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Man, some people have shitty lives.

He escaped his father’s child sex ring only to endure the horrors of homelessness: illness, starvation, and yet more sexual violence.

"I didn’t run away as a child, because of the lies I was raised to believe. My father told me all families were the same, all fathers used their children for sex, and it was my duty as a son to obey and please him. He said if I tried to ask for help, those people would just use me as punishment for my defiance of my owner—my own father. I was taken to other homes, other places, and shown that this was true. As a child, I didn’t know those other places were not “normal homes.” If that ploy ever grew thin, he threatened to kill me, other children he owned or managed, or my mother. My mother used me too, but she didn’t use pain and terror against me. She gave me the affection that I craved so intensely. I obeyed her just to please her. It took meeting another boy in junior high school to start showing me my father’s lies for what they were, but by then I was so entrenched and had learned that I was complicit, and so I was far too terrified to run away.

When I left, it was due to a combination of factors. I knew, finally, that I wasn’t a weak little boy anymore. My father had a new plan for me: I was to start getting new children for his pedophile sex ring. The day I came home to him beating my mother, he turned on me when I intervened.

His intention that I continue his “family business” was so repulsive I could barely breathe. The violence he began that day, I finished in a manic fit of rage. When it was over, I threw him out. I was so confused and devastated, I clung to the idea that I would stay and protect my mother. We would find another way to make a living (a grand childish idea I had no clue how to follow through on). In my mixed up abused state and twisted love for her, I envisioned a future together that, to my shock, she didn’t share. Her outrage and rejection of me because I had made him leave made me instantly want to die. I knew he might return and kill me for my defiance.

What saved me from using the gun I’d stolen from him to simply end my life right there in our foyer, was my own fledgling anger. I had saved her; how dare she reject me? I turned away from her, and there was the world outside our open door, and my old curiosity returned. I wanted to know, and now I could leave and find out. I gathered what could be carried in my backpack and finally left that sick life.

I made my way to the elementary school I had attended, where workers were painting over the summer, and I lived in a girl’s restroom for a week. It was the beginning of my life as a disposable male: scrounging for food, seen as “lazy no-good filth” to people who were swift to judge, and invisible to those who did not wish to see. In my school days, when food was being withheld from me at home, I learned that the dumpster behind the cafeteria had food in it. As I began my life as a homeless man of nineteen, I returned to that solution.

A stolen lunch got me caught by the workers, and when I stopped running, I saw the skyscrapers of downtown in the distance. A vague memory of a trip to Herman Park as a child inspired me to head that way, but I didn’t know that the park wasn’t downtown. Consequently, I didn’t find it for months, and in that time I lived in a misery that could only be called “better” because of the life I had escaped.

In my school days, when food was being withheld from me at home, I learned that the dumpster behind the cafeteria had food in it. As I began my life as a homeless man of nineteen, I returned to that solution. I chose the overpasses to sleep under by their proximity to a restaurant or local grocery’s dumpster. I observed other homeless people, while simultaneously hiding from them, and learned other survival skills, such as knowing which restaurants would dispose of food in takeout containers, so that we could have it. I had to find places others didn’t frequent, because I wasn’t willing to fight for food if many had gathered to eat. A few workers who wanted to be paid for not

by Anonymousreply 4607/10/2013

doing their work, gained my wary trust by trading good hot meals for sweeping up, or doing dishes. A few wanted other favors, and I did that too, after I got sick from eating spoiled food in dumpsters too often. Fresh food was a lure and my abuse had already taught me I was good for nothing but servicing others and obeying them. It was a reflex, quickly over, and then I could eat.

Overpasses got crowded in bad weather, and that made them more dangerous. Most people would steal whatever I had, but some were violent, too; and being seen as weak or different, I was attacked just like I’d always experienced in school. I had my stuff stolen, including my father’s gun, and was assaulted repeatedly. To get some sort of protection, I agreed to work for a man who sold drugs, by holding his supply for him at times. I was already accustomed to many kinds of drugs, as they were given to the children owned by the ring to control us. I thought I was getting sick again, but I was actually going into withdrawals from an addiction to cocaine, and since that was his product, we struck a deal. He made it clear he would beat me if I used more than we agreed I could, or if I lost the supply for any reason. Obeying an authoritative person was second nature, and I almost developed a sense of worship for him when he brought me food.

Then one day, he just never came back. I waited and watched, but the dangers were growing where I was. The few women there were used by the violent people, or were duped into sex by using their mental illness against them. I stepped in to help one woman, but then didn’t use her myself. When they saw that, they called me a faggot and raped me, too.

