Better next time

I’ve been my practically my whole life in fear and revulsion of gays. Growing up, I never knew why I  never knew why I hated them so much, especially older, white gays. Whenever they were around me, I would start sweating heavily and try to get away. If I couldn’t get away, if for example I had to attend a meeting and they were there, I would look for trouble and try to antagonise them. This is not in my nature, so I couldn’t understand what was wrong with me. I knew it wasn’t some latent homosexuality in me, because what they did disgusted me and I always thought if I was ever raped, I would go on a rampage and kill as many of them as I could before taking my own life. Luckily for me, very few coloureds are gay, so growing up, I hardly had any contact with them: but I got the shock of my life when I went to live and work in Cairo for a few years. I met lots of foreigners from first world countries while I was there, and of all the white men I met, either through work or socialising, only 2 of them were straight!! Even towards the end of my stay there, when I mixed mostly with locals, I found that because of the society that exists there, many of the young Egyptian men and boys would do gay things to each other, and with these white gays, who I figured came to Egypt specifically for this reason. Everyone who lives there knows that it is rampant, but nobody speaks about it, because according to their religion, it is taboo. So, as you can guess, I spent the last few months in Egypt either alone at the sites or socializing with the few foreign female friends that I had made in my four years there. I also never understood why sex was the most important thing to almost all of my friends, here in Cape Town and over there. It was as if they were obsessed with getting more and more partners all the time. Everything they did in their lives was about trying to get a girl, fuck her and then brag about it. When I was interested, I would try my luck; but most of them worked and schemed and bought things, solely to get women in bed and talk shit about them afterwards. Coming back from Egypt, I also realised that many of our women here are also obsessed with having sex as many times as they could get away with. I knew that if ninety five percent of the people that I knew, were like that, then there had to be something wrong with me. I tried to rationalise and convice myself that maybe one third of us was straight, another third gay, and the other third, like me, just not bothered and even turned off of anything sexual, just so that I could feel that I wasn’t the only one: but I knew deep down that I was just fooling myself. There was definitely something very wrong with me; but I didn’t know what or why. I saw a doctor, thinking there was something physically wrong with me; but everything was fine, so it had to be a psychological problem. I tried finding out by reading books on mental illnesses and psychological problems; but in my memory nothing really traumatic happened to me that could have caused this disinterest in sex. Don’t get me wrong, I like the company of women, and I’m not scared of them or of being rejected; but the moment they allow me to do something sexual, even as small as allowing me to touch their breast, I would lose interest and in many cases respect for them for allowing me to do that. The loathing and anger I felt at myself, knowing that they were not the problem; but yet still hurt them just for showing interest in me, caused me to become more and more withdrawn and at really bad times, planning my suicide, because I couldn’t see any happiness for me in a relationship at any point in the future and therefore there was no future for me, if this is how it must be. The only thing that brought some semblance of joy, was my interest in ancient cultures and philosophy, in fact I over-compensated with these interests for lack of interest in sex. Such was my life, until about three years ago, when I finally understood why, yet wishing that I never found out; because knowing the root cause of my psychological problems, was much worse.                                                                                                              I was sitting outside of the library, on a bench under a tree eating a sandwich, in one of my rare moments of relative peace, reading a book on self-hypnosis to reveal suppressed memories. Further away, there’s a short bridge over a thin stream, and crossing the bridge, was this old, white piece of shit, walking very slowly in my direction. The fucker was busy watching two young coloured boys with their parents, having their lunch next to the stream. The way he was looking at them, was with almost total concentration; but he kept walking to where I was sitting, and I immediately knew what this **** was thinking, because I remembered this fucks’ face from when I was eight years old. I’ll never forget his face and I hope to see it in hell one day. Everything came back to me from that day, like a hard smack in my face, and I couldn’t move or speak as the ************ came to sit right next to me on the bench, still watching these young boys intently. I wanted to fuck him up, kill him even. As I’ve said, these thoughts are not in my nature; But this was one life I would take and make him fucking