There are many men and boys who experience abuse in their lives. They often do not have a place to talk about those experiences. This post is a space for that.
Any man or boy who wants to share his experiences of sexual abuse, emotional abuse, physical abuse, bullying, and harassment may do so here. You may submit your story as a comment. You can use your own name, a pseudonym, or remain anonymous.
You may share whatever you feel comfortable with, be it your whole story or just a moment.
The purpose of this post is show people what men and boys go through. It is to shed light on the truth of those experiences and shatter the stereotypes of about them.
I will moderate all comments and remove any that are not from men or not on topic. This just to make sure the comments are only from men and only about their stories.
(A note to those posting: if you use profanity, the comment will automatically go into moderation. This applies to all comments on this blog, so it is nothing personal. Once I see the comment, I will approve it.)
Toy Soldiers 
I was Ten years old……. A group of friends and I were to meet for a”camp fire” breakfast like many other brisk fall sunday mornings in a heavily wooded urban park. Some kind of trouble happened between the others and they bailed. 40+ years ago so no cell etc…. I had the cook backpack and made a fire and waited for them. 3 older teens showed up 1 guy and 2 girls……. say about 18yr M and 16yr+14yr F…..Out all night, Cold, hungry…..So as others didn’t show I cooked eggs/bacon/toast/tea for myself and the 3 . After that and near a hot fire they break out a couple of joints…….I get the “your a baby” comments that push me to smoke my first joint. the older 2 drift off while the other girl stays near and “wrestles” me…..I’m high for the first time in my life and at one point she’s sitting over my face pinning my arms with her knees…..and being told to lick her crotch…… That was my very first experience with a girl…….I was kind of proud as a teen to have started so young…..till years later the blocked part of the rock she was holding came back to me. For the next 4-5 years I’d become I guess you’d say the perfect bullying victim……I guess My heavy Drinking/drug abuse as a teen acid /speed angeldust/luddes/weed/mesc.by 12yrs old probably came out of that along with the other incidents that followed me for a few years……Got clean at about 20 in college…..shit still haunts me decades later…..
Wow, Toy Soldier. Thank you so much for this.
I’ll offer my story by linking to the article I wrote for A Good Men Project on how I was bullied and hurt by girls and women along with boys and men.
http://goodmenproject.com/featured-content/bullied-by-girls-and-women-one-mans-account/
In summation, I was hurt by both genders. Sympathy and support came more for what the men and boys did while hardly any of it was found for what the girls and women did. Certain Feminists tell me, after hearing my story regarding what the females did, that I’m an anomoly, that abuse happens more to women and girls, girls don’t bully boys often, my experiences aren’t worth the concern, and I’m a privledged white male that still enjoys tons of perks compared to women.
But please read the whole. The summation doesn’t do it justice.
when I was bout 5 or 6 I walked in on my sister and the son of my mother’s friend that lived down the street who was acting as our babysitter. my sister is roughly 2 years older than me, and the babysitter was at least in his teens already, but I don’t know what his exact age was. I walked in on him trying to convince her to give him a blowjob… I didn’t know anything about that at the time, but I saw them acting strange, and asked what was going on and insisted on them telling me… they asked me if I was sure I wanted to know, and of course I said yes… next thing I know he has his erect penis out and in my face trying to get me to suck it too. I refused and ran out of the room… that was the first of many bad situations I ran in to young in life… most of them before I turned 8.
Regular commenter here, not using my full name for once because I don’t want this popping up under it on Google.
My first memory is being beaten. I was about two years old, and too shy to say hello to the cashier at the supermarket when my mom told me to. That was unacceptable. Everything about me was unacceptable- I was a nice, quiet, well-behaved child, but I was shy and weird (eventually diagnosed with autism) and my parents never let a day go by without reminding me that this was completely inexcusable. I was constantly terrified, never knowing when another blast of contempt would come. The violence tapered off as I got older; the relentless disapproval and disgust didn’t. When I was in elementary school I remember trying, once, to ask them to ease off. The response to that made sure I never even considered asking again.
I can remember frequently starting to think about suicide trying to work up the nerve to actually do it when I was 5 or 6 years old- basically once I understood what death meant. I thought it was what my parents wanted, and that I deserved to die and then go to Hell for ruining their lives, and that once that happened they could finally be happy. I hated myself more for not being able to do it. I was bullied relentlessly at school, and whenever I had the bad luck to run into one of the (many) kids bullying me outside of school, to the point where I was afraid to go outdoors even during summer vacation. I tried telling adults for a long time, but eventually I realized there was no point. I was so lonely and desperate for someone who would be nice to me that for many years I tolerated a “best friend” who I knew was stealing from me, because he would hang out with me and at least wasn’t cruel to my face.
Things started to improve when I was 14, after I snapped severely enough to terrify my parents into starting to see things from my point of view, though it wasn’t until my 20s that I finally built up the self-respect and will to force a complete stop to the mistreatment. I actually get along well with my parents now and am pretty close to my mom, though I’ve never entirely trusted them not to turn on me- I often wonder what’s its like to actually feel confident that a parent truly loves you, and don’t suppose I’ll ever know.
I was 19 years old when I visitied a friend who studied in another city. I hit it off with a girl at a party there and we ended up making out in her room in a flat she shared with 4-5 other students. We agreed that we wouldn’t go any further and I was relieved since I was a virgin and at the time a hopeless romantic who had always expected to debut with “The One” – and although she was nice and attractive I didn’t get any “The One” feelings after only knowing her for about 5-6 hours. I was also pretty drunk.
It was too late to take any buses back to my friend’s dorm, so I asked to sleep over. She told me I could sleep over in her bed. So I did, we made out some more, talked and cuddled and then I guess I must’ve fallen asleep.