I was very afraid of knives. My father used a kitchen knife to give me a “Glasgow Smile” when I was four years old. He blinded my left eye with his cigar at sixteen, cutting the eyelid away first so I would have no choice but to watch. Then he made me retrain myself in how to shoot. So I swallowed my fear of my boss returning and traded the man’s drugs for a handgun. I didn’t use it, but showing it to others kept me safer than I had been. I learned how to hide it, but also, that sleeping was dangerous.

When overpasses became too dangerous, I found a place nobody else wanted to hole up in. It was a drain pipe of some sort, just big enough to sit upright in. One end was fouled by garbage and debris, so only a little trickle of water moved through the bottom. At the other end, a dog had died a few feet inside the pipe, and the foul odor made an effective repellent. Not caring what I had to do to be safe, and hygiene being far lower on the scale of survival, I carried my meager belongings over the carcass and lived in that pipe. I would crawl out to find food and supplies, and then return to sit in the dark and damp.


Shelters were no refuge, and very few would take men. The few times I tried to go to one, the cycle of theft, assault, and rape just continued there, the moment the overworked, underpaid, and understaffed workers turned their backs. Once, taking shelter from the threat of a hurricane, I sat up all night to protect a woman and her two small children, so they could sleep. She was wary of trusting me, but finally did before she passed out. Seeing the pinched faces of those children broke my heart; I couldn’t bear to let anything happen to them there. Watching them sleep, I had the first foggy dream begin that maybe I could be a daddy someday, if I could escape the pit I was in. They looked like they hadn’t been homeless long, and the thought of that boy being treated as I had been filled me with despair even as helping them gave me a glimmer of hope. I knew I couldn’t stay—I could barely help myself survive—but I told her many things I had learned and that there were other shelters just for women and families.

My last attempt to stay at a shelter was during my depression cycle. I made a deal with a man to trade oral sex for his protection and sharing food. Instead, I was raped in the men’s restroom by a man who heard about our deal. When I could walk again, I found a derelict building, covered myself with newspaper and trash so anybody entering wouldn’t see me, and collapsed there for days. I was sick and nearly starved to death before I could go back to scavenging. When I was strong enough to move more than a few blocks, I returned to the only sure shelter I had known: the fouled pipe guarded by the rotting dog.

In moments when the work of survival wasn’t taking over my time and thoughts, a horrid loneliness vying with utter boredom would set in. The mind can rot in those moments, and drugs and booze can’t take it all away. That is when the abuse memories tore through me. My blind eye still hurt. I had no medicine for it, or for the rapid cycle bipolar I’d suffered since childhood. I had tried to get over my fear and ask for help, but people didn’t want to help me. Most of them just looked through me until mental illness and drugs made me fear I was truly fading and they actually couldn’t see me. The few who helped at all always wanted something, and the men who traded oral sex for a hot meal just threw me back on the street again no matter how I begged or what I promised to do. Each time I was afraid the person I approached might be one of my abusers, and the fear was choking me. Eventually, I stopped trying.

So many times I sat there in the dark pipe on a soggy blanket with my pistol in my lap, shaking hands trying not to put the barrel in my mouth. I used to wonder if the bullet would ricochet, and the fear that I might not die fast kept my finger off the trigger. Sometimes, I lost my mind and talked to people who weren’t there—screamed at them, or cried for them to help me. Remembering how the men of the ring had abused us with dogs, I had nightmares that the dog corpse would rise as I slept and attack me.

I tried to think of good times, but there weren’t many. In those moments, in that pipe, with the past screaming in my head and the demands of my body pushing me to go out and risk more fear and pain, I’m still surprised I didn’t give up. Through it all, something always drove me. I remembered my old dream; I still wanted to learn about what I considered “the real world.” Schools had libraries, and I had seen the big public library in the city. I began to plan how to get there and back before dark, and began to dream of the things I might be able to learn there.


Fear held me back until the day a work crew came while I was out scavenging. They cleared the blockage, ran water through the pipe, and everything I owned except the handgun I carried and the clothes on my back was washed away. Pushed to finally act, I moved again. I found the library, and the first few kind souls willing to help me for nothing worked there. Then I met some teen boys working as hustlers on a street corner, and a few of them took me in and taught me how they survived. It was awful and more dangerous in many ways than my current life, but the food and money came with companionship of sorts, the first I’d had since high school.

