David's Story
Call me David. It's not my name but it will do. The name of so many boys can be substituted for mine. Call him George. That was his name, so let's call him George.
It is hard to write about George. It is hard to write about anyone you hate because he made you hate yourself. It is hard to write about anyone you miss so much. That's a neat trick George has pulled on me; I hate him and I miss him; and I know I shouldn't do either.
It seems so long ago. Has it only been three years? Three years since he came into my life and stole me from myself. Stole me with his fingers, his hands, his eyes, his smile, his mouth.
I was ten. My sisters were three and five. My mum was going through hard times. Dad was never much around, now he'd gone. He'd taken summer with him and left us winter. Then George moved into our building, and it was like a thaw had set in.
He took an interest in me right from the start. What a harmless phrase: took an interest in me. He never failed to say hi there. He never failed to smile. He always asked about school. He offered to help me with my spelling; I'm dyslexic but I use a spellcheck now.
At first we worked together in my house. He insisted on that. So for weeks we worked together in my house, heads bent together over the table, while mum bustled around. It was mum who chased us out. How could we study with mum doing housework while my sisters tried to get as much of George's attention as they could? He was sweet to them, kind to them, but it was me he was interested in, so when mum chased us to his apartment, he sighed and gave in.
There were treats, lots of treats. Nothing too big, nothing too grand. But a trip to Macdonalds after an hour's work well done; I helped George build a model boat; we went to a soccer match together; I showed him how to win on the Playstation he'd bought. George was like a big kid in some ways; there was always kids' stuff around the house, stuff made for boys like me.
At first I felt uncomfortable when he squeezed me, cuddled me, or ran his fingers across my cheek. My father never did things like that. But I got used to it. Maybe that's what fathers were supposed to do. And if I were absorbed in the latest computer game what did it matter if his big hand slid down my back and stroked my buttocks. George was probably not even aware he was doing it.
Time passed. Maybe six months. George was patient with my English, and patient with me. It became natural to spend as much time in his apartment as I did in my own. Sometimes my mum probed delicately, but nothing had happened, so there was nothing to tell. She sighed and sent me on my way to George's apartment. A boy needed a role model, a father figure.
When did the sex start? I don't really remember. George opened up a door for me and ushered me gently in. There were pictures on the computer. We'd be surfing and accidentally we'd stumble onto a porno site. Funny thing: I didn't realise it at the time but they were always gay sites. I didn't know the word at the time; I know it now. Men with men, and boys with boys, and men with men. Doing stuff.
At first George would laugh gruffly, ruffle my hair, and quickly switch to another site. My eyes would open wide. He saw I was fascinated. So he lingered longer on those sites. He'd surrender the mouse to me; he'd put his arm around me, and leave the decision to stay or go to me.
I was curious so I stayed. The longer I stayed the more George would press himself into me. The more his fingers would stray to my 'growing parts'. That's what my mother called them with a laugh: my growing parts. And if I stayed a while, there was always a treat afterwards. Extra time on the computer, my own model to build, a trip to the movies. I seemed to be giving so little, and he, the adult, was giving so much.
He took me with his eyes, he took me with his fingers, he took me with his hands, he took me with his mouth. He opened me up and he took me. And the more he opened me up, the more I closed down.
There was something not right. The kisses were not like any I'd received before. The touching left me queasy and sick. The secrets put a barrier between me and my mum, between me and my friends, between me and my school. This was the most important thing in my life, and I couldn't tell anyone about it. George said it was love. But how could anything that should be so right feel so wrong?
I couldn't tell my mother. I was the man of the family. How could I tell her I was feeling so used, so soiled, so dirty? Couldn't George see what he was doing? If he truly cared for me, how could he not see I was hurting? I stood naked before the bathroom mirror, and I hated myself. Why was I different? What was it about me that said "he is dirty, he won't protest, he will enjoy it?"
And always there were the porno pictures playing in my mind. Men doing things to boys, dirty things, ugly things, the things that George was doing to me. So I must be one of those boys. I must be a worthless thing that deserved to be used this way. I must have asked for it. I deserved it.
I wanted to die. Something inside me had already died. They should just come and bury the remains.
Maybe I would have died. But one night, on the television, there was a programme about abused kids. Mum was busy with the girls, so I sat all the way through it. At the end of the programme, they gave a telephone number. It was a freecall number. I wrote it down and stuffed in my pocket. It felt as if the paper was on fire.
I phoned the number when mum was out. I phoned it maybe six times. Most times I couldn't speak. I tried to speak, I started to speak, but my throat was on fire. Maybe it was the sixth time, maybe the seventh, I got the words out; I got out the words I was desperate to say. The words were "Help me. Please help me." Someone listened and I told my story. Then I went to bed and prayed to die.
That wasn't the end. That wasn't even the beginning of the end. But it was the end of the beginning.
George is no longer part of our lives. He has gone. Sometimes when I hear footsteps on the stairs, I catch myself hoping it will be him. Then I look closely at what he did, at what he is, at what he does. And I shake my head at my own silliness, crack a smile, and get on with my life. I don't need George. I didn't need him then, I don't need him now. His sickness is that he, an adult, needed me, a child.
I have tried to capture the horror of being groomed and seduced without being senational about it. See what you think.