Suddenly I woke up to her sitting on top of me, grinding, with my penis in her vagina. I remember thinking “What’s happening?”, “No, I don’t want this”, “Is this how it’s supposed to feel to have sex?”, “Why can’t I enjoy it”, “Is something wrong with me for not enjoying sex?”. Incredible as it sounds in hindsight the thought of pushing her off or otherwise physically making her stop – even telling her to stop didn’t occur to me at all. It was like I was frozen while my thoughts raced like in a dizzying spin cycle on the washing machine. Finally (I have no idea whether that was after 5 seconds or 15 minutes) in the end I thrusted my hips a few times while I faked an orgasm to make it stop. It worked and she climbed off me. I asked to borrow the shower and showered and dressed and went to the communal room where I waited an hour or so until the buses began to run.
My friend assumed I got lucky and pestered me for details. I didn’t reveal any and I had a hard time sorting through me not feeling very lucky depsite being told and taught for most of my adolescent years that a guy is always happy about getting laid. I found myseld distrustful towards women and their motives and it wasn’t until I let my true feelings about what happened prevail rather than what I’ve been told I should feel that I was able to resolve my cognitive dissonance.
After hearing several male friends (unaware of my experience) tell of similar experiences, but always framing them as bragging stories I began to wonder exactly how common is this and howcome that the possibility was not even mentioned in any of the anti-rape campaigns I saw in public discourse as well as were subject to as a pupil and later student. I began to wonder if I had reacted differently and could’ve stopped it earlier if I even knew that happening was a possibility and that it was possible that I wouldn’t like it. I began to wonder if the woman would’ve started to fuck me while I was asleep if someone had ever told her that men’s consent are as important as women’s consent. So I started to look into it and I started to write about it in comment fields.
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About a decade ago..
I was in a stable, long-term open relationship and had developed a bit of a reputation. One of my occasional partners had a father who was dating a succession of incredibly unsuitable women, one of whom was a junkie and former prostitute. She decided she’d taken a liking to me, and being an incorrigible flirt with a reputation to uphold, I played along. I made it clear that it wasn’t going anywhere, however, for one simple reason – my beloved had exercised her veto, and that was iron-cast.
Fast forward a few weeks, and I found myself in my usual haunt, with this woman there that night. This hadn’t been that unusual, but she did seem pretty intent. I had a single drink, which one of my friends swears she hung around while i was on the dancefloor, then started to be *incredibly* incoherent. I still don’t know if she mickeyed me or if I had a case of the flu or what. Doesn’t really matter.
Soon enough I was having trouble standing and she insisted on helping me home. I wasn’t in much of a position to argue. On the way back she was all over me, and I found myself on a street that was nowhere near my house. She started making out with me very aggressively and while I went along with it – I couldn’t really pull away, to be honest – I tried over and over to explain that I needed to go home. Eventually she persuaded me that I could at least lie down in her flat for a bit while I got my shit together to make it home in one piece. Dumbass that I was, I agreed.
Next thing I remember, she was on top of me, and it hurt like crazy. Why? Because at the time I had severe phimosis, which meant that unprotected sex seriously hurt my foreskin. I remember her asking me “are you close?” and I mumbled “… no, no,,,” and she responded “oh, I’m gonna fuck you all NIGHT!” She very obviously thought I was going along with it. I couldn’t fucking move. I was only half-erect because it hurt so damn much, so she kept stirring it back up manually.
Then her ex yelled up from the window and she “smuggled” me out of the back door. I stumbled across town. nauseous, barely able to walk. I got home and checked myself over and found I was still bleeding. I was bruised all over the area. I cleaned myself up and went to sleep. The next morning I could barely remember what happened – but I knew damn well something had.
So I did what any man would do in this situation – I assumed I must have wanted to have sex. I apologised to my girlfriend for breaking her veto, and luckily she forgave me. I waited months until I could be checked for HIV. It wasn’t until over a year later that a friend of mine, who had been visiting that night and had come back for another visit, brought up the subject of how weirdly I’d been acting, and the weird woman hanging around my drink. It took years more before I could even start to remember what had happened that night. Years more still before I was able to call it what it was.
She’s still around, is the worst part. She’s married now, works in a charity shop. She smiles and waves at me when I come by. Probably still thinks I was willing.
Well, I’m not gonna go into too much detail here. It’s kinda late, and frankly, that part of my world is behind me. I try not to revisit it often, so you’ll have to bear with the abridged version.
My parents fought a lot when I was young, which lead to me having difficulty controlling my anger. It didn’t come out much until I was about 10. Then, I threatened another student’s life, physically attacked that same student because he was taking my shoe. My dad was proud of me for standing up for myself, but he said that I handled it the wrong way.
I didn’t care: dad was proud, and that was huge for me. SO huge, in fact, that it changed my disposition, if only for a few months.
Random bullying in middle school, depression, my grandfather’s death right after I turned 15. Nothing too out there, nothing too traumatic. It happened, whatever.
Still 15 now, at a party with some friends celebrating the end of the school year. I make a crass comment, friend grabs a soda bottle and shoves it against my rectum. Now, I was fully clothed, but this was…disturbing. I knew it wasn’t just some friendly messing around. That was too far. So, from then on I decided not to hang with those people -all at once-
Everything was fine for a few months, one of the people at that party invites me to another one. I show up, same three guys there. I knew it was gonna end badly.
They shoved me onto the couch, pulled my pants off, and tried to sodomize me.
About a year later I come to terms with what happened. Since it happened, I’ve attempted suicide, had gotten my affairs in order for a foolproof attempt (had I gone through with it) and was luckily rescued by a friend whom I haven’t seen in a while.
