(check prior journals.. tw: rape.. this was very hard for me to write but did so in one shot with zero editing.. )
I've previously written about how lacks of representation in the public sphere has ended up harming young queer individuals, fostering a sentiment of isolation. Once I was first exposed to a possibility that this isolation might be broken at sixteen, I suppose it was almost natural that I tie myself down to the same possibility, no matter how much it ended up hurting me in the long run.
For one of the first times, I was out at a friend's apartment, I was downtown, it was cool, and I kissed a boy for the first time. His name was F, he was fifteen, and he was drunk, but in that moment I recall thinking that there was no point continuing to deny to myself that I was, and would continue to be, attracted to males.
I came out the very same week, and I'll admit I was kind of hoping it would forgive my sneaking out. It didn't.
Over the next month, while I was grounded, this boy and I developed communications online, talking about our eagerness to meet each other again. What I didn't know at this point was that this young teenager was being groomed into sexual abuse by a twenty-nine year old man, whose name is Sebastien Longtin. He worked as a train conductor for the subway system, though later, was transferred into customer service. I am no longer embarrassed or afraid to say his name: and in posting this online, I hope someone looks him up and finds him. My interactions with F ended up being a prelude for me to be introduced to Sebastien, objectifying my lonely, confused, and desperately looking for sense, sixteen year old self. Of course, F is a victim here, just as much as I am, and I hope he eventually gets the courage to speak out against this rapist as I am doing now.
When I met up with F for the first time, we were going to a Halloween party out of town, and took a subway Sebastian was driving. I got into the conductor car, and in that moment when this man hugged me to introduce himself, I initially felt very safe, protected, and mostly wanted, in a way I hadn't before. He took my phone number, and I went off to this Halloween party.
I got extremely drunk that night, Dad came to pick me up. All of these experiences were so new to me: having queer friends, partying, feeling like I had fit in... I had never been drunk before. I embarrassed myself in front of all of my new 'friends' that I'd recently met: I was suddenly very much outside from everyone again.
That same week, Sebastien texted me several times. I had felt as though I was otherwise completely alone from the world. I couldn't tell this to anyone in my family; my catholic school friends wouldn't understand; and I severely mistrusted many authority figures in the school for having picked on me in the past. At that particular point in time, Sebastien felt like the only person who understood me. He was kind, sweet, and seemed genuinely interested in me. The next weekend, he asked me to come over to hang out, and I reluctantly agreed.
I remember getting off the bus down the street from his condo. I remember that at this point there was something in me that told me not to go, I was screaming inside. He walked out of his condo - he had seen me - and I felt somewhat obliged to show up, given that I'd traveled an hour to make it there...
I want to make Oasis readers aware of the laws concerning sex for minors where I live. Essentially, once you're sixteen, unless there's drugs, alcohol, authority figures, or others involved, you are apparently in a position to consent and it would be extremely difficult to disprove in court. This was confirmed to me by police on two occasions and is the reason why I haven't been able to get this bastard in court.
He told me that he was tired from being at work and wanted to take a nap, but that I was welcome to join him, and that it didn't mean we would have sex or anything. He held me: it felt warm, comfortable, and it was okay. Without warning, he shoved his fingers inside me: it hurt, a lot. He begged me to let him fuck me, and I said no, and he asked me to suck his dick. I was scared, but did so without complaint. I didn't know anything about how sex in real life worked: all I had was straight sex ed and gay porn videos...
He came in my mouth and I left. That night, I was glad: I thought he was nice (because even though he could have, he didn't rape me), and I liked being touched. I went to an Indian restaurant with my parents and uncle, and found a hundred dollars in the restaurant booth seat. I felt lucky, important, all because some guy wanted to fuck me.
Unsurprisingly, I returned the next week. First, when I got there, he began asking questions: "so am I going to fuck you or not? otherwise, I'm not interested".. threatened to kick me out. So I let him. He fucked me without any condom or lubrication. Ten minutes after he had finished, his main bitch, F, showed up: he was jealous, decided he wanted to fuck me too, and did so in a way to physically hurt me. I really wanted to stop at this point, but felt threatened about these two guys, both much bigger and stronger than myself.