suffer badly, even if he is probably in his seventies by now. I’ll have no pity and laugh and spit in his face; while causing him severe pain until he fucking dies. The shit doesn’t even deserve death, just anguish for what he did to me and probably many other young boys. But that day, I couldn’t even move, and I’m sitting there, knowing what the fucker’s thinking, even now, almost 30 years after he violently raped me, repeatedly. I remembered everything that happened that day, even the before and after, is like something that happened only yesterday. I remember the confusing, disgusting things he said to me and the threat he made about cutting my dick off and keeping it in a bottle, the metal taste of the coke he gave me, the black worker who caught him, but could do nothing because of the apartheid laws which only served the whites, even the two rand he gave the black guy to take me to the street and point me to the station. I walked in the street next to the railway line with blood running down my legs, walking past all these white people who saw my pain, but did fucking nothing. That day was the first time I ever saw white people in the flesh, before that was only in magazines and on tv, where they are portrayed as being so good and nice, those fucking people I now knew were pure evil. As coloured and black people, we were not allowed in the Cape Town CBD, except if we were sent there by whites to do something or fetch something; but what the fuck did I know about this fucked up adult world. All I wanted to do was to walk around the place I was born in and see these supposed angelic whites. I guess curiosity killed the cat. That was 1979 when I walked the loneliest, longest, most painful road I ever took, from Cape Town to Salt River at age eight. All innocence brutally ripped out of my life. I was always filled with love and wonder before then, but these fucking South African whites made sure that ended on the first day I met them. They don’t even fucking belong here. My land, my body, raped by these fuckers. In my memory before I saw that piece of shit at the library, I remembered clearly only what happened after I got to our old neighbours’ house, as if my brain tried to over-compensate the fact that the earlier memories of that day had to be suppressed. I clearly remembered the dark colour of the bath water they washed me in, the food they gave me, even how strangely quiet they were while we were eating. I remember falling asleep there and waking up at home. They didn’t tell my parents, because after I saw that **** at the library, my piles got so bad, I had to go for an emergency operation and, because I was struggling to deal with the physical and emotional pain, I decided to tell someone about my secret and that was my mother. She told me that they never knew. I now understand where my anger against gays, my need for revenge against whites, my self-hate and destructive habits, and my over-protectiveness over youngsters stem from. I’ve read in these psychiatric books that in many cases a victim of child abuse becomes an abuser himself and so the cycle continues; but as someone who has worked with youngsters before, I’ve felt no sexual attraction towards them, rather I feel that I want to protect them like a father and even die for them. Honestly, there were a few teens who I thought was sexually attractive; but the moment I got to know them, I felt disgusted with myself for being attracted to girls who were more than twenty years younger than me. Maybe this not as rare as I thought, because now that I’m older, many men my age, and even much oldermake no secret about feeling that way about them and would jump at the chance. Consciously, and probably sub-consciously, I would try and bait and trap men who I thought were capable of doing what that sick fuck did to me, and I found that in life and in cyberspace, they can easily get what they want, and get away with it. Child trafficking probably makes more money for the criminals than drug and gun trafficking, and sites that have images and video’s of youngsters are probably the biggest money-makers on the internet. In my search for something, really anything that could turn me on and keep my interest, I came upon many dodgy sites that give links to some really sick shit. In the news we read about child rapes and murders almost every day. Sometimes I feel that that **** should have just killed me afterwards, to save me from all this unnecessary shit, and that I would be living in another life, another body and that I would have at least a chance at happiness. I’m sure if he did do that, nothing would have happened to him, because in those years who cared about a dead, raped coloured boy? They would just look after their own and he would just continue in his evil ways; but at least I would be free from all this shit that I’m living through now. Unfortunately, I’m still here. Damaged goods. Maybe psychiatrists or hypnotists can make me forgetagain, before I finish what that fucking shit started so long ago and just end it all, start over, try again, and hopefully have no sick fuck messing up that life as well. Sorry for all the swearing; but thanks for listening. I feel a bit better for putting this shitty life story out there, hopefully it won’t last much longer than this. Thanks again. Goodbye.