My LIfe: In Pieces - 3. And Remember I Love You

And Remember I Love You

I was born in Ontario, in the city of Toronto in the east end. I lived the usual life of a little boy. I loved my mom and dad and my brother. I didn’t want to go to school when I could be out playing baseball with my friends. I liked to watch TV, play games and eat!

I did go to school, and as I grew and got closer to puberty, I found I liked to look at boys and often snuck the Sears catalogue into my room so I could look at the men – especially the underwear models. Oh yeah. The women were interesting too and I liked to look at them both as I rubbed my seemingly always-stimulated dick.

In school I developed a boy-crush on my “he must be gay” teacher. Mr. Cocks (yes, really) was a great guy and my English teacher. I’m about 100% certain he was gay, but he never was anything but a professional. He was a gentle, kind guy and one of the few teachers whose name I remember. I’d dream at night that he’d take me in his arms and kiss me. Nothing ever happened between us, but the thoughts I had made me realize I was at least bisexual, maybe gay because of how I leaned more toward men. I had no clue how to tell my parents or what they might say or do.

My mother Joann was a pretty blond Canadian who fell in love with Peter, my father. He was of Portuguese decent and was hotheaded and unforgiving. Looking back, I know a lot of that anger was from how his dad treated him, and sadly he treated us with the same contempt he’d experienced. In addition to that, he was a bright man stuck in a dull life. He’d never finished high school and said he didn’t believe he could, so he was often frustrated.

His anger and frustration often spilled onto us, and for some reason me especially. My brother Joey was bigger and stronger; he played football in junior high. I think my father knew that Joe wouldn’t be a victim for too long, if ever. So he turned on me.

I was taller and slimmer than Joey, and not as manly in my father’s eyes. I cried at things that touched me, was happy to spend time with my mom in the kitchen. I wasn’t interested in doing sports in school, though I loved to watch baseball and mixed martial arts later in life. But to my father I guess I was a weakling, certainly not a real man. My tears and softness often angered him and he used his belt on me regularly. But it wasn’t punishment, no, he did it to toughen me up and make a ‘man out of me’.

It was September of my 15^th year that my dad got a coveted promotion. He’d worked hard for it and deserved it, and I think it he felt proud they’d given it to him. In spite of everything, I was proud too and was happy for him.

That summer my dad was at his happiest. But school started in September and with it the beginning of the death of my beloved mother. She began losing weight without reason it seemed until we found out she had lung cancer. Cancer tore through her like a starving beast and left her wasted and just alive. I wept often and she’d comfort me and tell me to be her strong boy.

Strong? Me? She saw the look in my eyes and said, “Yes Timmy. Out of the three men in this family, you are the strongest. You just don’t know it yet. Don’t be afraid of who you are, and remember I love you.”

I loved her too. She was my mother, my ally, my best friend. Mum passed away in November, the month before my 15^th birthday. My dad was never the same. And I wouldn’t be either.

We buried my mother and I cried every day for weeks afterward. That was a weakness in my dad’s eyes and he used his belt on me more often in an effort to make me stop, or to ‘give me something to cry about’.

By March the following year, things were calmer and dad was dating. That made me angry. My mum hadn’t been gone for 6 months, but dad couldn’t cope being on his own. Darlene was a nice woman and I tried hard not to blame her for coming into the family and replacing my mom.

Darlene and Dad were happy, and life at home improved. They were happy and they dragged us along with them.

I was a mass of anger and raging hormones now. It was my brother Joe that caught me jacking off to pictures of men. He is older and kind and said to me, “Timmy if you’re a fag, don’t let Pop find out. Cuz he’ll be pissed.”

My dad and Darlene married in June. I swallowed my anger and tried to be happy for them. Darlene knew I was hurting and often hugged me and told me to never forget my mother. She told me she felt lucky to have Joe and me in her life as she wouldn’t have any other children. Partly she was right, I did miss my mom and resented her, but the confusion over my orientation was what was upsetting me. It was eating me up inside.

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Dad got a month off work during summer vacation, and he took the family up to a cottage they’d rented. It was the best summer I’d ever had. Dad and I did so much together; he was happy and Joe and I had never seen him laugh so much, even at himself.

I thought things changed, I thought he felt the same way because he hadn’t hit me once during the summer, and when we got back to Toronto I decided I had to tell them how I was feeling. I was confused and scared and just wanted some help from my folks. It was a Friday night. I asked them if I could talk to them both, and after ten minutes of stammering I said, “I think I’m bisexual.”

Darlene was the first to move. By this time silent tears were running down my face and she left her seat and sat beside me. Her arms were around me and she rocked me and held me close. That memory still brings tears to my eyes.

I glanced at my father who I could tell was furious. He kept saying “You’re a fag. A fucking faggot. In my house, out of my body. Oh my god.” over and over.

