A MATTER OF TIME

I told her I didn’t want anyone to feel sorry for me. That wasn’t what this interview was about. I wanted to break the silence, to speak for other males who weren’t ready to take that step.

I looked intently at Miss Quinn. "Say there are six little boys playing in the playground. One of those boys will be sexually abused sometime in his life. I was one of those boys."

"Did you know your perpetrator?"

"Yes. Without getting into details, I want to stress that when you’re a kid and this happens to you, you feel very alone, like you’re the only one this is happening to. You feel very afraid and confused. You want to tell somebody, but you grow up thinking no one will believe you. Who can you trust? People might think you were responsible for what happened to you. The older you get, the harder it is to struggle with it. You put it out of your mind for awhile, but it’s your constant companion."

A film of tears glazed my eyes. "I don’t want it to happen to any other little boy. Every child is innocent. They have to know it wasn’t their fault. If only I’d heard those words, what a difference it would have made."

There was no turning back now. I looked straight into the cameras. "I know I’m not alone. What happened to me could happen to any man. Male rape is more prevalent than any of us care to believe. I know there’s a lot of hurting men out there. Men too ashamed to admit they were abused as kids. Or men who’ve been violently attacked in horrible ways no one can imagine. The guy could be the next one you see. The face in the grocery store. He could be your friend. Your husband, your brother."

"Isn’t it a man’s responsibility to be able to protect himself?"

I nodded. "Right. We’re supposed to be in control and be powerful. We’re not supposed to talk about situations where we’re powerless. It’s like admitting you’re less a man because it’s happened. That’s the tragedy. So when we do seek medical care, we’re hesitant to say we were victims. Since most people associate rape with females, it’s hard for us to identify ourselves as victims and get proper support."

"Let’s take a commercial break."

"No. I want to continue." I looked back into the cameras, struggling to hold myself together. "I hope in my heart of hearts that I’ve helped other men, other boys out there by bringing this to the forefront. We’ve got to come out of that dark closet of suffering, even though our ignorant society doesn’t want to listen. People may think less of us when we speak out, but we must. We must do it for ourselves and for those who are too afraid. We deserve life and we deserve it now…"

I turned the knob and got the water as hot as I could humanly stand it. I let it scald my skin until bright red spread over my chest. I clenched my teeth, wanting to scream, to move away from the stream. I knew what I was doing was crazy. But if I was strong enough to tackle the pain, there was a part of me that was still a man. Maybe even a fraction of what I’d been before it happened.

I pulled a thick, white cotton towel off the rack and stepped out of the shower. Water dripped from my body as I rubbed a spot dry over the steamy bathroom mirror. I stared at myself, recalling compliments women had given me. "Tall, dark and handsome," they would say. Yeah, I was five eleven. I was endowed with the body of long-distance swimmer--broad chest and shoulders, sinewy muscular arms, washboard abs. My heavy, straight, dark-brown hair had a slight wave, and the bangs often met a pair of furrowed brows. But it was my blue-gray eyes that expressed every emotion, every thought I wanted to conceal.

True, I was considered good-looking. But through my childhood and youth, my appearance was only a commodity for abuse. "Such a pretty boy" were the words I’d frequently hear during barbaric sexual molestation. And now, at twenty-nine, my boyish presence led me to become a victim of rape.

I loathed the sight of myself.

The doorbell began to ring incessantly. Ignore it, I thought, slipping into an old pair of faded Levi’s. I’m not in the mood to see anybody.

"David? I know you’re home! Open the door!"

I closed my eyes and sighed. It was Denny, my sweet Angel. I glanced at the ten-inch gold-framed photograph taken of us on my bedside table. That glorious day was etched in my mind as if it was yesterday. I could still smell the salty ocean air. I could feel the warm, gusty wind over my sun-tanned skin. We’d been swimming and sunning in the hot Florida sun on Siesta Key Beach. A stranger came upon us and asked to take our picture. Of course, we delighted in the thought—and posed for him. Denny and I fell onto the white sand, she in her tiny bikini, and I in my baggy swim trunks. We nestled together. Our smiling eyes held so many dreams.

That tender memory tore right through me. Now, I was dead inside and could not love her.

Slowly, I eased a navy Henley over my head and put it on. I was afraid. I had no idea how to master the dreaded conversation of telling her goodbye.