Anyway, I’ve suffered from PTSD since then. Not pleasant. Been through therapy, mental health institutions (never committed, thankfully, I always caught myself before I got too far, thanks to a wonderfully caring JROTC instructor)
So, about two years ago, I met this girl. There had been others, but this girl…this girl was different. Not because she was special, but because she made me feel loved and cared for, for really the first time in my life. Sure, I’d had other healthy relationships, but none came anywhere near this one in how it made me feel on a deep, meaningful level, especially a level that was reciprocated.
Then she tried to force me to have sex with her. Our relationship fell apart and for about another year we carried on a toxic on-and-off thing that was slowly driving me insane. She’d threatened me with suicide, statutory rape charges, you name it (she’s two years younger). She cheated on me, which really messed me up.
But the thing is…even with all this happening, I was still so terrified to lose this girl that I went through a literal hell and back for her.
So, I’ve faced abuse of about every kind, bullying, and I still get texts from that girl. I told her that it was over for the last time about two and a half months ago. I just hope I have the strength to say no again until my last breath.
I don’t have the energy to re-write my story here.. but you can read it here. http://mencanbeabusedtoo.wordpress.com/my-story-part-1/
I have a chipped tooth and a misaligned jaw from bullying. I have an extremely confrontational personality now because I feel like if I don’t assert myself, others will try to push me around. Some people have outright said (to others) that they are scared to deal with me lest they “say something stupid” and I go off on them.
I was regularly thrashed by my father enough for my face to swell up for not being a great student. I was terrified every time an examination rolled around. I am 30 and I still have a lot of anxiety when appearing for an exam, though I’ve learnt to not show it. I still don’t know what to think about it. The beating did push me to try as hard as I could, even if only out of fear and now I have a decent enough job to keep myself self-sufficient. I don’t know if I could’ve achieved that without being “encouraged” in that fashion.
I have been fondled sexually by men in crowded areas a couple of times. Not sure if I’d class it as “assault”. Maybe molestation.
I have also witnessed a younger child being fondled by someone when I was a child myself. I had no idea what to do then either.
I live in a literal, for-real, no kidding, Soylent Blue dystopia where people industrially commoditize the sexually handicapping, permanently amputated, erogeous flesh of innocent children of exclusively one gender by national law:
http://lmgtfy.com/?q=neonatal+fibroblast
Price sheets from multiple companies advertising the processed remains of baby boy foreskins for sale, to be used in profit-based research and manufacturing, which includes not only testing materials for women’s cosmetics but actual worn cosmetic products themselves.
PDFs explaining the standards and procedures for shipping and handling of the processed baby boy foreskins.
Abstracts of research cited using processed baby boy foreskin.
Soylent Blue.
It started when I was 4 or 5. My mother started touching me up when I was in bed. First, I pretended to be asleep, that it wasn’t happening. That was a wrong move, as my pretend non-acknowledgement seemed to make her believe I acquiesced. It got progressively more sexual and violent… kissing my mouth with her tongue, sucking me off, fingering my anus, penetrating my anus with knitting needles, had my uncle and other men fuck me. It went on until I was about 14, when I got angry and scared her away.
Looking back, I can see she ‘spousified’ me…..sexually, and treating me as her husband/companion. She bitched to me about her husband, my dad, about the other kids, about money, etc. No surprise, I have never been able to have a normal relationship with a woman (am twice divorced).
Growing up other kids and now women and (and men) are wary of me…I am calm on the exterior, but raging and hugely passive/aggressive underneath. I think that loneliness is the biggest and worst legacy of the abuse.
I was 5, at a sleepover with my cousin who was 12. Someone I trusted. He touched me and I always thought it was my fault. I blamed myself and then I blocked it from my memory.
Now, 11 years later, I’m still suffering everyday. Who am I? I like girls and boys, but I don’t trust boys. Even being too close to one will give me a panic attack sometimes. And the ones that I can trust either Break that trust eventually or I have dreams about them. About them chasing me and usually raping me. I feel weak when I admit that but I had to say it somewhere. After the dreams, I’m too uncomfortable to trust them. So afraid they’re going to take advantage of me. It crushes my heart every day and after all this time, I’m still a broken toy.
This is my first comment, so I’m a bit nervous. I was 12 when one girl took it upon herself to try and trap me in rooms and demand that I kiss her, later demanding that I say I ‘like’ her, while joining in with the insults of others. At one point, she trapped me and asked that I be her boyfriend, despite my protestations that I wasn’t ready. Similarly, when I admitted a year later to the boys at my school that I wasn’t comfortable with gay people coming on to me, they would take it upon themselves to grope me, harrass me, flash me (the girl also did this for different reasons), one boy even touched my penis in class with his forefinger in front of the others. The girl was also persistant, saying that she was going to ‘rape’ me, which I had no idea of how to respond. Boys would even feign orgasm noises and watch me in the toilet. The girl eventually got me to comply despite my resistance for two years, and despite her constant verbal abuse, convincing me that I ‘wanted’ it, and touching me while at first allowing reciprocation but eventually making it a one way street again, she’d touch me, I wasn’t allowed to touch her. These were my first sexual experiences, which I feel very sad about. I still have yet to have my first girlfriend, despite being 25 now, and only this week, I wonder if this is the reason. However, I intend to do something positive with this. I will make it into a monologue play about this very subject (but changing names for legal reasons).
But also I’d like to throw a word out to our sisters in healing, female survivors, because they’re doing the same for us and show us the most compassion and understanding in society. It’s right to do the same for them. Ladies, I speak for my brothers in healing that we have nothing but respect and compassion for you, whether or not you throw the book at your tormentors, if you don’t, you are smart and brave enough to be able to let go, and if you do, you have immense courage and bravery. Don’t give up, and never forget, no matter what you were wearing or doing, you do not make someone else rape you, so whether you are male or female, it was NEVER your fault!
Hear, hear, James!
Male Survivors out there, this play is for you.
I present the “Speak To Me Rundown” three episode radio play special about a male survivor of sexual abuse; distillation of the original seven part mini-serial radio drama.
