Date: Fri, 22 Feb 2008 07:32:56 -0800 (PST) From: Jonathan Carter <jonathanclassof99@yahoo.com> Subject: Making The Boi Preface: This story is true except the name of my doctor has been changed slightly, as have the names of my classmates. If descriptions of male sexuality bother you or offends you, please read no further. You can contact through myspace: jonathanclassof99 This story is the latest in a series about my sexual struggles as I have grown. Before reading this story, readers may be interested in first reading the other stories I have written in order: the first about a relationship I had my senior year in high school. It may be read at any nifty.org site: /nifty/gay/camping/bobby-big-and-tight/ and then read a story about my Freshman year in college at /nifty/gay/college/starved-for-attention and then a story about my experience with a street hustler /nifty/gay/encounters/street-boi and a story about my visiting an online friend /nifty/gay/encounters/doing-paul and the first part of this story at /nifty/gay/college/temptation-boy I also have one story where I tried my hand at writing fiction /nifty/gay/incest/soul-food Making The Boi There is a large manila envelope in a duffle bag on the floor of my bedroom closet in my parent's house. It's been opened and closed so often that the clasp has broken off on one side and now it is left to just a single prong to hold its secrets inside. The papers within have my name on them; medical forms, hand written notes, and journal entries are all that is contained inside. At least once a year, I dig out this envelope and read through the fifty or so pages to help me remember where I came from. This time, however, I'm reading the papers for a different purpose: to help me tell my story. I feel greatly troubled now and I fear these feelings threaten my future. So now I must look back into the past for direction forward. My eyes fill with tears as I read about this boy who used to be me --- I was 14 years old and in the Ninth grade; the last of three grades at my junior high school. I had done most of my growing the previous year and so was now one of the tallest kids in my class. Most of them would catch up in later years, but for now I was fortunate to be tall and strong in a school filled with younger, smaller students. I had no sexual experience to speak of, except for some kissing and petting with a few girls I went to dances with. So by all accounts I was normal - with a loving dad and doting mom, good grades and many friends. --- I. It is the beginning of December 1996 and I'm in gym class playing floor hockey on a basketball court. I am standing on the side waiting for my turn to re-enter the game when I see Russ Federico running down the court toward the opposing team's net. As he passes me, I swing my hockey stick across Russ' face, catching him right above the eyes. The stick opens a slit along his forehead about five inches long and drops Russ to the floor. The gymnasium goes silent. Everyone is staring at me. Not a person moves or speaks, not even the gym teacher, Mr. Dorman. Not a sound, that is, until Russ starts screaming out in pain. I am now in the Vice Principal's office answering the same question over and over "Why?". My answer is simple. I tell them that two weeks before, I had seen Russ Federico 'dumping' the books of some seventh grade kid and calling him a "pussy". I thought it unfair that Russ could do something like that and not get in trouble for it. I tell them that is why I hit him. I am suspended from school for three days. II. That night I have the same dream that I've had for months: I am at school inside the boy's bathroom. There is nobody else there. I go to the urinal to piss. While I am in front of the urinal Russ appears next to me like he is using the urinal too. I take out my dick to pee and it is much bigger than it is in real life. It is not hard, but just much bigger. Russ reaches over and holds onto my dick for a while and strokes it a few times. I don't pull back. Then I wake up. I did not cum. Within a week, I am having a new dream: I am at the town pool and it's summer but I am the only one there. I jump in the pool and my gym teacher Mr. Dorman appears in the pool, too, but we don't say anything. I swim to the shallow end to where the steps and there are two guys from school sitting on the steps and they are naked. It is Russ Federico and a kid named Brian Ascott. It seems like they had just been kissing but I did not see them kissing. I was then naked too and I walked up the steps and my prick was now out of the water. One of the boys, Brian, started sucking on my cock and the Russ stroked his own dick. I awake just as I started to cum in the dream. The inside of my boxers are wet with cum and I must get out of bed to change. III. It is the middle of February, just after Valentine's Day and I'm walking down the hallway. I see the eighth grader from my dream, Brian Ascott. He is walking toward me with some of his friends. I recall his face, walk up to him and I punch him hard in the face. He falls and my punches go down with him. I hit him in the face three or four times before his friends drag me off him. My fists are still flying so none of them want to go toe-to-toe with me, so instead, they all scream for teachers. I see lots of blood - some from this kid's mouth and some from my own hand where his teeth have opened a good size gash. I can see