Date: Thu, 19 Oct 2000 20:15:13 EDT
From: Ritch Christopher <ballmusic69@hotmail.com>
Subject: That-Was-Then-5

Title: "That Was Then, But This?" part 5.
Subtitle: "Mark--The Early Years.
Date: October 19, 2000
Contact: Ritch Christopher at ballmusic69@hotmail.com

I had so much e-mail response to "That Was Then", people asked me to
write "more" of the story. So with your indulgence I will start at the
"very beginning, a very good place to start".


This is a gay youth story containing explicit language and graphic sex.
If you are under 18 or offended by such, please exit now.


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THE EARLY, EARLY YEARS:


    You can say I'm crazy, but I can recall being a baby. We were too
poor to have a baby bed. I was sometimes laid in a wooden tomato
basket, you know, the kind with the curved handle that you get at the
farmer's market? I was cramped and didn't quite fit. My head would get
sore from the soft wooden outer rim. I had to be a baby to remember
this. How else would I have known about the snugness of this make-shift
crib?

    My mother was 16 when she quit high school to run off to Memphis
and marry my dad, who was 11 years older than she. They were both wild
for their years My dad was a great dancer and was popular with all the
girls. My mother thought she had won the prize off the top shelf, when
she was the "lucky" one to marry him. She lived in a two bedroom old,
A-frame, with a brother, two years younger, a sister, four years
younger and her mother and father.

    Her mother wound bobbins in a hosiery mill and her father washed
produce in a small grocery store. There wasn't much money, but they
were all happy. If you never had anything, you never missed what you
didn't have. Mother was smart...should have finished high school, but
when she had the chance to make the break with my dad who was making
good money at an oil refinery in Memphis. He set one ground rule for
her before he married her...absolutely, NO CHILDREN. She didn't want
any either, so the terms were accepted.

    They frolicked in marital bliss for four years, before my mother
missed her period. Doug, my father, had a quick temper, and had been
known to "knock" people around. I'm told when he found out my mother
was pregnant, he beat her in the face, in a rage. So she went back to
Atlanta, to live with her mom and dad, until I was born. She was now 20
years old, still liked to party, and thought if and when she had her
baby, she could dump him off with her parents and go back to the good
times with  Doug. But something happened, as is so typical in
lower-class Southern families. Mother got religion, or rather, she had
found God. When I was born, so I'm told, she laid me on the altar of
the Baptist church and dedicated my life to God's service, thanking
HIM, for letting me be born healthy and normal.
    The magnetism she felt from Doug, was greater than the allure of
the Almighty, because, sure enough, she left me with her mom and dad to
return to Memphis. My grandparents soon became my parents until I was
three years old. My grandmother loved to sew. She would take orders for
dresses from the neighbors, to make extra money. She would design
aprons and pinafores to sell at the local thrift shop. And with the
remnants of material, she would make little girls' clothes and would
some time dress me in a pinafore. She even bought a pair of little Mary
Jane black shoes, with a buckled strap, and to complete my ensemble,
little yellow and pink rayon panties. Not only was I the only grandson,
I was fast becoming the only granddaughter.

    When mother came home, she wasn't at all shocked. She thought I
looked adorable in my Shirley Temple outfits. I mean, no harm could
possibly being done, because I was living my life for God.

    My grandmother would play hymns, by ear, on the old Story & Clark
upright piano. My aunt, who wanted to be an opera singer, would sing
popular songs to me. The first song she taught me to sing, at the age
of two was, "Iddy Biddy Fishes" and later I would sing, "Boos in the
Night, Mama". I could even pick the tune out on the piano with one
finger. By age three, I could play "chords". It was then, that it was
decided I should take piano lessons from Mrs. Gaither, the preacher's
wife, for fifty cents for a half hour. So I took my first lesson when I
was three. By the time I was six, I was playing Chopin Etudes. Yes,
God's Favorite was a musical child prodigy.

    With all my sense of recall, I don't remember ever seeing my dad
until I was five years old. I could feel he didn't like me. I remember
on his first visit, not knowing anything about kids, especially his
own, he took me down to the Western Auto Store toy department and bough
t
me a wind-up toy...a small metal upright piano with L'il Abner moving
as if he were playing it. Daisy Mae would dance. And Mammy and Pappy
Yokum would sway side to side sitting on top of the upright.