Please go here and have a listen to all three parts. Share it with others as well.
http://www.avoiceformen.com/misandry/male-survivors-and-the-empathy-apartheid-the-root-of-the-speak-to-me-radio-play/
Hi all!
I really hesitate here, but I guess I’ll try to get this off my chest… I guess I’ll feel better afterward…
I really want to see myself as the innocent victim. I really want. But I don’t think it’s that simple actually. I’ve had terrible things done to me, and I’ve done a few things I’m not proud of.
Let’s get this started.
I was molested early in my childhood by the son of one of my mother’s friend. He was older than me, but my mom thought we’d make a good match for friendship. Ironically, he was the only person I remember who respected my boundaries. I mean, my big bro (8 years older than me) had touched my genitals as a “joke” (he called it a “cock tag”, you know, like a game of tag, but by touching the penis), and told me to chill out, it was just a joke, my dad had a habit that anytime some champagne was spilled on the table, he’d clean it off with his fingers before wiping them on my forehead, and every time I protested, he defended himself because it was “tradition”, and no one objected… Oh, and he often gave me slaps on my ass (even when I was a kid. Though to be honest, he did that to just about everybody and everybody found that very annoying) no matter how much I protested. When I was deploying as much smarts as I could gather to get some privacy when it came to my genitals, my mom often told me that “she’s already seen it when I was a baby” (true, but still, I have a right to privacy, no?) when, say I hit the deck in the bathtub anytime she entered the bathroom when I was cleaning myself. And she never knocked, even though the lights should have been a dead giveaway. That teenager? He groomed me by introducing me to Grand Theft Auto III (it had hit the shelves fairly recently at that time), and all manners of extremely violent (or, as I would call them, “super fun”) video games. But the thing is, ironically, he’s the only person who never overstepped any of the boundary I explicitly set up (he talked me into things I did not understand at all, saying that was what was often done to new arrivals at secondary schools and that I needed to “be prepared for it”, that is to say rubbing his penis on my behind (and it felt kinda pleasurable, though I did not understand a thing about it, and no one at school did that to me…), but he never forced me nor even try to pressure me into dropping my own pants (I categorically refused to, and he never tried to overstep that boundary).), and yes, I am aware of how utterly insane a sentence such as “the one who molested me was the only one who wasn’t overstepping my boundaries” sounds, but it was totally true… And to be honest, anger and pain comes quicker to me for my father’s champagne antics than for the molestation… I’m aware that “normally” I should feel pain and anger at being molested, and on a conscious level I know tricking a kid too young to understand is wrong, but I just can’t feel hate or pain for that teenager (he was a teen at the time)… Actually scratch that, my older cousin also very much respected my boundaries, and I always spend good times with her any time she picked me up, but it was such a rare event (maybe once every too month, and even then, at it’s most common) that it took some time to pop into my mind. Bless her, she’s an awesome young woman and she always was. She took me to a sex shop when I was 12 (and before you jump on her and accuse her of anything, I was openly talking with her about all I’ve learned about BDSM, water sports, and much other stuff on Wikipedia, so she didn’t expose me to anything I wasn’t exposed to before. If anything, I commented to her after we got out that I found the sex shop surprisingly tame, so while it may not have been the smartest move on her part, you can still cut her some slack since I already openly talked to her about what I’ve learned about BDSM much earlier than when she and her friend decided to take me there on a spur of the moment impulse)…
I lite to think that the fact that I was always taught that personal boundaries meant nothing combined to a complete lack of understanding of the world was what caused that whole mess I’m about to talk about, I was not even 10 at the time, and I like to think that it wasn’t my fault because I literally didn’t understand it at that time… I have some family in Italy, from my mother’s side, and we had a big gathering at a restaurant… And I had the idea to play that “game” my big bro told me about with some family members my age (who were all girls), explaining the rules in a broken French-Italian mix that in hindsight no one could have understood. I assume every adult was so caught up in adult talk since no one noticed. I like to think it’s just product of a lack of understanding of something I wasn’t taught and had to figure out much later, but as much as I’d love to see myself as an innocent victim slowly healing from the trauma, well, I don’t think I qualify.