the bone of one of my knuckles This time, things are more serious. My dad is convincing the Principal not to call the cops and arrest me for assault. My parents sit in the school office with about four other administrators and counselors all asking me what the hell happened. I tell them a lie. I say that about a week before, I had overheard this Brian Ascott talking about a ninth grade girl named Chloe and that Brian had been saying some things about her and calling her a "whore". I tell my parents and the administrators that I had thought that something should be done about what Brian had said. They simply sit and stare. The problem for me (besides the four stitches I need to close the cut on my hand) is that I have knocked out two of the kid's teeth - one of his big front teeth and one of the smaller one's next to it. Brian's father wants to sue my family. With help from a lawyer, I avoid arrest and a lawsuit. I end up with a five day suspension, banned from the spring track team, mandated therapy/counseling, and my dad pays well over three grand to fix the kid's mouth. My family is humiliated. IV. Monday, March 4, 1996 I'm walking up a to a second floor office in a converted Victorian home for my first mandated counseling session. The school system is paying for it with some violence prevention grant money they got from the state. The office smells musty and old, like the home of an elderly couple who have lived there for ages. It is 6:30 pm and I will have these psychoanalysis sessions twice a week, Mondays and Thursdays, for 50 minutes at a time until the end of spring. I open the door to the office and step into a room that is more like a study or a library than it is a doctor's office. Books line the walls on wooden shelves and the chairs and sofas are covered with leather. My analyst introduces herself as Rebecca Goldmann and claims to have a PhD from Columbia and is a certified psychoanalyst. She is probably in her early thirties. I sit and she is tells me that psychoanalysis is based on the teaching of Sigmund Freud - it is the first time I recall ever hearing his name. She wants me to know that every psychoanalyst approaches the matter of treatment in their own unique way - that no two psychoanalysts were the same and that the experiences of no two patients would be the same. I am bored by the lecture and begin to think about what is on TV that night. She continues her talk but catches my attention when she insists that I call her Rebecca and not Dr. Goldmann. I also find it interesting that she compares my therapy to basic training with the Marines. Breaking me down into pieces to build me up better, she says. Rebecca says that we will work together to identify my unconscious thoughts, bring these unconscious thoughts to the conscious level, and then meld those thoughts into a moral and social structure that would allow me to operate within societal norms - curing me of my hostility that can lead me to violent outbursts. Rebecca says she will use a combination of dialogue, hypnotherapy and dream analysis. I will keep track of my thoughts and dreams in a journal and we will discuss them while I'm in a relaxed state of light hypnosis. Kidding her, I say it sounds like fun. And she is pleased. She places a bound book filled with empty white pages into my hand. "Your journal," she says. "Write what you think about during your days. Write about dreams you have had or are having; recurring dreams or dreams that you have had in the past that seem especially vivid or out of place. Don't worry about not remembering everything, the details will be revealed in our discussions." Time is up and my mother is probably waiting downstairs in the car. I stand to leave and Rebecca leaves me with one thought, "Jonathan, I've worked with a number of young men your age and the process goes more smoothly and more quickly if you can be honest with me. I'm very good with people, I'll know if you are holding back, so let's cooperate with each other, okay? I'm sure you'll be glad when you don't have to come here anymore." "Okay." "I'll see you Wednesday." --- Wednesday, March 6, 1996 Again, I walk up the dark steps to the office, this time with a book in my hand. Rebecca greets me at the door and takes the book from me. She asks me about my family, about growing up, my experience with dating and friends, and about the violent incidents at school. I recall these in a matter-of-fact tone, relieved that her questions are so easily answered. She looks at my journal and seems displeased. She asks, "Are these all the dreams you recall?" "Yeah, I wrote down the ones I could remember." I lied. "I see dreams about school, dreams about driving a car, being on vacation. They appear all to be quite pleasant." "Yes." "No unpleasant dreams?" "No." I lied again. "I notice that your dreams are completely without any sexual situations." It is our second session and it is the first time sex is mentioned. "Jonathan, it is perfectly normal for someone your age to have dreams related to sex. In fact, it might be worrisome for a boy your age not to have such dreams. What is very important for us both is for you to overcome any shyness about this topic with me. But don't feel bad, I have this problem with all my patients at first. Boys your age, especially, don't like to talk truthfully about your sexual thoughts. Not even to your friends. You may talk 'about' sex with friends, but