one defines homosexuality (born that way, a choice, or something else), I have always been heterosexual in my desires. Always. The struggle over my sexual identity was in my head, not in my loins. But being that it was, indeed, in my head; I have suffered mentally, emotionally and spiritually greatly. Very greatly.

Rock Hudson was QUEER??

Again, I thank God for my good friends who happen to be gay. Having struggled for years...decades!...wondering if I was in denial about my own sexuality/gender identity, I find myself emotionally and spiritually connected to my gay friends. I know the pain of being regarded as "queer" ...of not fitting a worn out, broken stereotype of masculinity. I also recognize that the homosexual stereotype is equally worn out & broken. By now, I suspect most of us realize a lot of gay men don't fit the gay stereotype (Rock Hudson anyone?) I'm still waiting for the rest of the world to recognize that a lot of straight men also don't fit the typical, macho, heterosexual stereotype. The stereotypes have failed have done a lot of damage along the way...as those of us who've been through it know all too well.


So while not every male survivor has had the same experience I had growing up, with myself questioning my manhood all along the way...nevertheless, it is not uncommon for adult men to struggle with questions about their gender identity. I read a professional, psychological article about this a few months ago stating that straight survivors often question if they are gay and survivors who identify and have primarily same-sex attractions struggle with questioning if they are really gay or if they're really straight and the sexual abuse made them gay.

I'm not going to get into the argument of what makes someone gay or straight. Right now, I feel there are far more important issues at hand, and as a Christ-follower (i.e. Christian), I have no interest in condemning to hell men and woman whose struggle is eerily to similar to mine. I thought I was gay, and finally concluded that I was not. I've got friends who have concluded that they are gay, and have struggled with that for their whole lives. It's a very painful struggle. At one time I would have written this as "I feared that I was gay"...but now, I realize that "I feared that I would never know what I was". As such, I don't write this as a treatise on homosexuality; but to spell out some of the psychological damage suffered by male survivors of childhood sexual abuse. Survivors of abuse, straight or gay, feel like freaks, outcasts, unacceptable, aliens, untouchable, unforgivable, marked, branded and hopelessly out of place in a world of black and grays which foolishly argues about shades of white.

Part Eight - Re-Victimizing Myself

It's hard to believe my original abuse began over 40 years ago and that I am just now beginning to understand my role as innocent, non-consensual victim as well as how that abuse has affected me all of these years.

I told others over the years about my abuse, usually in vague terms; but it wasn't until I opened up to my therapist in November of 2010 that all the garbage long buried inside of me rose to the surface. As I began to confront my past, I researched for myself the lasting effects of childhood sexual abuse especially with regards to boys abused by men. I was shocked...completely blown away...as I read case study after case study and saw myself in these other men's stories. What, where and how it happened wasn't necessarily the same; but how it affected all these different men from different backgrounds, cultures, economic statuses, etc. was eerily similar to my own experiences. And that experience of likeness continues as I have met with other male survivors and discussed our stories together, face-to-face. Whether the abuse happened only one time or over a period of years, the trauma has apparently affected us in very similar ways.

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An article published in a 1994 issue of the Journal of Traumatic Stress by psychologist David Lisak gives a concise overview of the effects of child sex abuse on adult male survivors. It's the first article I read on the subject and immediately identified with the men interviewed.

A common reaction to sexual assault is an ongoing re-victimization of oneself. Once victimized, the survivor continues living in "victim mode". So having resigned myself to "once a victim, always a victim", "been there, done that, got a closet stuffed with 'I Survived...' t-shirts' "  I assumed "This is who I am, so I might as well (figuratively) drop my pants and bend over for any and every one."

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As a kid I was bullied: first by my 2 oldest siblings (sister and oldest brother), and then throughout my childhood. The bullying continued into adulthood; but I failed to recognize it as such. I became a pushover and a people pleaser. I became very non-confrontational and rarely stood up for my own rights. As a kid, I got in a lot of fights; fights which I did not start. Bullies knew that I was "pickable"...they could smell my weakness and fear. Was I bullied because I was abused? No. I was bullied because I allowed myself to be bullied. I resigned myself to being a victim. No self esteem, no self confidence, no sense of equal standing with my peers. I was a piece of crap waiting to be stepped in and scraped off the shoes of everyone around me. I got beat up by boys and I got beat up by girls. And for whatever reason, at least in elementary school, it seemed every visit to the Principal's office found me getting in trouble for getting beat up, and not the kid who did the beating. The loser of the fight getting in trouble for being in a fight he didn't start. That was me.