And when I was 13 years old, during my last year of secondary school (I skipped a year of primary school since after entry tests they decided I was obviously to good to be wasting my time in the third year, so I got transfered into fourth year), after 3 years of intense bullying, well, it had died down somewhat (maybe the older ones had passed to high school or got kicked out for too many failures, or maybe dropped out as soon as they weren’t obligated to follow classes anymore (you can stop taking classes when you hit 16…), and since I was now in last year I was bigger than the newest batch of bullies…), but I still was alone as I didn’t really have anyone close to me, who would listen to me, or play with me… Well, there was one person I’ve been in the same class since my first secondary school year who played with me to a degree (so that he could sit next to me and copy my answers during tests. My teachers quickly caught onto that but didn’t tell me), but this year in my class was a gal who was 1) a troublemaker, 2) popular, and 3) very kind to me (compared to my past experiences at any rate. She was sticking up for me once telling classmates not to laugh when I told them my life projects). In fact, she was even elected class representative! And I was hopelessly romantically attracted to her, she was one of the first people who were kind to me… And one day, we had an hour of supervised break since a teacher was absent. So it was me, her, the kid who played with me and another kid she was getting along pretty well, but whom I didn’t know at all. Just another faceless classmate to me. And they were asking me a few sexual questions, about my sexual habits (and whether I thought about her when I masturbated. I didn’t, but I lied in an attempt to flatter her. I was hopelessly naive, okay?), and she gave me a rendezvous in the restrooms when the supervised break would give way to the unsupervised one. So I met her there, and we went in the restroom… She caressed my thigh, it felt pretty good, I touched her a bit, asked her to keep doing that, and after a short while she asked me to get my pants down… I complied, and that’s when I saw her holding a phone, pointed at me (and I was tech savvy enough to know about phone cameras). So I asked her to give me that phone right now so that I could erase what she took, she tried to get away, I caught her to try to wrestle the phone out of her hands, and I was doing a pretty good job since despite her struggling I wasn’t getting tired (adrenaline maybe?), but then the bell rung, signaling the end of the break time. I figured someone would go to the restrooms before the last class of the day, and it took me literally one second to weight my options: let her go with the phone and the videos or pictures, hoping they don’t spread to the headmaster (I was sure he’d throw me out if he heard of this), or take a very high risk to get a criminal record for a crime I didn’t commit (if anything, she was the rapist) to avoid that. I took my chances with the pictures, let her go and dressed again quickly before going to class. And right in front of the class, I got punched in the face by her boyfriend, went in a small shock screaming “He punched me!”, and the whole class said “Well, it’s just natural!”. The next day, the date spread in the school, and I hoped the headmaster didn’t catch wind of this. Someone working in the school asked me about the rumors, and I denied them. The next day, the headmaster had called my mom, asking her if she wanted to press charges against that girl, and she talked to me about it, and told me that if I wanted we could press charges. The whole school knew about it anyway, and the headmaster (rightfully) put the blame on her, so I agree to press charges. So there was a disciplinary committee, shortest trial in history since she literally bragged about what she did (confess would imply guilt, she was proud of it, and implicated the boy who played with me and the other kid, a random schmuck she suckered into her scheme…). Her and the boy who played with me were permanently kicked out of school, and the other guy kicked out for a month (as the people said, he just sorta got roped into this without grasping the implications and was probably kept in the dark until the last moment. In fact, I went back to the post graduation party and he went straight to me as soon as he spotted me to apologize, telling me he would understand if I wasn’t willing. I forgave him. He was just a pawn tricked into participating in this scheme, and in the end his presence didn’t make any difference.). I make my police deposition, and the girl and the kid who sat next to me got what basically amounted to a stern lecture (was you did was bad, m’kay? So please don’t do it again. We have to note this in your files, but be nice from now on, m’kay?) since they were minors. And to top it all, she came back one month later. Breach of procedure in the disciplinary committee (and the headmaster profusely apologized for not being well versed enough in legal terminology), as pointed by her lawyer. It was a fun 6 months going to class with my rapist every day…
I would love to see myself as an angel, but I have a fear I am more like her than I want to admit, and that I in fact may be worse…
I’ve rediscovered a porn game somewhere along that year, and one of the levels was themed around bimbofication (yes, it’s a real fetish. And yes, it is exactly about what it sounds like…). And it just sort of snowballed from there, with me getting a fetish for mind control and brainwashing I never had before, to the point that the only sexual activity I have (on my own, never got with anyone after that) are only possible by involving imaginary scenarios along these themes… I may be worth than her in fact. At least, my mind was still mine when she was done with me. With the kind of fantasies I have, what it involves… I feel like in these zombie movies, when you get bitten by a Z and know you’re gonna turn any day now… I often consider committing suicide before it could happen…
So that’s my story. I feel like a weight has been lifted off my chest now… I’ve been holding that for way too long… Do you feel I am a monster trying to justify myself?
Great read, and i think all of us can relate to the subject and give our perspective on it Thanx for sharing, gus,
https://biggerbaddergentleman.wordpress.com/
My wife and I were married and in love for close to a decade. She was the driver in a bad car accident that injured me and several other people, resulting in one pedestrian being nearly killed and suffering amputations.
She took all my money, my child, left the country and didn’t come back. I was left disabled. There, she decided to get married to someone else when I was fighting for my life. I missed my child badly and traveled there. She used the gender-biased laws of that country to prevent me from coming back, and filed a bunch of false cases against me and my parents. She even cut me off from my child with false abuse allegations when I didn’t even have access.
So I am stuck in a foreign country, navigating the broken system there with its corrupt judiciary and police, studying law, and fighting to be part of my kid’s life. I am also being criminally prosecuted along with my parents by the local police there with the Kafka-esque allegations of having caused the accident (on American soil; she was found at fault), of taking away all her money (I was the sole earner; she took all my money) and so on.
Not a regular commenter here, but have commented in the past.
My mother never got over the abuse she received from her father. When I was very young, she was not an emotional adult yet (she may not yet be afaik). As a result, she needed her children to fill the hole she had not yet dealt with. She needed her children to make her feel loved because she had never learned to accept it from her parents properly. At some level, when I was very young, I perceived this to be wrong. At the time I had no clarity of thought on this subject, it’s taken decades to figure all this out. All I knew as a child was that I did not like something, and my reaction to my mothers insistence on showing her affection for her own sake struck me wrong enough that I refused her once.
Her response to my refusal was the most destructive thing she could have done to a man. She began a pattern of shaming me, in front of the rest of the family, for being the child that “doesn’t hug”. She would do this while showing affection to my siblings. This actually just made me angrier, though again I was just too young and too full of pure ignorance to understand my own feelings. This pattern continued until adulthood, and was carried out in front of the entire family relatively often.
So instead of simply giving, instead of simply providing affection to me which was her most singularly important job in life as a mother… she was letting her female tools of emotional manipulation destroy one of her sons (I’m 1 of 5). She didn’t realize what she was doing. She was using a terrible weapon of female social manipulation on her child, because of her own inability to deal with her father’s abuse.
The buffer behaviors that came from attempting to protect myself from the shaming my mother subjected me to, in the attempt to get from me what she did not get from her father are still with me today. I doubt I’ll entirely get over them.
I’m sure there’s millions of men like me, men whose mothers, because they fail to acknowledge their own power to emotionally manipulate, abuse those powers on their sons in childhood and through adulthood. The social conventions that convince women they are somehow weak and incapable of doing harm are the most evil things in humanity.