you don't talk about your sexual thoughts and feelings. Am I right? Well, let's form a partnership, okay? You promise to be honest with me and we can get these sessions over more quickly. But that means you have to tell me things that you don't tell your friends or things that you don't like to admit to thinking about yourself. That is how we are going to tap into your unconscious and that is how we are going to prevent you from having to come here every week during the summer." I feel scared. I never thought this therapy could continue on long enough to ruin my summer, but she just played her trump card. She knew it and I knew it. I am now paying close attention. Rebecca continues, "Let me tell you a secret. Part of becoming a psychoanalyst involves going through psychoanalysis yourself. What you are going through now, I had to do it about ten years ago. The first dream I had to tell my therapist, a sixty year old man, by the way, was this: I dreamt that I wet my pants on the way to a college test and that I had to sit in my own urine for the rest of test and when the test was almost over, a female teacher came from the front of the room and started to kiss me and as she kissed me I start to urinate in my pants even more. Believe me, it was really, really hard for me to tell him that story. I was embarrassed, but I knew that if I could just get telling him that first difficult dream, that it would get easier after that." I laugh, "That's a really weird dream." "The worst part was waiting for my analyst to tell me what the dream meant. I held my breath after I told him the dream and I actually put my head in my hands and started to cry because I was so ashamed of my dream. Do you know what his analysis was?" I tried to sound smart so I answer her, "It was probably something about being afraid to take a test and thinking your teach was a lesbian or something." "As I cried, my analyst said that he thought the dream meant that I drank too much water before going to bed. There I was, so afraid that he'd say I was a lesbian with a diaper problem that I held back that dream for weeks and weeks, delaying therapy, preventing progress because I was afraid what HE would think of me if I told him the dream. And low and behold, he thought it wasn't such a big deal after all. So, Jonathan, you are a strong young man. Do you think you are braver than me?" "I'd like to think so." "Then prove it," and hands me back my journal. --- Monday, March 11, 1996 My hand trembles just a bit as I give my journal to Rebecca. She opens my journal and asks me to close my eyes as I lie on the couch to begin hypnotherapy. She is explaining something about hypnosis and begins a monotone mantra that ends with me counting numbers and relaxing parts of my body. My limbs are now weightless and my mind whirls slowly behind my eyes. Rebecca reads aloud the entry in my journal about my dream of using the urinal next to Russ Federico. Rebecca asks, "Isn't Russ, the boy you hit with a hockey stick". "Yes." "Did you have dreams like this about Russ before the hockey stick incident?" "I think so." "Now, Jonathan, think about the next series of questions before you answer them, ok? Don't get nervous about answering it. You are doing fine so far. What we want to get at today is your view of yourself. Your self-image. If we make progress in understanding your self-image, we will make able to move along with the rest of this process more quickly. Make sense?" "Yes," I respond. "Now, Jonathan, when you compare yourself to other male students at school in the shower, or after gym, do you have any worries or concerns about the size of your penis?" I bite my lower lip and don't want to answer, but he silence is worse than the question. The thought of spending my summer doing this is even worse. I respond to her, "Umm, No. I don't think so." "Let's put it another way. Do you think that most boys in your class have a larger or smaller penis size than you?" "Umm, probably more guys have smaller." "Good, Jon. Thank you for answering that. Now another question. Do you think a girl in your class, if she saw you naked, would think you had a small penis? Do you think she would be disappointed in the size of your penis?" "No." "Have you ever had dreams with naked people in them?" "Yes" "Have you had dreams with just naked girls or have their ever been naked boys in your dreams?" "Umm. Probably both." "Would you say it bothers you a little, some, or a lot that there are sometimes naked boys in your dreams." "A lot," I say quickly. "Okay, Jonathan, I'm going to bring you back out and when you feel more grounded, you can sit up on the couch." And she counted backwards again for a bit until I sit up. Rebecca said, "Well, that wasn't too bad was it?" and she laughed. "No, I guess not." And I laughed a little, too. "You'll be happy to know that you are a very normal young man and I really think I'm going to be able to help you." After talking some more, I go home in relief that I am normal and that I might dispense with these sessions soon. ---- Wednesday, March 13, 1996 "Jonathan, regarding some of your dreams why do you think it is that you sometimes have naked boys in your dreams?" "I don't know." "Really? You don't even want to guess?" "No." "Jonathan, why does the question bother you so much?" "It doesn't." "Because you sound like you are bothered." "Maybe it's because I know what you're trying to