My journey out continued through the depths of ugliness that street life and prostitution became for me. For a survivor of child sex abuse and adult male rape, prostitution seemed to make all those pedophile lies come true: that I was nothing but dirty and broken filth, good for nothing but for others to use as they saw fit. It can fill your soul up with fear, shame, guilt, and self-hatred until you drown in it. Yet I stayed, and used it to get out, because the money meant good food and a roof over my head, as often as I could get them. It meant company to fight off the loneliness too, even if so much of that company amounted to different forms of abuse. I endured it because it was better than the pedophile ring, better than the damp dark pipe, and the assaults under the overpasses. I lived, and worked to get free, get out, because the truth I discovered at a public library had slowly started to drown out the lies. There was another step to climb, another plateau to reach, another way to stop being invisible, disposable. So I did it.


Nothing ends until we die, and the damage of abuse and rape I’ve survived doesn’t just go away one day. It can make survivors like me want to die. “Time heals all wounds” is a base lie. Yet we can heal some wounds, and we can learn coping methods to endure the rest. My way to cope and heal is watching my beautiful, unscarred children play, and knowing I can now work to protect them. My best weapon for defense is that I know what’s out there; I know intimately and horribly what can befall a child, and I wear the scars and damage as proof it’s real, even when others refuse to believe. It will not happen to my children; and that is worth fighting for, and worth living for.

by Anonymousreply 107/04/2013

He is a polyamorous bisexual male, a father of four children. His partners are a man and a woman, who live with him and his kids.

See, bisexual males do exist. Although, I do wonder if he would've been bisexual if he had been raised in a normal family.

by Anonymousreply 207/04/2013

And here I thought I had it bad. I wonder how he changed his life around.

by Anonymousreply 307/04/2013

Damn that's some fucked up shit, but at least he survived, too many don't

by Anonymousreply 407/04/2013

What R3 said. I can't imagine having the character to change after all that...

by Anonymousreply 507/04/2013

What a story! Everything but the bloodhounds snappin' at her rear end.

by Anonymousreply 607/04/2013

:( what a story. I wonder how he feels about reporting or exposing the pedophile ring, if not for himself, for the other current/future victims. It is truly admirable how he managed to come out of it.

by Anonymousreply 707/04/2013

This seems like a drug fueled hallucination, maybe with elements of truth here and there, but not anything I would take at face value.

by Anonymousreply 807/04/2013

Has he alerted the authorities?

If not, why not?

Is this such a huge ring that there is a conspiracy of silence among prominent people?

by Anonymousreply 907/04/2013

Did he go to the police after the rapes?

How about the hospital?

Has he been tested for AIDS or HIV?

Will he sue his parents, or commit them?

by Anonymousreply 1007/04/2013

Does he have siblings, or cousins?

Are other children currently in danger?

Has he contacted INTERPOL?

by Anonymousreply 1107/04/2013

For someone suffering such sexual abuse:

a. has wonderful writing abilities; meaning, he spent a significant time in school.

b. writing in a format that was very accepting of what happened. As if these "transgressions" were not damaging-meaning, how could someone so involved in sex abuse/prostitution related shame activities be so capable to divulge such details. This would mean the person had years of therapy before coming to terms with what happened.

It sounds to me like bullshit. Who ever wrote this wasn't a survivor, but a bullshit artist.

by Anonymousreply 1207/04/2013

Who diagnosed him as Bipolar as a child?

Why did his parents take him to a psychiatrist?

Didn't the shrink see he was abused?

and why would he be diagnosed as Bipolar when he would have had PTSD instead?

by Anonymousreply 1307/04/2013

An amateur.

by Anonymousreply 1407/04/2013

Good to see James Frey is writing again.

by Anonymousreply 1507/04/2013

He's not making it up.

by Anonymousreply 1607/04/2013

R12, Perhaps a friend edited his story, to make it sound more coherent. It sounds as if he's emotionally distanced himself from the horrors of his childhood. That's the only way he can deal.

OP linked a summary. The full truth is that he eventually met people who helped him, some of it in exchange for sex.

by Anonymousreply 1807/04/2013

R18 If so, it completely detracts from the story. It isn't "edited" so much as manufactured. OR, possibly many years have passed and he got help, got clean, went to school, etc.

by Anonymousreply 1907/04/2013

That which does not kill you may make you stronger, or it may leave you scarred, crazy, or crippled.

by Anonymousreply 2007/04/2013

This is the second of these kinds of stories I've read today. There's another one in the Daily Mail.

by Anonymousreply 2107/04/2013

I was listening to Coast to Coast and this woman called into describe exactly this. She said she was the daughter of one of the original female porn stars and was part of a child-sex ring run by her mother and grandparents. It's TRANS-GENERATIONAL.

