Voice enables victim to speak

I was 14 when I first met Albert. He was a lifeguard at the Y where I went swimming. Sure, I knew to be careful of strangers, but Albert was different. Or so it seemed then. For two years until I moved out of Butt, Montana, I used to drop by his house after school a couple times a week. We'd hang out, talk, suck each other off, and go to the movies together. Sometimes he seemed like the only friend I had. But a couple of months after we met, things started getting strange. It began when he showed me the Gen-Aire Charcoal Grill he kept hidden in the basement. First he said it just happened to be there when he bought the house, but then he admitted his obsession with barbeque. One thing led to another, and soon I was flipping burgers in his basement. It would be "our little secret," he said.

Matters just escalated from there. Sure, the chicken, spare ribs, and steak sandwiches seemed to taste good, but I was just a kid and couldn't understand the implications of what I was doing. Thanks to $10,000 of eye-opening therapy, I can't even think about these foods now without throwing up. I realize today just how much pain I had swallowed. For instance, I had completely suppressed the memory of Albert's shish kabob, roasted marshmallows, and baked sweet potatos - not to mention my rage at being used like a disposable dinner napkin. Albert's blowjobs and affection were just a ruse to pull a young boy up to the table. Why didn't my parents notice the stains on my shirt after we spent time together? Or that I wasn't consuming my daily quota of dietary formula? Thanks to your series, today's mothers ans fathers won't be able to shut their eyes so easily.
Sign me "Anonymous."
Sincerely, Dick Whinestein.
Name Withheld

source: 'Letters: Voice Enables Victim to Speak'; The Guide (Gay magazine); April Fools special; reprinted in: Nambla Bulletin, Vol. 12, No. 3; April 1991