do," I say. "You want me to say I might be gay." "Jonathan, I don't 'want' you to say anything. Remember my dream? Am I lesbian diaper wearer because I dreamt what I dreamt? Of course, not. And you're not gay just because objects of your sexual attention may be another male in a dream or two, okay? We know that sexual urges are pretty much undifferentiated when we are very young. Everything is a sexual object to a teen boy, for heaven's sake. As we grow, we gravitate toward certain people - male or female - as the primary focus of our sexual interest. For most of us, it is attention toward the opposite sex, for others it is toward an object or style - the beginnings of a fetish attraction. For others it may be toward others of the same sex. That is how it plays out in human beings. Dreams can give us insight into what is going on, but it does not determine what is going on. Let's put it this way. One hundred percent of boys have dreams about having sex with other boys. Do you understand that? It is one hundred percent. So over the course of our sessions, I expect to see a number of dreams where males might make up the object of your sexual attention. I would expect to see nothing else." "Okay." "You also wrote about a dream in a pool. Jonathan, who are the boys in the pool dream?" "I don't know, probably kids from my school." I lie because I don't want her to know that the kids are Russ and Brian. "Does it bother you that you had this dream?" "Of course it does. I hate it." "You 'hate' it. That is a really interesting way of phrasing it. Another question, Jonathan; those boys you attacked at school. What do they look like?" "No way, I'm going there. I don't like that question." "Would you say, they are above average or below average in attractiveness?" "What the fuck, I'm not answering that question. I know what you are trying to do. I'm done" "I don't think you are, Jonathan. You are nowhere near done. I'm free all summer, but you won't be if you continue on like this. Are you afraid that you attacked those boys because you were attracted to them?" " That is what YOU think, not me. This is fucking stupid. You are thinking they were the guys in pool dream. This is bullshit. I hit those guys 'cause they were piece of shit bullies. That's why. Not because of your stupid ideas." I stand to leave. "Sit down, Jonathan," Rebecca said sternly. "We still have a half hour." "Not if you keep bringing up all this gay shit. I'll leave and I'll go see someone else. A doctor who doesn't lie about me" "We are not talking about gay or straight here. We are trying to figure out what you are repressing that would make you strike out so violently at people you perceive to have done wrong." I sit down. For the next half hour she speaks about violence in society and I barely listen. --- JOUNRAL ENTRY Saturday, March 16 I'm not writing stuff down any more. END --- JOUNRAL ENTRY Sunday, March 17 I'm not writing stuff down any more. Fuck it. END --- Monday, March 18, 1996 "Well, Jonathan, these journal entries are hardly helpful are they?" "I'm not going to write anything anymore in the journal, I don't want the teachers at school to see it and start screwing up my life." "Nobody will ever see these except us. Understand, these are for us to share." I sit and my eyes mist. Rebecca knows something is going on and asks softly, "Tell me..." "I had the pool dream again." "Well, that is understandable, isn't it? We just talked about it the other day. It was on your mind .That isn't weird, correct? And remember, as I told you, it would be abnormal for you NOT to have such dreams. Your subconscious is probably contemplating this issue, because we are attempting to confronting it." "I really hate them, these dreams. They are not me; they aren't who I am. I shouldn't be having wet dreams about guys. You say it's normal, but it isn't. At least for me, no way is it normal." "Well, Jonathan, the question isn't your opinion on its normalcy, the question is how do the dreams make you feel?" "It makes me feel like shit. Makes me feel queer. I feel like kids at school can see that I had these dreams - that they can see through me and that they're laughing at me." "They have no idea you had these dreams. Besides, they have them too, for goodness sakes! Jonathan, I can see your upset, but tell me, what do you think would make you feel better? You mentioned before that you don't have a girlfriend, is that right?" "Yeah." "Would you feel more like yourself if you had a girlfriend." "Of course, it would." "Why? Do you think being without a girlfriend makes you feel more gay?" "No, but at least I think I'd feel differently about myself. Almost like I'd be showing myself that the dreams were just dreams and that I was a good enough to have a girlfriend. Jeez, everyone else in my grade has probably gotten laid except me." "Do you think having sex with a girl means you're not gay? Do you think having sex would help with your anger?" "I think so, maybe." "If you had sex with a girl, would you feel more straight or less straight?" "More straight." "If you had sex with a girl, do you think the kids at school would be able to 'see through you' and thing that you are a stud or something?" "Maybe, I don't know." "And the guys at school, would they think you more straight if you were having sex with a girl?" "Obviously" Rebecca got up from her chair and sat next to me on the couch. "Here is an important