    We brought the toy home and I was sitting on the sidewalk with my
wondrous gift. My mother, her sister and her boyfriend had on bathing
suits and had turned the old garden hose on, to have a water fight. I,
was sprayed by the hose accidentally and had to be taken inside
immediately for dry clothes. After all, what would the neighbors think
of my sitting outside in wet clothing. All dry now, I returned outside
to play with my mechanical "L'il Abner". I turned the key, round and
round, until I heard "click". It broke. I had wound it too tight! I
started crying. At about the same time, Doug came toward me and asked.
"What's wrong?"

    He picked up the toy to examine it. He knew it was broken and I had
committed something unforgivable.

    "You careless little bastard", he yelled.

    With one svelte-swoop, he swung and slapped me hard, across the
right cheek of my face. I had never even been punished before, let
alone, spanked. My mother screamed at him, while at the same time, my
grandparents rushed out of the house to scoop me up and run to safety.

    "Doug, what are you doing? He's just a child, a five-year old
child!" she hollered.

     He turned around quickly, to face her, back-handing her across the
face. A battle erupted. They were all screaming and fighting. I sat on
the top concrete step in disbelief. It almost made me forget the fiery
sting I was feeling from his slap. This was the first time I was ever
hit by my dad. E Pluribus Unum...it was the first on many I would get
from him until I was fifteen years old. I had no idea, what life had in
store for me.

    I could enumerate the beatings. One each Sunday...EVERY Sunday,
never, really understanding the reasons. When his mother, my Jehovah's
Witness, "Watchtower", toting grandmother, whom I think, never bathed,
would come by for a visit, it was always, "Come on, Mark, play your new
piece on the piano for grandma." I shrunk. He was trying to "show me
off"? The son, he resented, and loved to take his violence upon??

    On Sundays, he would sit me on the piano bench, not facing the
upright, and say, "Now, just sit there!". For what? I didn't know. I
would look at him in a puzzled, little face, not saying a word. Then, he
would turn and shout, "Don't sass me!!"

    "I didn't sass you, daddy, I haven't said a word."
    On that he would say, "All right, that does it!!", and began to
remover the belt from his trousers. The blows were sharp and swift,
striking me, all over my body...not just my buttocks, but the arms,
face, head...everywhere. I knew what would follow...I would be rescued
by my mother, aunt, or grandparents. There would be a big war...scream
ing, shouting, hitting. I remember his rage was so great, one time in
the middle of a battle, he reached for the fire poker leaning up against
the grate, and was going to kill my grandfather. I, also, remember when
threw a softball and hit me in the face. And then, the Sunday, when he
kicked me across the room, landing underneath the dining room table,
resulting in a kidney infection and a coma, I would lie in for six weeks
. At least, I wouldn't be beaten in a deep sleep, I presume, I never kne
w. Sometimes, the police would come, but charges were never filed. My
mother didn't want to lose her "prince".

    In spite of this "wonderful" home life. My escape was my music, my
school, and my 12 year old cousin, Teddy, who lived two streets, over.
Teddy, taught me how to play "Army", "Doctor", and finally, "Army Doctor
".

    He had an old canvas tent, pitched in his back yard, where we
would play. He was usually the one who got "shot" and I was the doctor
to "take out the bullet" and perform "surgery". That meant, he would hav
e to take off all his clothes to deter "infection". He loved getting nak
ed in front of me. He had over-matured for a 12-year old. He had a mass
of chest hair and a big black bush, embracing an almost 6 inch erection.

    "Where did they get you?"

    Always in the same place...

    "In the stomach, just below the navel. You better operate, quick!"

    I would dig into the doctor bag and retrieve the necessary,
"bullet-moving" implements and bandages....Lots and lots of guaze and
bandages.

    His cock was big and lying across his belly.

    "you'll have to move that, to get to the wound", he moaned.

    I would take a minimum number of fingers to touch and move it. I kne
w that God's Favorite would be punished for this sin, he was about to
commit. I would put two fingers around his excited pee-pee and it would
jump out of my hand. I didn't know they could move by themselves. Every
time I would slide it over to get to the "gunshot", it would plop back o
ver, in the original position. The more I moved it, the harder it got.
I was eight, he was almost thirteen. I didn't know what I was doing. Ted
dy's was the only penis, I had ever really seen. I had seen my grandfath
er peeing, from time to time, but then, that's what they were there, for
, to pee with. But Teddy's was different. It was magical and could do tr
icks. It could stand straight up, jump, move from side to side, all by
itself.