I’m 35 now.
When I ran tack in 7th grade there was this one girl who while I was running some races catcalled me by saying “I love you __my_name__”. I didn’t respond or talk to her different than anyone else after the race. I did think about that over the summer and thought that she might actually like me. So when we ran cross-country during my 8th grade year during the first race I called out to her “I love you __her_name__”. Later on I overheard her talking with the girls on the girl’s team and it seemed like she didn’t like me. Later on that day she found ways to rub up against me and to make unwanted comments to me. I didn’t like it and didn’t respond.
If things had stopped there, it may have been one thing, but when I was 9th grade even though I didn’t express any interest in her ever so often she would make unwanted comments. She did it again in 10th grade and then in 11th grade, and I came to expect that she would do so every so often after a while. One of my male teammates on the cross-country team eventually said that I was being sexually harassed. I expected her to make unwanted sexual comments and rub up against me when I ran cross-country in 12 grade, but fortunately she didn’t. I talked to her about it shortly before I graduated, and told her that I didn’t like it and she did seem sorry.
When I did marching band, the boys in the drumline, and in some other sections use to roll up our drill folders and hit each other in the crotch. Though the intent there is not to have sex, that is assault, and if sexual assault is fundamentally about power, then it was sexual assault also. I don’t want to know how many times I got hit in the nuts, and I didn’t by any means handle the situation maturely.
Also, I’ve checked my penis, and I have a brown scar from when I was cut as an infant. From what I’ve read that suggests that they used a gomco clamp on me. The penis forcibly gets made to penetrate a gomco clamp when it gets cut by one. Since it doesn’t matter how slight the penetration, or envelopment is, as far as I’m concerned, I got raped by it.
I’m not a good boy. I was a PERFECT boy. I did everything adults expected from me, thinking my mother would love me this way.
I was smart, playing music, first in math and language… did not curse… and during my teen years, did NO drugs, nor alcool.
Do you think my mother loved me for that? No! She hated me. Whatever I did… in fact, whatever I DIDNOT do, she would blame me.
I was polite, so, she would complain about how long I was thinking before answering. I was coming from church, knocked on the door, and she would complain I didnot call instead.
Whatever I did was a reason to blame me. Any reaso, would be. I was in need of affection, care and protection, and she was just a bully that would use that to ensure that I would bow down.
One day, I asked her to close teh window cause I was cold, she slapped me, cause she told me to shut up.
I hate to think about it, but I had no rights. My feelings, my well-being didnot matter.
I always felt like the women in muslim countries… or like a battered woman. I would be humiliated, beaten, or have the dishes on my turn for monthes… for nothing.
And my father did not put a stop to that. He allowed it. He was the man, he should have said something, but he didnot.
A so good kid like me. I don’t say that I was a good kid to brag. In fact, I really tried. I was trying to be worthy of her love, admiration, so finally, I could have peace.
But truth is nothing could bring me peace with that ungrateful cunt that I had as a mother. I lacked so much of all the things that allow a young boy to grow strong, tall, confident: I lacked a good mother, and a strong father.
My father -who grew without a father himself- did not be the head of the house. My mother took all the decisions, and only God knows how I hated that situation. Only God knows how I wanted that someone else, for once, someone with a little reason could take a fair decision or throw an ear to my requests, for once.
At 18, with only a few hundreds buck in my pockets… I ran away. Far away from her. The only thing that mattered to me was to be away from her, her unfair wrath always directed at me.
Never in all my life, I felt I nelonged to a crew, a family. Even if I lived with others, I was always on my own. Anxious, sad, and feeling alone.
Because my needs were not met. Peace, food, and being treated with love and respect.
Even if I hated it, I could have done without more food. “If we’re broke, we’re broke. And tomorrow, we will be rich.” But I could not deal with such unfairness, such hate directed toward someone she was supposed to love and protect.
I always said to myself “okay, the bullies hate me at school, but why her? She is my family, why doesnt she care about my well-being?”
Thank God, I ran away from her, and I will ot go back.
I grew up with a – probably – Borderline single mother. I hate her and I feel guilty for it. She says she loves me, but I do not feel loved.
For 26 years, I carried around a deep shame regarding my sexuality and masculinity. Pride for being appreciated as a man was alien to me. I was a nice guy on steroids. Mentally ill mother, also crazy granny. No males in the family, all died during my childhood. Father left before I was born.
Only these days do I deeply feel the pain of the humiliation of sucking up to those fucking bitches. The humiliation of having to suppress my manliness, of having had my youth as a proud and healthy male stolen. It is an unforgivable insult.
The love I did not get, my mother compensated with food, so I became intensely overweight, which I luckily somewhat tackled.
Would write more, but I have it all on my blog anyway.
I used psychedelics to study those feelings. It took me some time till I dared to go where it hurt. It felt like a thousand deaths. But in a sense, it was not even really a new feeling. It was the memory. The memory of a rejection that must have traumatized me and crushed my spirit in my earliest years.
Now I am kinda cool with it all. Still angry and all, but now the anger is directed not at everybody anymore, only at the people who did it to me.
It has always been difficult for me to come to terms with being a victim. Whether self-preservation or just because as men we are not supposed to be a victim. I would like to thank the others on here who have come forward with their stories. Strange but even while anonymous I still feel that tug to hold back – like telling my own story will make me weak somehow.
For me I was a victim of female on male CSA when I was 3-4 years old. I had no idea what sex even was – just a vague idea that boys and girls were different. My older sister played a new ‘game’ with me – I looked up to her so was not aware that it was wrong. Without getting into detail lets say that I got a very clear idea what sexual intercourse was about. My parents found out – I think I ‘told’ on her – of course not realizing the implications of the activity. My father gave her a severe beating – I can still hear her screams and crying. That I think upset me more than anything at the time – like I was responsible for her punishment.