question, Jonathan. How important is it for you to finish up these sessions as quickly as possible?" "Really important." "Is it also important for you to start feeling good about yourself and to not have to worry about silly dreams?" "Yeah." "Jonathan, I'm going to help you so you won't ever have to worry about this stuff again. Okay?" "Okay." Rebecca leans over and kisses me on the lips. I lean back a bit in surprise, my eyes wide open. She leans further in and kisses me again. I lean back even more. "Jonathan, you are a very handsome young man. You should never have a moment of self-doubt about the way you look, or what people think of you." She kisses me again and slides me down sideways until I'm lying on the couch. She looks down at me. She has pretty eyes. She says softly, "Young men need confidence. That is the one thing it's not so easy to learn through therapy. But confidence can be gained through experience." She kisses me and I can feel her weight pressing down on me. "I know you are handsome and I know you are straight and I know you are a good kid, and we'll take all that doubt away." She kissed me some more and I started to slide sideways onto the seat of the couch. She was now looking down at me. She had pretty eyes. "Young men need confidence. That is the one thing it's not so easy to learn through therapy. But confidence can be gained through experience." Again she kissed me and now I could feel the weight of her frame on me. "I know you are handsome and I know you are straight and I know you are a good kid, and we'll take all that doubt away." She starts to grind her hips into mine but my body is rigid in fear. She says, "relax" but it does not help to ease my panic. She is apparently unmoved by my fear as she continues with her slow grind and my cock begins to grow. I can feel it between us and I know that she can feel it to. She says, "mmmmm" in response to the swelling pressure against her crotch and as she kisses me mouth a begin to lose myself into the moment. She presses her tongue against my lips and I open them to let her in. As our tongues swirl, she reaches between us and starts to undo my belt buckle. She is expert at this and with two tugs the belt is undone and she is groping for my zipper. With the front of my pants loosened she, reaches her hand down the my front pants and rubs my fully hard dick. She rubs a bit more and then partially removes her hand to tug down at my pants. I instinctively lift my hips to let the pants move down. She slides off the top of me to my side, still kissing me and begins a slow, smooth hand job. I close my eyes and my breathing becomes heavy and forced and within just a minute I feel the cum welling up behind my balls. I try to hold it back but of course it is no use and start pumping gobs up to the tip of cock and it erupts with a force that no self masturbation could ever have done. My dick keeps pumping and lands up on my shirt near my neck, and then as the spurts become fewer and weaker, the cum splatters lower and lower down my shirt front. She is still stroking me and the last few squirts pool my wad between her fingers. I lay still, afraid to move. "Jon, are you okay," she ask. "Yeah." "Did that feel good." "Yeah." "I'm glad I could do that for you." "Yeah, wow," I was still trying to catch my breath. Quietly she got up from the couch and got some tissues. She scooped up the loads of sperm from my shirt with her fingers and dropped it into the tissue. She used some other tissues to wipe my cock, around my pubic hair and her fingers. "Go ahead, pull your pants up. It pretty much time for your to go. Your mom is probably waiting." I hike up my pants and buckle them. I hang my head low in shame, gather my coat and walk to the door. "Jon, I still need to see you on Wednesday." I look up at her, but her face betrays nothing. -- It is later that night and I am in bed. My penis is rock hard again and I feel like beating off. I take my cock out from behind the slit in my boxers, spit in my hand and I start to stroke my dick. For I while, I see Rebecca in my mind's eye, but after a few moments she is replaced by Russ. -- I fantasize that I'm behind the school in the woods and Russ is kissing me -- I pretend he takes out my dick and strokes it as he puts his tongue in my mouth -- I keep pressing him closer and closer --- and Russ keeps stroking me -- I shoot my load across my belly and onto my bed sheets. I take a few deep breaths and my dick goes soft. I lay there looking at the ceiling and wonder what I'll tell Rebecca on Wednesday. Wednesday, March 20, 1996 I enter Rebecca's office and she locks the door behind me. She comes around to stand in front of me and begins to kiss me on the lips. We stand kissing for over five minutes and my dick is solid against the inside of my pants. She takes my hand and brings me to the couch. Before sitting, she unbuckles my pants and pulls down my shorts and underwear. I step out of them. She has me sit on the couch, t-shirt on, bare ass on the soft leather, my exposed cock standing erect. She kneels down before me and takes my cock head into her mouth and she starts to suck and stroke my dick with her lips and mouth. One of her hands works my balls and she squeezes them every so often and I arch my back a bit in pain. After sucking me for a while, she moves her hand off my balls and starts to rub between the cheeks of my ass. It is a feeling