She said when she didn't listen, her mother would feed her pet rabbits to the python snakes, making her watch. Her earliest memories of being sexually molested start at 3-yrs old. From an early age, she knew this was wrong, and believed in God. She prayed a lot, and ran away at 13-years old, and unlike this guy, was lucky enough to find someone to help her escape.

Some, the lucky ones, go to the extreme of having facial surgery to alter their looks in order not to be found. There are 2.4 million diagnosed cases world-wide.

Google "Jay Parker" Illuminati and listen to his story. He grew up not a stone's throw away from where I lived for 10 years, and his Satanic grandparents lived in the area where I grew up. I'm very familiar with Arden Delaware, and Rose Valley PA...satanic hubs (50-90% of comm are trans-generational Satanists), which are interspersed throughout the world.

by Anonymousreply 2207/04/2013

R22, it's hard to believe this guy has memories of his father fellating him from when he was in the cradle.

by Anonymousreply 2307/04/2013

What R23?

by Anonymousreply 2407/04/2013

Since he mentions Herman Park, I assume he grew up in Houston?

by Anonymousreply 2507/04/2013

90% of an American community are "trans-generational Satanists"? That sounds rather hyperbolic, no? I mean, I don't even think those towns are 90% Republican!

by Anonymousreply 2607/04/2013

Everything but the bloodhounds snappin' at his rear end.

by Anonymousreply 2707/04/2013

R25, the one in Houston is spelled Hermann Park. He could just be misspelling it, though. I don't find a listing for a "Herman Park" anywhere.

by Anonymousreply 2807/04/2013

DL, Do you think that these Satanist stories are exaggerated?

by Anonymousreply 2907/05/2013

I bet the whole family went to church on Sunday.

by Anonymousreply 3007/05/2013

No, I know for a fact they are not exaggerated. Look up the history of "False memory syndrome".

by Anonymousreply 3107/05/2013

About 10% of what he describes happened. That's still plenty terrible, mind you.

by Anonymousreply 3207/06/2013

Ths would never have happened if he'd grown up in Hollywood.

by Anonymousreply 3307/06/2013

Maybe I'm too cynical but I stopped reading at the "Glasgow smile" and rejected it as fiction. I thought it was The Joker's story written by some deranged Heath Ledger fan.

Like I said, maybe I'm too cynical. I do know, from first-hand experience, that children can have some terrible experiences at the hands of adults.

by Anonymousreply 3407/06/2013

This is probably bs and someone from TGMB probably paid to post it here (ie bought a membership) because it's really a touchy feely "good" place. And I wanted to barf reading some of the other "good" stuff on it.

by Anonymousreply 3507/06/2013

Sounds like a new Stephen King novel.

by Anonymousreply 3607/06/2013

The huge red flag for me is that he received a bipolar diagnosis as a child.

If his family was so terrible why would they voluntarily take him to a psychiatrist? He never said that he was involuntarily committed so I'm assuming someone cared for him.

Secondly, how could a psychiatrist not see the abuse in either his personality or dissociated mental state? He must have had physical signs as well.

Also, the fact that he was allowed to attend school while under such horrific abuse while tied to a pedophile ring doesn't make any sense.

by Anonymousreply 3707/06/2013

I'll bet it was written by a woman.

by Anonymousreply 3807/06/2013

So what does [trigger warning] mean on the original story?

by Anonymousreply 3907/06/2013

What John would want a kid/guy with a torn up face and one eyeball? I call bullshit.

by Anonymousreply 4007/06/2013

The author of this sordid tale is an obese chick who will read it aloud at Michfest as part of her "Garbage Detail Performance Piece."

by Anonymousreply 4107/06/2013

R39, Abuse survivors, of any kind, over react to anything that reminds them of childhood fears. For example, young kids who have lived through warfare are super sensitive to fireworks and even loud music. It triggers horrifying memories.

by Anonymousreply 4207/06/2013

R41, I have always believed in keeping an open mind about what I read, until facts are presented. Why do you believe that these 2 stories are completely 100% false?

by Anonymousreply 4307/06/2013

Sorry no, R42. Triggers are implanted during traumatized mind control, which obviously is what this is about.

by Anonymousreply 4407/07/2013

Young kids don't like fireworks in general. They always scared me to death.

by Anonymousreply 4507/07/2013

Huh, R45?

by Anonymousreply 4607/10/2013
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