    "Go ahead, play with it. I do."

    "No, my mother will get mad, it I do."

    "No, she won't. Here, let me show you what to do."

    With that, he reached down, grabbed it in one hand and began, and
up and down motion. It was hot in the tent and he had sweat pouring out
of all pores of his body. He continued until I heard, "Watch!". He had
started to pee on his stomach, not yellow, but white...and the pee was
thick. It landed in little splotches all over his chest and belly.

    "Gosh, what did you just do?"

    I had to get the poisonous infection out of my body, before the bull
et killed me.

    "Boy, you sure know how to play for real. I could never do that."
That was the only time he ever came in our play sessions. I would never
go that far again. I mean, what would my mother say, if she knew? Was th
is a sin? Would God punish me? I would file this deep in my memory bank
and forget about it until I experienced my first orgasm six years later.
By then, I was so thrilled by my "private" moment, I didn't even remembe
r what Teddy had showed me, years before.

    Then when I was 10, there was Danny, a thirteen year old "hero" of m
ine, who lived across the street from me. He loved to play with toy cars
and used his whole side yard for a thoroughfare. He had pulled up grass
and made tiny highways to turn and twist for miles and miles. By 13, Dan
ny was now interested in girls. He had strange things happening to his
body. His penis would now get erect, and he too, liked to show me what
he was hiding under his white, Fruit-of-the-Loom briefs. One day, he was
giving me an exhibition, he reached over and pulled down my shorts and
briefs and walked me into a corner and pressed his hard-on into my tiny
crotch. He would grind and grind until I would get my tiny erection, I
always got in the movie houses, looking at John Derek, or Sabu.
He pulled me close, still pressing and writhing and said, "Gosh, it you
were only a girl."

    I thought about that a lot, for a long, long, time. I recalled the
ruffled pinafores and rayon panties, I, at one time, had been forced to
wear."If I were only a girl"? Why did this strike me? Why had this, an
experience with a 13-year-old BOY, feel so good. Why did the pretty men
in the movies get my tiny penis hard? Someday, this pieces of this puzzl
e will all fit together, but not now.

   I went through grammar school with straight A's. My, grandfather, who
m I loved more than life, died from leukemia (whatever that was) when I
was eight. This left a void of men in my life. I couldn't look up to Dou
g, the monster, for a male role model, and Andy, mother's brother had jo
ined the army, making his "escape" and was stationed somewhere,
"over there" in Germany. I assumed that that was one the other side of
McClellan's Ridge. My piano studies were going great! I had auditioned
with the symphony and won first place and the opportunity to play,
Gershwin's, "Rhapsody In Blue" with full orchestra, when I was 14, my
last year in junior high school. I was invited to study with the great,
Marie Barnard Ward, at the Conservatory, since I now had surpassed all
that Mrs. Gaither could teach me.

    Studying with Ms. Ward was a tremendous honor, but beyond that, the
student who had the lesson in front of me was the most beautiful guy I
had ever seen. His name was Jeff. He was three years older, and almost
played piano as well as I. Later, I will tell you how Jeff introduced me
to jazz and to a not-to-be-believed, love affair.

    Lance had become my life, by the time we graduated from junior high.
He was always the one I could run to, to get away from my over-loving
mother and my dad, who had continued his beatings throughout the years.
I had never told anyone about the conditions at home, not even Lance.
No one outside my family knew. My Aunt Sue, mother's sister, had continu
ed her music and was now studying opera, also at the conservatory. She h
ad helped me out with "extra" money and have hidden me several times, so
that Doug couldn't find me. I made straight A's through junior high, win
ning top honors in scholastics and music. I managed to survive gym class
, coming up with the greatest lies why I couldn't or shouldn't take a
shower with the boys. However, I did want to see Walter Briggs, naked...
and David Crabtree, Jerry Duke,...all of them I guess.

    But no, my thoughts always returned to my best friend since the firs
t grade, Lance, which brings up to the point where this story stared in
Part one.


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    Jumping forward, after the high school trauma with Lance. I spent mo
re and more time with Dan Halpern, my TV star and his friends, but I was
about to get to know Jeff.

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(to be continued)