Research from 1990 to 1997 put estimates much higher, with as many as one in six boys being the victim of sexual abuse by the time they reach adulthood. One in 20 boys in the United States will be sexually assaulted by age 18, according to the Journal of Adolescent Health. The author (in the photos) says sharing his story is part of his recovery and hopes it can help other men struggling with these issues. She justified all this to my father as “tough love,” belittling my anxiety and stress and saying I needed to be more of a man. Then she told me my car payment was due and grabbed the money back within seconds. When I graduated, she handed me a card from the two of them with cash inside. She’d withhold money, her vise grip so strong on my dad’s funds that while I was in college, he had to take me grocery shopping in secret. When I bought new clothes for my job, she “accidentally” poured bleach on them she once backed into my car in the driveway and claimed she hadn’t seen it. That’s when she began worrying about getting caught, and the brutality of our relationship evolved from sexual abuse to mental abuse, mean pranks, and manipulation. By the time I turned 15, around the time she became my stepmother, I started to understand more of what was happening. I began avoiding these trips as much as I could. When I was in my early teens, my stepmother was abusing me several times a year, usually when we were alone in the Keys. By the end of seventh grade, my teachers considered holding me back. As my grades plummeted, I blamed myself for being stupid. I couldn’t focus on school and sometimes skipped whole days to stay at my biological mom’s house and work on computer projects. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I’d slipped headfirst into depression. She wanted us to believe she was our friend. She played up to me and my siblings, whispering that she was on our side, that she could convince our dad to do whatever we wanted. Out in public, she was my dad’s cool, hip girlfriend. After she’d had enough, I turned and silently walked back to my room, utterly ashamed. There was nothing intimate about it I don’t remember ejaculating. She pulled aside her shorts, and, still standing in the hallway, placed my erection inside her. It was the first time she’d touched my genitals, and I didn’t understand what was going on. She walked up to me and started kissing me, and then escalated things: She reached into my pajamas and took out my penis. I saw her standing in the doorway of the master bedroom. Later I heard a sound outside my room, so I opened the door to see what was going on. It was nighttime at a shabby rental house in the Keys, too early to sleep, but she and my dad had been drinking and went to bed early. It was clear this was somehow my fault, though I barely comprehended the reality of it all.Ī few months after that first encounter, she took my virginity. If your dad ever found out, she’d say, he’d be furious. Every few weeks, she would find me alone, make out with me, encourage me, and then chastise me. She and I didn’t speak about what happened, but it kept happening. It was clear this was somehow my fault, though I barely comprehended the reality of it all. My arms were clenched, frozen by my side, so she grabbed my hands and placed them on her chest, moving them around. Her alcoholic breath mingled with her perfume, suffocating me. Then, after a few seconds, she leaned out, looked at me, and kissed me on the mouth. She leaned against the Formica island, her sandy blond hair done up in a bulbous, frizzy ball.Īs the conversation petered out, she hugged me-a stronger one than usual. Then in her early 40s, she was a competitive person, a successful businesswoman. We talked about my ringtoss skills she was probably humoring me. I knew it would be hard for him to drive home, so from the backseat of our SUV, I leaned forward to turn down the radio to help him focus on the road.Īs soon as we got home, my dad went upstairs, leaving me alone in the kitchen with her. We’d just gotten home from dinner at a tropical-themed restaurant, Bimini Bob’s, where I’d earned high score at the ringtoss game while my dad watched, drinking more light beers than usual. She and my father weren’t married yet, but we were all staying together in Boca Raton that night. The first time I was sexually abused by my stepmother, I was 12.
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