Darlene tried to explain on my behalf, but he just told her to shut her pie hole and mind her own goddamned business. I could see Joe sitting on the top step of the staircase; he was crying too, shaking his head.

My father pulled me out of Darlene’s arms. “Come here, you fucking faggot. You. Are. Not. My. Son.” He brought the words home with a nasty jab in the chest after each one.

He hit me then, slaps on both cheeks so hard I saw stars. I could hear Darlene begging him to stop and Joe joined her. He hit both of them as well. Then he shoved me to the staircase, screaming, “Get to your room. Pack your clothes. In ten minutes you’re out of this house for good.”

I crawled up the stairs and went into my room. I was crying and hurt, but I was angry too. I pulled out an equipment bag and shoved in clothes without looking at them. Joe came in and put his hand on my shoulder. “Tim, here let me help. You gotta make sure you take the right –” then he was just bawling. “Tim why did you tell him? I told you what he’d do.”

I shook my head. “Cuz of the summer, he was so different I thought … I thought ….”

We sat on the bed and held each other. He made me swear to keep in touch. I didn’t know where the fuck I was going to go or how I’d keep in touch with him. Joe put my winter jacket in the bag and extra shoes. He gave all the money he had: like $200 from his paper route.

Dad arrived in my room. “You were always a whining bitch. But your mother always protected you. She made you into this fucking thing you are!”

That made me angry; I took a swing at him, but he just stepped back and laughed.

He took my bag and dragged it and me downstairs. He pulled my summer jacket from the hook in hall and threw it at me, shoved $50 into my hand and said, “Get the fuck out, faggot, and don’t come back. And don’t think your aunts will help you because they won’t. I’ll make sure of it.”

Darlene was begging him to reconsider, and now that he was pushing me out the door, I was too. I even called him 'daddy' for fuck's sake. Fucking daddy.

Then I was on the porch; the door shut and the porch light turned off. I pulled on my jacket and hefted my bag onto my shoulder. There was no choice about going back now, so I walked down to Queen Street. I wiped my face and decided I’d grab a streetcar into the city.

I had no clue what was coming or what people would do to me. If you had told me people could do those things to another person I’d have said you were nuts. If I had had an inkling, I never would have said a word to my father, never in a million years. I’d have made myself into the man he wanted, because his treatment of me that night was like sweet and kind, compared to how some people would treat me, who came into my life later on.

I didn't know where to go, and I was thinking about that between bouts of tears on my way to Queen Street. As I walked in the dark I heard footsteps, well, running, behind me. It was Joe. He caught up to me and hugged me.

"You better go back or he'll do the same to you, Joey."

"Where you going, Timmy? Where?" He threw his arm around my shoulders.

"Dunno, downtown I guess."

"You stay away from people, okay. Fuck. I wish I was on my own."

"I know. Look, I'll be okay. I have that money, maybe I can find a place like the Y or something."

"Please be careful, okay? I'll talk to him and see if you can come back."

"Don't okay. As far as I'm concerned, he's not my father." Big words, which in truth were big lies; for years I’d want his approval, and accetance but I never got it.

He hugged me then, crying. "Am – am I still your brother?"

"Fuck yes. Of course you are. I love you. I'll stay in touch the best I can."

He waited for the next streetcar with me. "Watch yourself if you go to the bus station, okay?"

"I will." The streetcar arrived and I climbed on and put in my fare. I waved to him.

It would be a couple of years before I saw him again. I did send a card to him, but I had no home, so he couldn't reply. Funny how you can disappear in your own city.

But it was better that way. I didn't want him to see the me, I was going to become.

Jeff

Jeff was a hard man. He’d grown up in a home that made mine look like Wonderland. Both his father and mother abused him physically and sexually, usually together in their marital bed. It started for him at age 5.

I fucking cry as I write this because I can’t imagine the pain; the anguish of having people you trust do that to you.

If that wasn’t enough, they rented him out. Like a chair or lawnmower. Rented to the sickos of this world who like little boys and no, it’s not only men who do.

He ran away often, but was caught and dragged back and punished.

Finally at 14, he got away for good. He came to Toronto where he was met at the bus station and groomed by his new friend. And when his friend died, Jeff was on his own again, until the night the met me.

So he groomed me and showed me what to do to keep our customers satisfied.

Over the years, god, there were over 17,000 customers. I look at the number and I just can’t believe it.

So yes, Jeff did things. He beat me, sold me, fed me, loved me, sometimes he’d hold me close. He was a hard man, because there isn’t a choice out there and he cared for me the best he could.

I can see him still, sitting on the couch in that horrible squat we shared, telling me his story one night when we were drunk and so fucking high. I can see the tears he shed, as the story and the pain poured out of him. I used my t-shirt to wipe the snot from his nose.

Then I held him, like the little boy he was at that moment, until there were no more tears to cry.

And yeah there's more but it'll keep for another day.

Thanks for reading.. I know it's hard, but don't be too hard on Jeff.

tim