I was a victim because I let myself be a victim. No, I'm not entirely blaming myself for all the bad things which have happened to me; but I'm beginning to understand how being sexually abused as a young boy unconsciously (subconsciously?) affected the way I viewed myself as a person. As one who submitted to the whim of his abuser, I became a submissive person. As one who did not fight back, I continued in my passivity. As a boy who had been raped by another boy, I relinquished my manhood. And I have spent my entire life living in the shadow of the abuse, that little boy inside of me still cowering in fear, still feeling awkward, alone and ashamed.

Living my life as a victim, I learned to not expect any better for myself, and in retrospect I see how I actually avoided opportunities that could have freed me from that sense of hopeless and failure because why? why??? maybe because I knew and was comfortable with a life of victimhood and feared this great unknown life of success and happiness. Fear of success and fear of failure add up to failed living. It's not that my entire life has been a failure; but that I have trouble seeing beyond my failures.

Part Seven - Keeping it in the Family

Some people like to joke: "Incest is best, just keep it in the family"; but writing as a survivor, I've got to say that incest is not funny. Not funny at all.

As a little boy I had incestuous sex with both of my brothers, one of them being the abuser. After my abusive brother moved away, I continued the incest with my other brother. That part of our familial relationship ended when both of us became fed up with our own self-disgust and shame, and the two of us never spoke about it again for over 30 years. As a matter of fact, we've only just recently begun talking about everything we did alone together as well as with our abuser. These have been awkward conversations as we sort through blame and shame in search of vindication and healing. Part of that process is acknowledging and repenting of those deeds for which we are responsible; but more importantly, with that repentance needs to come self-forgiveness along with letting go the guilt and shame which was never ours to begin with.

If that's where my story of sex with my siblings ended, it would have been enough guilt, shame and familial dysfunction to mess up my life for the rest of my life; but unfortunately, there was one more experience before I finally packed up all my belongings and moved myself away from that house of shame.

My final incestuous episode is also my most difficult to share, not because it was more horrible than what happened to me as a little boy but because of my age at the time, my culpability in the act and with whom the inappropriate sex took place. I can't remember if I was 15 or 16 at the time; but I'm leaning towards 15 going on 16, which would have made the other person 23 years old at the time.

My final act of incest was with my sister. I have beat myself up over this one for decades, and greatly feared what happened between the two of us might some day come to light and expose me for the disgusting, sexually twisted pervert I really am. The actual activity was brief and took place over a few hours on a Saturday evening and Sunday morning, never to be repeated (or discussed) again. I'm beginning to understand this as another situation where I was sexually victimized; but it's much more difficult to shake my complicity in this act of incest than I can do with what happened with my abusive brother.

My memory of this final, disgusting and shameful experience of my childhood began one Saturday night with my sister and I discussing sex and sharing with one another our individual stashes of pornography. I had Hustler, Penthouse Letters and a few other magazines and my sister had a few Playgirl magazines along with an extremely descriptive and sexually extremist erotic novel titled Rx for Sex. Without getting too explicit on details, the plot of the book involved a young married couple seeing a sex therapist and primarily what the therapist and his staff did with the wife to open her mind (and other body parts) to things she (and I) had previously never imagined.

Reading to one another from our respective stash of filth served as a form of mutual seduction...or at least that's the way I interpreted it for the past 30+ years. We read to each other until we became so aroused that we could look past the horror of a little brother and big sister having sex with one another and just get on with the act. Like I wrote above, it was short-lived. We did a few things that Saturday night and a few more things the next Sunday morning and that was that. While I probably felt more shame at the time and continuing on through my life about this than she did, I never interpreted those few hours as abuse on either of our parts; but rather as an episode of mutual moral weakness. We were both complicit, the act was consensual...or was it?

