Last updated on 2016-04-29
Since the dawn-of–time, and, pretty much since I started doing this website in 2003, I’ve kept much of my personal view(s) and perspectives on life better guarded than the Bank of England. Now, at 21, some of those perspectives are coming to light after recent admissions from others online that they knew some of those secrets and were prepared to tell the world whether I liked it or not.
In 2003, I met the only man who wasn’t my own color. His name was Taylor Wallis, and to this day, I have only ever been entangled with one other gentlemen who wasn’t my skin color. Both gentlemen gave me many memories, and often, many good ones. But beyond those two gentlemen, I, have consistently and always veered from becoming entangled with someone similar to who they are: white men.
Here’s why.
While my first love, and my second love, were both interracial relationships — I was never able to look at a white gentlemen the same after a series of events that occurred when this newspaper first took flight into a publication. In 2006, I, was sexually assaulted by a man named Anthony — who had approached me while leaving my childhood best friend’s residence. Anthony a white man had already knew who I was, because of the fact by this time in my life — my photo; name, and my life had been broadcast across the world because of this newspaper.
I’ll never forget what he had said to me.
“Man, I’ve seen you online. I don’t care how old you are, I’m going to show you who your daddy is”. That was the first time another male had ever said such a remark to me. I reflected, and attempted to leave the vicinity essentially turning down his what I later would understand as I got older was a sexual advance. He, did not take lightly being rejected and proceeded to follow me down the street. Three blocks from my school, I live with this nightmare everyday, I was sexually molested by Anthony who forced me to perform oral sex on him in a slightly covered area of the park. I fought to get away, but, was never the strong kid. I was skinny; small, and not one for confrontation. I cried never I had cried so many tears — it hurt — i wanted it to stop. He forced me to take off my pants and lay down, telling me, how skinny and being young made him “so aroused”.
It didn’t matter how many times I had told this man to stop, he, didn’t care. I remember laying there; in tears, wishing I could scream for my mom. But I couldn’t. Pulling my hair; the vicious sexually-charged comments, and the you-have-no-choice but to receive my “load” in your ass — I had to admit to myself: I was being raped and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it.
I remember when it was over. He attempted to follow me out of the park, but, I ran for the street. I ran as fast as I could and to the nearest street corner I could find. I was free, I was in tears, I was a victim. It was something I couldn’t change, and, it was something I have never spoken of — even to this day. At 11, I was secretly closeted and nobody knew I had liked boys to begin with. I knew I couldn’t say anything, because, I was scared that at the time I would be outed — and eventually told I “must have liked it”.
I kept it to myself for years, several years, until one of the last times I would see my mom (until I got much older and post being taken against my will). On 23 May, while living with a dear friend of the family at the time (who I will only identify as R.S) I kept largely to myself. I was in school, and often studying.
I’d like to note here that I hold this against myself for being young and naive. In what was suppose to be an innocent “Get Help With Homework” turned out to be something entirely different — and only the 3rd worst living nightmare I’ve ever experienced.
I’ll always remember TheGyc.com. (The Gay Youth Corner). A popular website I had used as a kid, and often, got help with my homework visiting the site. It was something of the norm for me, and had been for years. Before I came out of the closet, I, had often turned to TheGYC for comfort. But on 23 May, comfort became a nightmare and it would be the last one I ever experienced at the hands of a white man.
His name was Bryan King. Who, had claimed in online messages that he would help me with my homework and didn’t mind doing so. I told him out of concern that I didn’t think it was safe to meet at my house, and, that I would meet him at my school two days from the date of those messages. Little did I know, Bryan had already found my address online (how, I still to this day am not quite sure) and managed to show up at my house unannounced demanding to be let in. On that night, I received a total of two messages telling me he was outside — in a white older Honda — and was not leaving until he was let in the house.
Out of fear, I roamed downstairs to see if he really was there. He, was already waiting at the door that led into the home through the bottom entryway. He, told me that there were “other” things he came to “help me” with and I would find out once I took him upstairs. Everybody that night, was busy doing their own thing, which was how Bryan managed to sneak past the fence and bushes and remain unseen coming to the backdoor. For my own safety, I took him upstairs, but not without intentionally leaving the bedroom door cracked — where – I had usually hung out anyway. Attempting to pull out math homework, Bryan, told me that was not what he had came for and proceeded to remove his pants exposing his genitals.
He told me if I made any noise, that, he would make me regret it. Something I had never heard before, and, didn’t hear the first time I had been raped. I wasn’t compliant, he, again, had to force me. I wanted to scream for my mother’s boyfriend who was no less than 20 feet away in the room across the hall — with a fan on — and what sounded like the television. As many times as I tapped on the wall, and, tried to make noise against the wall — nobody had ever came. 20 feet from help, I, was once again helpless at the hands of a white man. A white man who so vicariously forced his genitals into my rectum, that, I had bled for almost a week. The door cracked; helpless, to scared to say anything — I had once again been raped. A burden that I carry with me to this very day, and, I remember it anytime I am approached by someone who doesn’t look like me.
When I am approached by someone who doesn’t look like me, I’m fine for about 10 minutes, until a sexual comment is made or my mind realizes that at some point or another “sex” is a part of the conversation if it goes there. I turn away; I run, I run for the hills. I am viciously and horrifyingly terrified of letting a man who doesn’t look like me — anywhere near me. I’ve been called a racist; anti-white, and many other names — but — I’m so much more than that. I am a victim that never received help, and because of such, it manifested into one of the biggest struggles I suffer with in modern day.
These events were something I’ve largely kept to myself and were taken to the grave by my first love. I shared them only with him, and, that was what made us close. He passed away knowing I had suffered, and, there wasn’t much we could do about it.
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