This is uncomfortable…

I love you is a powerful thing to say. So I hear. It’s usually a delineation, marking a point in a relationship you have with someone. Something you struggle with timing-wise with a new lover, something you say to a parent or the people in your Burning Man Theme Camp. And it’s not just the drugs, really. Saying I love you has always been weird for me. The first person I had sex with said it, and would ask me to say it. It was a confused time. I think of that time often, and it stitches my little world with the color of it’s thread. Relevant now, I type things into this box and sometimes exploit them for promotion. Sometimes for comedy, inching my way forward hacking this path through the frozen , overgrown muck. Courage is what I’m looking for usually but sometimes seen as sympathy. But your bound to lose a few, ya know. It’s available for therapy, this list. You become a council as I sit on your couch. I have a new skill that I am proud of: I can type with a cigarette between my index and middle finger. It’s almost an act. But therapeutic writing here has become few and far between as the list has grown and I have become an arts cheerleader rah rah reeing for things… impossible things. Championing the rejected artists or telling a story of an atmosphere of beer cans. If these things can happen, then truly anything can happen. And does of course. But I’m a guy. In the world. I move my body though my experiences and I report here and allow you a glimpse of my travels and what… bonding? Who knows.

A few months ago, I told someone a story. Of someone I had sex with a few times. Not remarkable, really. Happens all the time. And as a teller of stories, this is not remarkable. But odd to tell it to someone into a tape recorder. Curious about sex, the mysteries unraveled for me with this partner. There were a little drugs involved. Which is not uncommon. There was horseback riding. It’s hard to remember, as it was 30 years ago. When I was 11. Dennis DeSantos used to crush up valium and put it in my Pepsi. That came out in the interview. I had forgotten that. And the motorcycle. He had a kid motorcycle that he promised to let me ride but never did. In his 70’s love van I developed some job skills that helped me make some money in my late teens squatting in NYC. He was a guardian of my pal Randy. Me and Randy were in a band called trouble that had t-shirts made at the flea market but that was about it. As I tell this story to Officer Farrington of the Palm Beach sheriff’s department, the physical reaction I have is telling. I know this feeling well. Violence. Hate. I sit with these emotions now and try to watch them as a 3rd party. It’s all about breathing. I try to breathe into it and inflate it like a balloon. And let it go. Floating away to outer space or something. 30 years. They incarcerated him a few weeks ago. My case is going to trial and he is likely going to spend the rest of his life in jail. He’s 68 years old.


I am struggling with how graphic to get. Shall I report the pleadings? The deception? Does sharing this lighten the burden? Who knows. Well I will, when I hit send. I’ve got a plan, ya know. I’m gonna send this out then I’m gonna send out 3 more rah rah ree’s and bury it. Only some of you will ever read it. I imagine me walking through an endless warehouse with rows and rows of shelving going up higher then I can see walking with a box marked Dennis. I wander through this labyrinth looking for the shelf it’s supposed to go on. The shelves are all full. The box is heavy. Forever almost dropping it, and without a map I continue on to find the shelf and do not. This is the shelf I have. Fuck it. It’s just the best I can do right now. To shed light on dark things. Secrets can be like lies. It’s a corruption from the inside out.

There are 4 defendants. Florida state law delineates something in some way so that children under 12 are like protected more or something. I’m not sure how it works. I don’t know who the other 3 are. I’m assuming Randy. If there are 4 there are probably more. 30 years is a long time. And what about before? As an adult, now, how someone can have sex with a child is a baffling mystery to me. My original embrace of any eastern philosophy is in an attempt to relieve myself from the violent hatred I have of this man and the imaginings of his murder I replayed in my head sometime several hundred times an hour. My greatest achievement so far in the time I’ve had on this Earth is actually to have pity and feel sorry for Dennis. What a curse it must be, no? To find pleasure in this place? Sex as a union between people who love each other is a powerful and intense thing. I’d like to someday have the 180 degree experience from the powerful and intense sex I had with Dennis. I’ve gotten close. Maybe.

I was told by the detective that they don’t stop. Even at his advanced age. They just get better. Sneakier. They go for younger ones, easier to manipulate. He had a pony. Christ, I had actually forgotten about the pony as well. The drugs made it all a dream, I guess. He would give a curious 11 year old information that other adults wouldn’t. Talked to me like one of the guys. I used to go over Randy’s house and stay for the weekend often. Play music. Hang out. Traps were set. My parents were comfortable with me being there. There was beer in the fridge that you could just drink. Ride the pony around their 40 acre ranch deal. Dennis was a fireman. You can trust a fireman, right?