For the next 9 years I was regularly abused in every sense by her – although the CSA never recurred I was the subject of physical assault; emotional and psychological damage – you name it. In hindsight I think she projected her anger/shame etc on me – it stopped only when I was physically large enough to fight back.
Mom wasn’t much better – she got pregnant with my sister and had to marry my father. She I think always resented her kids – we tied her into a life she didn’t want. Never hugged me or told me she loved me – cold as a fish even when I was young. Made me walk three city blocks to the ER with a burst appendix and told me to stand up straight as I was embarrassing her. Left for a year when I was 12 without a word to me. Thanks mom.
Age has given me the wisdom to see that my abusers had their own issues that they never dealt with. Both are dead now so there is no closure for me. This stuff comes back in mid-life – and I think its a huge part of the male suicide/acts of violence. I have every right to hate women – I don’t – but I certainly do not trust them as a gender. Ironic – if I did hate women as a gender – it would be their own fault.
One night when I was in twenty-five my mother called me to tell me my cousin had died of congestive heart failure. I consoled her on the phone for a bit before saying that I couldn’t make the five hundred mile drive home because it was too short notice, and my squadron was in the middle of a training exercise. I hung up the phone, and then walked into my little apartment closet where I cried my eyes out while unloading my rifle and magazines. He had molested my sister and I when I was about 4 years old, and she was 8. I had kept all my guns locked and loaded until the day he died, wasn’t something I ever thought of until I found myself on floor popping rounds out onto the carpet. My parents don’t know. My wife doesn’t know. My children don’t know. No one knows. I haven’t told a soul. I haven’t even written it down until now.
I am in a relationship with a very beautiful, very cute young woman. Things just clicked together when we first met, and the longer we’ve known each other, the more it has become obvious how much we are alike. The last time we met, she kissed me, then gave me a hickey and smilingly said “I’ve marked you now for me.”
Yup, I’m in a relationship. Or am I?
Because that was six weeks ago, and since then, she has cut me off.
A few things as an explanation: My girlfriend has a history of depressive episodes. She had been in stationary treatment for that when we first met, but since then, she had quickly gotten better. Her personality hasd returned to what her friends said was her former, bubbly, lively self, and while she still had moments of darker moods, she seemed to be able to cope well, eventually leading up to the last night we shared together.
Three days after that, she went back into therapy. I learned about that from a common friend, and of course I was immediately alarmed whether she may have had another episode of depression. I tried phoning her and eventually managed to get her on the phone a week afterwards. She told me that she had received the offer to continue her treatment from the clinic where she had been and, since she felt she needed the help, had accepted. I supported her in her decision, telling her that she was right to do everything that made her a stronger person. I expressed a little sadness that her therapy would take twelve weeks and we would not be able to see each other much during that time, but she said that she had “days off” and suggested we meet the week after that, and that she would try and see whether her therapist would agree. She would call me back and tell me if it would work out.
That was the last time we spoke.
When she didn’t call back the next day, I tried calling her the day after that. No response. I sent her a Skype message the day after that. Still no response. An e-mail the day after that. No response.
Of course, we didn’t see each other. I had no feedback on whether it would work. I just called her and spoke on her voicebox that I was a little sad the appointment hadn’t worked out.
Again, no response.
Four weeks now since we last spoke on the phone. She has not contacted me. Radio silence.
She cut me off, and I have no idea why.
You cannot imagine how much this hurts. Or maybe you can.
My mother was never quite there.
Don’t get me wrong, i was always clothed, fed, looked after.
But my mother, she only suffered.
She suffered because of me, because of my sister.
I have not a single memory of my mother being happy or laughing.
I would not have been so bad if my father had been there more.
He laughed, he did things with us, we build, we made, we read, it was great. But only every second weekend or so. The rest of the time he managed one construction site after the other (always the biggest one the agency he worked for currently had) brought home the money and never quite caught on that my mother was not quite who he thought he had married.
Years later i learned that my mother had cheated on him a year or so before my birth.
That man made her quite happy, but she could not stay. Could not do it for herself.
So they had me, as a make-up present.
It would not have been so bad if things had stayed as they had been in elementary school.
When i got into advanced schooling i slowly but surely lost the connection to the other kids.
I was among the first who had a girlfriend (THE girlfriend to be more specific) slowly but surely i broke down. I stopped washing, i stopped caring. Somewhere around there the mobbing started.
I was highly intelligent, very proud and so i bit my tongue and soldiered on.
Did well enough in school even though i never did homework or worked for the school outside school hours.
I could not go to my parents. They were barely holding it together as it was.
Meanwhile my two sister got themselves a eating disorder each. Bulimia nervosa and Anorexia.
Around that time we got assertiveness training in school… girls only though.
You see, as my (female) teacher told me, i did not really have problems. At least not problems as severe as the girls (they seemed fine to me but what did i know?).
When Dylan Klebold and Eric Harris shot up Columbian High i had severe sympathies for them.
It did not seem like that bad of an idea.
My life by that point was pretty much living a civil war.
In school i would not have been surprised if my fellow students had decided to beat me to death, at home i lay low while my older sister raised hell at least once a week. My oldest sister up and left as soon as she was out of school. I just prayed that my parents did not notice anything and left me alone.
I just wanted to curl up and be left in peace.
The last three years of school were better.
I reconnected with my old girlfriend (though by that time i was already so withdrawn i had little interest in more than emotional support) but not for long.
I got on better.
Hours got more flexbile and i could write my own letters of apology for lessons missed. I ramped it all the way up to maximum numbers of lessons i could missed without qualifying for not passed.
School ended, i went to national service and i was sure that life would now begin, finally.