I had never had before. Even when beating off, I never ventured to feel around my ass. Her hand works to spread my cheeks wider apart and her fingers are now brushing up against the small soft hair that have just begun to grow around my hole's entrance. My body tingles with electricity as she pushes one of her fingers inside of me and I start cumming immediately. I tell her I'm about to squirt, but she keeps her mouth around my meat and as my dick keeps pumping cum between her lips, she keeps probing my hole slowly with her finger. When I stop shooting my load, Rebecca asks if I am okay, and I answer "Yes". With that answer, she feels free to continue with me. She has me lie on the floor and she sits on my chest with her pussy up by my face. She spreads her cunt lips just a bit and points to a pink nub toward the top of her slit and says, "lick me here nice and slow." I am terrified. I had not eaten-out a girl before and although I had seen pictures and movies of it, I was unprepared for the experience itself. I was not happy, but did as I was told. I lick her unenthusiastically and awkwardly. She begins to get excited but I'm sure I'm doing it wrong because she grabs me from behind by head and pushes my mouth into her crotch. I'm no longer licking but more than anything, just opening my mouth so she can hump my lips and tongue. I wasn't eating her out anymore. She was fucking my face, masturbating using my mouth and tongue. After a few moments, Rebecca climaxes and her cunt drips ooze on my chin and neck as she remained seated atop my chest panting and out of breath. -- It is later that night. Again I have the urge to beat off. This time I finger my hole as I stroke my dick. The first time of many, many, many jerk off sessions to come where playing with by ass becomes a point of great pleasure. As I stroke, I picture myself lying face down on a bench in the boys locker room, with a couple of cute guys from my class taking turns fingering my ass. Mid- March to Early April, 1996 Each of my next five sessions is identical to the last. A blow job on the couch and eating out Rebecca on the floor. Our sessions have little if any conversation and there is no attempt to discuss my anger issues. Friday, April 12, 1996 I'm home from school and my mother meets me at the door of our home. "Congratulations!", she says. "What for?" "Rebecca called and said your sessions are done and she's called the school to tell them," my mom says. "What?" "Rebecca called the school and said you made some great progress and thinks your outburst were short-term stress related episodes and not a sign of a more problematic personality issue. I called your dad and he's on his way home." I'm lost, "But wait, she didn't 'say any of that on Wednesday. Did she say she needed me to call her?" "Nope, Rebecca says your all done." "But that can't be right," I say. "I think she wanted me to come back. Let me call her." I call her office. But she is in with a client. "Can you let her know Jonathan Carter called? Its really important I talk with her." My mom says, "When your father gets home, let's all go out for dinner!" She is chipper that the family embarrassment of therapy for her son is gone. I, on the other hand, am sick to my stomach and want to throw up. I think I was in love with Rebecca. She never called me back. -------- I stuff my medical reports and therapy notes back into the envelope and recall that for months after Rebecca, I was sad and sick and angry. My heart and stomach hurt relentlessly for days at a time - sleep being my only relief. The rest of my high school experience was strange. I had many girlfriends, lots of hand jobs and pussy petting but I had no inclination to go any further with them. I liked getting a girl to get me off at the movies or in the car or in the closet during a house party, but I had no interest in getting too close to them. More often then not, I would become mean and nasty and uncaring until I forced them to turn away from me and break up. Those break ups never made me feel like Rebecca's break up did. In high school I never thought of myself as queer, but almost all my masturbation fantasies involved guys getting me off. I suppose I pushed all my feelings for cute guys deep down, just as I pushed down my caring for sweet girls. My freshman year in college, I got drunk and told a girl in my dorm (a virtual stranger to me) the entire Rebecca story. Up until that time I had told no one about it and haven't mentioned it since. That girl told me I had been sexually abused and that I should report Rebecca. The next day, I picked up the phone to call the Medical Society in New Jersey to report a potential rape, but didn't have the guts to go through with it. I was too fucked up to deal with more disaster. Instead, I spent my weekends in New York City's gay clubs meeting guys for fun times and easy sex; screwing up each relationship in a new and different way each time and learning to be take advantage of in new and different ways as well. But each year, I take out the manila envelope and read it in hopes that I can glean from it some new found wisdom to set my life straight. I've moved out of New Jersey and am now living and dating a girl I've known since high school, hoping to move on. But I still think of Rebecca and sometimes even pickup the phone, not knowing if I should be calling the police or if I should try calling her ... to say "hi".