By the time I was 13 it was over. I was so behind in school I should have been left back a year. I couldn’t concentrate and could not do any of the work. I had zero desire to listen to anything any adult said to me. I was terrified to ever be alone with anyone. I struggled through my days with plans of killing everyone. All of them. And one day, I found relief. I found a device that would make me another person. Someone who hadn’t picked a fat, disgusting mans’ pubic hair out his teeth. I found another reality. I can be another person. A powerful person. A killer. A warrior. Proud and true. A user of magic. Smart and scholarly. I could be an Elf king, and marry and Elven bride. Another man, Gary Gygax, had made a game that you could play that you use your imagination to create a reality that he supported the infrastructure of. He wrote books that made that fantasy plausible. With matrix’s and charts and descriptions of how much leather armor weighs and how many spells fit on a scroll and how long they take to utter. How many times a Storm Giant can strike with his flaming sword in the time it takes you to cast Ice Storm from you Rod of Smiting. In Dungeons and Dragons you create an avatar (like Facebook!), and it was a way for me to not be a human. Elves are beautiful and can’t lie. So I became an Elf.

In the game, you roll dice to replicate the risks and outcomes of any encounter. To achieve a life-like chaos, so to speak. I started rolling. For everything. To bring the game here, to the prime material plane. To say that caused problems is an understatement but there was some serious comedy that no one got but me. I wouldn’t ‘roll’ them. I kept them in a dice pouch I hung off my belt loop. I’d just reach in, take one out and look at it. No one knew. How’s that for bad decision making? I decided that not all men were child molesters. I gave them 40% chance of being guilty. 10 sided dice. 1-4, they were. 5-10, they weren’t’. It’s amazing to me how a child’s’ mind works. Creativity just all over the place. Convictions, opinions, energy… just amazing. I wish I had more of that now. And the ability to adapt, instead getting stuck like we all do.

It’s all like a dream now. Like a bad movie I saw in the 70’s. When a remote control for your TV had a cord and interest rates to buy a house were 19% and there were people who wouldn’t get in a Japanese car because they had fought in WWII and the future was the year 2000. I put as much distance between me and Florida as I could as soon as I could. You can run, but you can’t hide.

Insane. But true. If I allow myself, I imagine him coming in the door. Here, on Army street. Insane. That can not happen. He’s in jail. I told you it was insane. This is all real, and not real at the same time. Because what actually happened and the things that happened as a result of it are staggeringly out of balance. When a bad thing happens, it’s bad enough that it happened. Keeping them in the past is the correct place to archive them. I refuse to believe anymore that this makes me unattractive. Like a leper or someone painted purple. Keeping this a secret or just sharing it with people close to me hasn’t really worked either. I just don’t want to be afraid of it anymore. The confusion surrounding this to this day feels the same as it did 30 years ago. There is a deep seeded desire to protect Dennis. Or I might get in trouble. Fucking crazy. Real. Fucked.

It never once occurred to me to tell another adult. An adult did this to me, and the other adults always side with adults. Right? That it was off the table for me to tell anyone says volumes. If you can’t understand that I envy you. It is possible that some of you do not know child abuse boasts some astounding statistics. When thinking of weather or not I wanted to press charges, I considered statistics. Let there be one more case on the records maybe they child programs will get more funding next year. But if you’ve been to jail, you’d know that sending a 68 year old man to the joint is a death sentence. That’s a heavy fucking thing. It’s all heavy. And he’s in jail. And this can end.

I still play Dungeons and Dragons every Monday. My character is an 8th level Lawful Evil Elf assasian named Olaf Yayo. It’s the highlight of my week. He’s a badass warrior with a +5 Defender sword and invisability at will. 48% chance of assasination if I acheive surprise and 38 hit points. 18 dexterity with a +2 bonus. He’s a killer. He kills. Everyone.




3 Responses

  1. Stay present and grounded. Today is the 21st of June, 2009. You are a survivor, not a victim. Speak your truth and speak it loudly so that others may not suffer what you did. Kia kaha.

  2. speaking out and bringing attention to someone so negative helps all the little voices that have yet to speak against their attackers…if everyone raised their voice and made their mark, i think it would happen a little less. predators rely on silence and silence keeps these secrets and makes it easier for the next crime. monsters are real and they do get children and change them forever.
    my heart hurts…one of my worst fears as a mom.
    cheers to you chicken for telling the truth.

  3. I happened to come back to reread this post … exactly 2 years to the day. It’s still stunning. Thanks for everything my friend.

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