Each year, hundreds, perhaps more like thousands of boys are abused by older men whom they trusted. The men may be coaches, priests, scout leaders teachers, or relatives. For many of the boys, such an event is traumatic and moving beyond it is very difficult.
This is the story of one such boy. However, although the abuse must necessarily be told, the story is not about abuse. It is about how that boy, through love, help, and his own ability, is able to move past the event. It is a tale, not of cure, because a true cure is probably not possible, but of redemption and healing.
It is dedicated to all those, young and old, who have suffered such abuse and are struggling to put it behind them.
The boy lay on his back, staring into the darkness, listening to the rain splatter softly on the tent roof and the man beside him breathing deeply in his sleep. The boy was shaking but he wasn’t cold. His eyes were full of tears. Shame and fear tumbled about in his mind. What had happened? Why? Was he in trouble? What would happen tomorrow? He felt dirty, but he wasn’t sure he’d done anything wrong. Sighing, he tried to go back to sleep, but he couldn’t because he was tormented by his racing thoughts.
Trying to remember what had happened, he thought back to awakening in the night. It had been an especially warm night for late September, an Indian summer kind of night. He had been asleep in just his undershorts on top of his sleeping bag. He had awoken to feel a hand, gently rubbing his back. A flashlight had been on in the tent.
“You’re awake,” the man had said.
The boy had rolled over and looked up. “What are you doing?” he had asked.
“Just rubbing your back. Doesn’t it feel good? I wanted to make you feel good.” Now he had started rubbing the boy’s chest. “Did you know that you’re beautiful?”
“No, sir. Boys aren’t beautiful.”
“You are.”
The boy had been amused, but then he had begun to feel mounting anxiety. “Here,” the man had continued, reaching slowly, gently into the boy’s underpants and tickling his pubic hairs. “How does that feel?”
“No! You shouldn’t be doing that.”
“Why not? Am I hurting you?”
“No but it’s not right.”
“Why not? It feels good and it doesn’t do any harm.” With that the man had said, “Raise your hips for a minute.” As the boy had done so, the man had gently pulled down his underpants, exposing his now hard penis pointing straight up. “You’re getting a nice crop of hair down there,” the man observed. Slowly, the man had slid his hand up and down the boy’s organ. Despite himself, the boy had felt a familiar tension begin to rise in his groin. The feeling had grown stronger and stronger until suddenly, he had exploded, liquid splashing on his chest as his penis pulsed and throbbed. He had groaned involuntarily but had immediately worried whether he should have enjoyed it or not.
“Now,” the man had said, “you can give me the same pleasure.” He had rolled onto his back and pulled down his underwear. The boy didn’t want to do this. He knew it was wrong. “Come on,” the man had insisted, “I gave you pleasure now you need to pleasure me.” Reluctantly, afraid to anger the man, the boy had reached over and touched the man’s penis. At the touch, it sprang up from the man’s belly. It was hard and huge. The boy didn’t know they grew so large. Imitating the man, he had put his hand around the penis and slid it slowly up and down. The man had groaned and begun to raise his back and even his hips off his sleeping bag. Higher. Higher. Then, like the boy, he had exploded, his penis spurting over and over. Finally stopping, the man had relaxed. “That was wonderful!” he said. “Thank you.” Reaching into his backpack, he had pulled out some tissues and dried himself and the boy off before turning off the flashlight.
As they both lay on their backs in the dark, the man had said, “Matthew, this needs to be our secret. Other people wouldn’t understand that we were just harmlessly enjoying ourselves. OK?”
“Yes, Uncle Bob,” replied the boy reluctantly.
Soon the man had fallen asleep. Now the boy lay awake, shaking and silently crying. Why had this happened? Did Uncle Bob do this with other boys or only with him? Did Uncle Bob love him? He didn’t think he loved Uncle Bob, but he wasn’t sure, because he didn’t know what that kind of love, the kind that included sex, was like.
Was what they had done good or bad? Would he get into trouble? He couldn’t sort it out. He had been told not to let strangers touch him, but Uncle Bob was certainly not a stranger; he was the Scout Master. The boy knew about jerking off and had been doing it for months, but he wasn’t even sure whether that was good or bad, he just knew it was irresistible and it felt wonderful. If what he and Uncle Bob had done was good, why had the man told him not to tell other people? Was he afraid of what they would say? Was he worried that the other boys would be jealous of Matthew? If it was a good thing, why did he feel dirty? Of course his mother had always told him that playing with his penis was dirty, but what about this? What would happen in the morning? Would he be punished? Would Uncle Bob even mention it? Would it ever happen again?
So many questions with no answers. He sighed and again tried to sleep. Eventually he must have dozed off, because when he woke he heard movements around the campsite and other boys talking. The rain had stopped. Uncle Bob was pulling on his uniform. He looked at Matthew, winked, and put his index finger to his lips. Matthew nodded in understanding and put on his own uniform before they both went out of the tent and Matthew began to build a fire for breakfast.