But i was off. I could no longer connect with people, i could no longer interact with people without antagonizing them over short or long.
I sought an apprenticeship; found now.
Got into university, could not bring myself to enter the lecture hall. I had no words for that. Later i learned i had ‘anxiety disorder’ and ‘panic attacks’.
I coasted; Dole, donating blood, doing odd job… get into University again, found friends, found a girl, things looked up.
Then she shut me down and got together with my buddy.
Destroyed me.
“Psychic Decompensation”.
For three days i was acutely suicidely and as depressed as i’ll ever be.
My dad pulled me out.
Got therapy.
Left university… without final exam.
Got more therapy.
Got an apprenticeship.
Somehow made it through.
Had more therapy.
Passed my exam dosed up with lorazepam.
Had more therapy.
Hopefully my life will start soon.
Nah, kidding.
I think finally my life is looking up.
My big sister physically abused me when I was a kid. She’d force me to play “school” and when I refused she’d beat my head into the concrete floor of the basement. I never fought back because I was taught not to hit a woman. I developed schizophrenia just a few years later. That was twenty years ago and I still have it to this day. Now she’s married, rich and successful and I have nothing. Dependent on disability payments and I’m so afraid that when it all goes to shit I’ll have no backup plan, no safety net. I hear voices telling me to kill myself and I think about doing it every day. I get paranoid just from reading the news and I keep waiting for everything to go to hell and it never quite seems to happen. I’ve tried everything to make myself happy: therapy, pills, sex, religion, etc. Nothing has worked. I keep living because I’m expected to be a man and just take it. Such is life.
My religious mother was very damaged, to the point where she was violent. I’d get viciously slapped across the face for asking questions she couldn’t answer. After 14 long years (some of which were suicidal), I eventually ran away. In spite of all the physical and emotional abuse (or perhaps because of it), I still idolised women, placing them on a pedestal.
One day at school, this popular girl cornered me and asked me out. I was frozen, with horror. The thought of hooking up with her was just…terrifying. I said nothing, but no doubt the horror was plastered all over my face. Eventually, she got the (wrong) idea. For the next two years of high school, she (and her friends) bullied me mercilessly. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned…
When I was 25, I was having some drinks with my flatmate, his girlfriend and her (very obese) female friend. When it was time to leave for a club, I felt very queasy and couldn’t go. I had to lie down. My flatmate and his girlfriend left, but the very obese girl remained. I woke up to find her on top of me, raping me. I was very dizzy and weak, too weak to move her off. When my flatmate returned, I told him but he just laughed; in fact, everyone I’ve ever told has just laughed. Raping men is funny, in our Society.
I have actually started my own blog dealing with childhood and sexual abuse. I am a survivor. This blog covers my mental and emotional health struggles on my journey to healing and hopefully some sort of understanding. If links are not allowed my sincere apologies are in order…I live your blog anyway…lol
Thank you.
chrisjdrury.wordpress.com
Female teachers are praised when they have sex with minor students.
Female teachers come to class with the most revealing clothing.
Female teachers entice male students to touch her private parts, kiss her body parts and perform oral sex.
But when female teacher gets caught, she sends you to the Principal’s office and accuses you of sexually harassing her though she purposely wore a bikini for English class to entice her male students.
The Principal shames you, a young boy, under the age of 10, and “teaches” you that you shouldn’t objectify your teacher, and that she could call the police on you.
Decades later, the Red Haired feminist and her naked thugs accuse every male of being a potential rapist who objectifies women, and suddenly you start remembering that day when your female teacher came to class in the skimpiest clothing, telling you to kiss and touch her, while falsely accusing you of sexual assault to the Principal.
When you complain the school board takes the side of the female teacher, who is now protected by seniority and tenure. The female teacher sends her friends from the Ontario Provincial Police to harass you and your family that you had to sell your house and leave the town and move to another province.
It’s terrible. Like the troubles that one faced as a child has resurfaced in adulthood, thanks to feminism. I wonder if feminism is actually pedophilia?
If you have a son, you better make sure that he doesn’t suffer under man-hating pedophile teachers who side with school bullies and accuse minor students of sexual objectification while she is dressed like a thot in a school.
It’s been 20 years, and the duckery that happened long ago has contributed to lots of mental illness. Your mind can forget the abuse, but your body doesn’t. Abuse from feminists on young boys affect the victims like a cancer. Most boys overcome bullying, teasing and fights as a right of passage, but when you get feminist teachers punishing the victims for standing up, and feminist teachers abusing the boys just like the bullies, albeit a sexual and emotional way, this creates a future s-storm.
Imagine being a victim of a pedophile teacher, and being told by cops that it’s legal for female teachers to strip naked inside a classroom of minor students…YET…If the female teacher feels uncomfortable police are called to warn the students of sexual harassment. This is Canada for you!
There was evidence that Michael Jackson was not only physically and emotionally abused by his father, but a woman molested him during the pre-teen years. His constant obsession with looking like a European-American woman (though he is mainly African-American) does not fit the category of the “father as abuser”.
Michael Jackson looked and acted like a white woman, maybe he is emulating his sexual abuser? Did his father chemically castrate him not because to make him sound like a boy in adulthood, but also to punish MJ for being a victim of sexual abuse by a woman of privilege?
The point is that even though MJ was a victim of abuse in his early childhood, once the word was out that there was a likelihood a woman sexually abused him, the media went into a frenzy to label him as a paedophile. Why is it that only men are considered abusers, but American women are not?
To that American woman who raped MJ when he was barely 13: I hope you rot in hell!
Using feminist theory, a man who was sexually abused by a female teacher or caregiver in his boyhood should murder his rapist. Just like how women are encouraged to murder their abusive husbands with protection from the battered wife laws.
Many female teachers in Canada molest male students. There should be more Columbines and Sandy Hooks up there.