While I cannot disown my own lust and lack of self control in the experience, not to mention my continued reliance upon pornography, I'm beginning to see the bigger picture behind those hours of shame. Yes, I was in the wrong. Yes, I still feel guilt over this. Yes, I wish it had never happened. And yes, I can never dis-invest myself of at least some of the blame; but just as my abusive brother groomed me in preparation for our incestuous activity, so did my big sister (whether consciously or not).

What happened that weekend didn't begin Saturday at dusk, as I had always recounted it in my mind; but much earlier, as my sister began sharing sexual materials with me. Just as she supplied porn to my abusiver; she provided me with porn, erotica and catheter condoms from the nursing home and excitedly told stories about sexually touching some of the residents. She also gave vivid descriptions of XXX magazines which she didn't bring home featuring bestiality, and as she described the images in those magazines, her sense of sexual arousal over the idea of sex with farm animals was very evident. In other words, my sister was a bit twisted herself in her sexuality as well.

And there was one other thing: some time before the events of that shameful weekend, my sister told me she had shaved her pubic area and lifted her nightgown to show me. Again, just to explain it now, I felt inside myself a mixture of sexual arousal and disgust at seeing my sister's private parts...but in the end, carnal desire won out over personal morals and cultural ethics.

So was I abused by my sister? Yes. Yes and no; but yes, I was abused. Looking back now and remembering the weeks and months building up to that weekend, I can see how she prepared me (consciously or not) to do something which normally, even for a sick, twisted, sexually corrupted adolescent boy like myself, would have found difficult to pursue. Yes, I was abused. While I will continue to take some responsibility as a sexually mature boy with raging sexual desires, I was still a kid (emotionally and psychologically immature) and she was the adult in the situation. Yes, I was wrong; but I think I can say with all things considered, she was more wrong.

I've tried to comprehend what happened that weekend within the light of myself having already been sexually corrupted as a young boy, my way-too-early introduction to pornography and my continued use of even harder pornography upon entering adolescence. I believe there is some truth to my previous theory. I was corrupt. I was damaged goods. I had a skewed understanding of sex and sexuality which certainly affected my continued behavior with my brother and most likely influenced my lack of restraint with my sister. Yes, this is true; but I also was victimized by a sibling who was quite a bit older than me, a sibling with sexual desires begging the opportunity for exploitation of the nearest, easiest-to-access subject: ME.

Lately I've been reading a lot about survivors of childhood sexual abuse and one thing which comes up repeatedly is that, having been victimized as a child, the survivor continues to place him or herself in a position to be re-victimized both sexually as well as in other ways, including being bullied through childhood and even adult relationships. I'll address that when I write about my relationships over the years with friends, co-workers and authority figures was affected by my past; but this final story was my final sexually dysfunctional experience within my own family. It was the end of what began with my oldest brother, and the beginning of a huge, internal, twisted mess I'm still untangling.

Part 6 - Continued

Did you see what I did in my previous post? I settled for a few vague references to my later sexual acting out rather than spell out any details. I can't do that. I do myself a disservice if I don't spend time remembering and writing out what actually happened, so here we go.

 After our abuser moved away, my other brother and I would still, at times, look at pornography together. Our abuser had left behind his personal stash, and we found a new supplier in one of our neighbor's steady supply of Hustler magazines he got from his big brother who worked for a local binding company.

 As I wrote in my last entry, my abuser moved out of my life right around the same time I was sexually coming into my own. Now, when I look back on all of this, I don't remember experiencing any sexual pleasure with my abuser. I might be blocking the pleasure out of my memory if it ever, in fact, existed...but I just can't recall ever really understanding what was so great about my oldest brother peeing sticky white cream. I'm sorry about the childish terms; but that's how I remember it. I was a kid. The only thing that came out of my penis was urine. The stuff that came out of my abuser's penis was gross.

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That changed when I entered puberty, like it does for every little boy. This is really difficult to write. Just being candid right now. Phew. Okay, I'm ready to continue.