The next six months were a blur. I was constantly forced back there due to threats that I would be exposed to friends, or potential friends. One day, he asked me to marry him. Another, he would tell me about how his twin brother lived downstairs, and how he had been abused by his father but not his brother. Everytime I would leave I would spend the 45 minute subway ride crying. It was a constant cycle of emotional damage and repair in order to establish my dependance. He would play me off against other people in order to make me jealous. He would tell me about all the other boys (because they were boys - 14 to 16 - and he was a grown, physically strong man) he'd fucked that week, about how I was just another part of that, and yet so much more. Unlike the others, I never asked for money, apparently, so I was one of the main bitches.
I told him once that I was going to call the police, and he told me about two other who'd failed in taking him to court, and to just fucking try.
Eventually, I broke the pattern. I don't know how I did it, really: this is such a part of my life that I've tried to avoid. I think I ended up meeting new friends, the people I started smoking pot with, taking ecstasy tablets for the first time. For two years following this, I became so deeply insecure. I was terrified of growing older because I felt people would only love me if I was younger, I would meet with older men from Craigslist, pretending to be 18, and any time a boy my age tried anything I would just fucking cry because I had no fucking idea how to react to them. I was jealous of them. I hated them. I wanted them to want me, and in a way I just wanted someone to own me because I had no other basis on how a queer relationship might work.
I made up personas for myself online - including on Oasis - where I could shroud myself in poetry, where these experiences could be somehow beautiful, because if they weren't it was a waste.
Later on I would eventually get into a relationship with someone close to my age (younger actually) while I was still in college. I was still really fucked up and young and stupid about everything, threatened to kill myself several times. I had gone to the police - no one could do anything because it was the law, I hadn't been drunk or drugged, and he wasn't my teacher.
Ultimately, everyone involved was a victim. Sebastian was a victim or serious physical, emotional and sexual abuse during his youth, which caused him to exhibit extremely skewed, disturbed, and manipulative sexual behaviors. His pain is the worst, because he lived his life in it, and perpetuates the violence to dozens of young teenage boys. Male rape is a very real thing: again, here, we notice how lack of representation or safe, anonymous spaces wherein queer people can discuss seriously affect lives. F was stuck in the same place I was, only much younger, and much more eager to please, to hurt others in other to get the same affection and attention I wanted. I just didn't want to be alone anymore.
Throughout the years, I've been deceitful about this. I didn't feel like my story was valid because the police told me I was in a position to consent, and legally did. I was terrified to talk to anybody about it. Most of all, I felt like I hadn't been good enough, as though I hadn't been attractive, intelligent, or otherwise in order to change this man. It was a large part of the cycle he'd created for me. So, I've lied, exaggerated individual stories, and for the first time, I'm giving a vaguely accurate picture of what it is.
To conclude, I've got three morals I'd like to share with interested parties.
If you're an adult, you should never manipulate scared, lonely teenagers into thinking that they'll only be loved if they put out. You should not perpetuate the violence that's been done onto yourself. You should not give a teenager a reason to fear that they have HIV. Consider how your attraction for young boys is constructed, and where it really comes from. The excuse that you didn't have the chance to have sex when you were a teenager is not valid reason to rape someone.
If you've been to almost any gay club or bar, you'll probably see a man at the door tipping the bouncer to let underage boys in. Where I live, underage means below eighteen. To anyone who reads this, if you encounter this kind of person, tell them off. Call the police. Petition the club to make it a safe environment to be in, where high school kids aren't being molested. If you see a drunk or passed out boy heading out with an older male, they are not in a position to consent. The older man is probably not 'just a friend', and you have a responsibility to say something. Moreover, if you party in clubs and bars which profit from and encourage this almost systematic approach of letting underage teenagers in, you are supporting an environment which actively promotes sexual abuse.
Last, I would encourage people to talk about these experiences. I have been looking for studies and statistics about rape and gay males: nearly none exist. These stories are important and no one openly speaks about male rape. It is real, and talking about your experiences allows you to move. Silence only ever helps the oppressor.