 I have a clear separation in my mind of

• sex with my abusive brother
• me personally stopping the abuse (saying "NO! No more!")
• my abuser leaving home to join the military
• and then indulging myself in the very things which fueled my abuse

Viewing pornography and mastubating felt both good and horrible at the same time. Once I experienced the pleasure of reaching orgasm, it was difficult (no...impossible) to stop; but those few minutes of pleasure were always followed by hours, days and even weeks of shame. I know part of that ties in with my Christian faith. I was fairly certain that looking at pictures of naked ladies and ESPECIALLY masturbating about those ladies was sin. Not just a sin; but it was sinful - full of sin.

On top of that, even at that age there was in my mind a continuous thread between the earlier abuse and my current behavior. To a certain extent, I was mimicking what had already been going on for the past 6 to 7 years of my life; but now I couldn't blame my abuser because I myself was the one doing these things to myself. Too much guilt and shame. I've got to say that right now. Too much guilt and shame.

I began to masturbate to porn, followed by orgasm, followed by incredible guilt which most often resulted in me destroying my cache of magazines, only for me to call on my neighbor for another fix the next time I was jonesing.

I suppose, to most men, this part of my story doesn't sound unusual or unnatural because it's typical, raging hormone, teenage behavior; but what made it different for me was when my closest brother and I would look at the porn together, wind up getting naked and give in to our sexual desires by doing the same stuff our biggest brother did to us. I even remember both of us wearing pantyhose, which is pretty disturbing considering I didn't like that when our abuser did that. And all the while we were acting out like this, on the inside, I experienced both revulsion and compulsion to do it over again and again and again.

Can I say that this was all my abuser's fault? After all, he introduced me to this stuff long before a child is supposed to see and experience such things. He showed me pornography, and he showed me what to do with it. Should my brother and I blame ourselves for repeating what our abuser did to us?  This continues to be one of the most difficult areas to reconcile myself with my. I feel guilt because I feel complicit. I feel self-disgust because I chose to do things I hated having done to me of my own free will. I think it was free will...but how much can a child consent to? Can a child consent at all?

 As I write this, I'm realizing the main difference between the abuse we suffered and our acting out together was that our abuser never, ever expressed any guilt, shame or regret about anything that he did to us...not even to this day.  BUT, whenever my closest brother and I acted out sexually together, it was always followed by guilt on both of our parts. We would both promise to one another and to ourselves that we would never do this again. Sadly, we broke that promise repeatedly; but it's important to acknowledge that we DID feel shame and that we DID feel regret and that those feelings were mutual.

That's a pretty important difference, and right now I'm glad that I'm writing this out. Our abusive brother never expressed shame or regret. Instead, he came home from the military boasting about his sexual escapades with hookers and locals and showed off his shiny new Betamax player with a stash of hardcore movies. He didn't change. He was still the same. Everything for him was about getting his rocks off.

 My other brother and I felt shame and we still feel shame. He's not dealing with this openly yet...not like I am; but we've recently talked about it (first time in over 30 years) and I hear the same grief, shame, regret, and desire that this had never happened, either with our abuser or what the 2 of us did together. So if there is any benefit to detailing this part of my story, it's in realizing the difference between our shameless predator and his victims.

 We eventually kept our promise to stop masturbating with each other. That's how I see this now: Just as our abuser used the 2 of us as a masturbation tool, we did the same with each other. To be specific, we serviced each other the same as our abuser had done to us: oral and anal penetration, dressing up in pantyhose, lotions, oils, lots of rubbing against one another; but we weren't having sexual intercourse in any way which I understand that term. We were just getting off on one another. It was wrong. It is disgusting. I mean, man... I hate spell this out; but it was and is disgusting. It's sick. I guess I was sick. I guess we all were sick...all 3 of us.

But in the end, this was not at all about making love. It was simply mutual masturbation. It was the equivalent of prison sex. I'll be getting more into that in a future post about my struggles with gender identity; but that was a huge breakthrough for me: realizing what happened between me and my abuser was the equivalent of prison rape and what happened between me and my other brother was the equivalent of prison sex.

 I still feel guilty about what I did, of my own volition, after the formal abuse had stopped; but I can also more clearly see a distinct separation between the us victims and the one who victimized us.