Rent Boy Page 6

  “Dear God, I am writing this letter as I want you to be in my life. I believe in God and ask you look after me and protect me,”

  from Jay”.

  The facilitator, named Michael, of the group was very impressed with me and gave me a bible and wrote in it:

  “To Jay, who asked God to be in his life,

  All the best mate,

  Michael”.

  I felt really special. It’s hard to explain but I really felt like I done something very significant, something really special. I was happy about that. I still have this bible to this day and cherish it. It’s feels sacred and so personal to me. I had asked God to be in my life and I didn’t even have to think about it, it was like second nature, like it was my calling. I felt protected as God was looking after me now.

  ……………………………………

  A situation when I was in around about grade three by this stage, so I was say, nine or ten years old, my brother and I were so excited about the Melbourne Show coming up in September. The most exciting part was of course, the Show bags. Every morning before school Sam and I got up early to watch the Show bag commercials on television and started a list of what show bags we were going to get. We thought Bob and mum were taking us to the ‘Show’, just like any other parents. But Bob said it was a waste of money and refused to take us. He also forbid my mother from taking us either. I know my mother disagreed with Bob but he was in charge of the family now. What he says is law, and that’s that. My brother and I were shattered that we could not go to the show and we even discussed sneaking out one day, ‘wagging’, or cutting school and just going to the show on our own as we so desperately wanted to go. But we didn’t. We were too scared to. If Bob found out, god knows what he would do to us. We were both beginning to feel scared of Bob and knew that this was not normal. It was humiliating that at school our friends talked about how many show bags they bought and how many rides they went on and so on. It was depressing and I made up a story that I did not like the Show and didn’t care about going. The other kids thought it was abnormal as all kids love the show. I felt like an outcast and it was Bob’s fault. It got to the point that when Sam and I got home from school and had our usual milk and cookies as an after school snack, if Bob was as he was a shift worker, he made us eat over the kitchen sink to ensure no crumbs went on the floor. He walked in the kitchen every so often to check with a can of beer in one hand and cigarette in the other. He stood there with an evil look on his face determined to find just one crumb on the floor. If there was, he would grab either mine or Sam’s head and shove it to the floor like shoving a dog’s head into their poo and yell:

  “You made the mess, look! Clean it up you bastard!!!!”

  It was terrifying and he seemed to always pick on me.

  Every day when we get home from school and Bob happened to be home he was always sitting in front of the television in that same spot on the couch plonked on it like a couch potato, drunk as a skunk, drinking beer after beer, smoking cigarette, after cigarette. It was law to greet him with an enthusiastic ‘Hi dad!’ once we get home from school and it had to be immediate and we had to mean it. It was like living in the army and he was the sergeant.

  We both said ‘hi’ and went to our rooms to change. I walked into the kitchen to get a drink or something, nothing significant. As I walked out of the kitchen and into my room, he murmured as usual; “You little Bastard!”

  This was a regular occurrence. It started happening all the time when I turn my back and walk off he would say in an evil voice again and again;

  “Bastard!” or “Poofter!”

  It hurt my feelings and the worst part is my mother never knew about it as he never did it in front of her. This went on for years and nobody apart from my brother knew about it. It was starting to feel like hell. I knew by now that he hated my guts and I hated him even more. I didn’t understand why he hated me so much as I never did anything wrong. The problem was his alcohol. It was his poison. He drank to excess so severely that every rubbish bin outside were jammed packed full of beer cans on a daily basis. It was a big problem and so embarrassing that I had an ‘alcho’ as my ‘dad’. My mother knew he drank a lot but never said anything. Perhaps she was too scared, I don’t know. What I do know is that his secret was out. He was an alcoholic and he has got mental problems; big problems.

  When I was in Grade six, it was the final year of primary school and was quite a big deal. We were the seniors of the school at the time and all looking forward to high school next year. Being in Grade six had two challenges. The challenge of preparing for senior high school and generally more academically school work and the other challenge of the peer pressure of maintain your own ‘coolness’ or popularity amongst your peers. I never was bullied, in fact, I occasionally did some of the bullying for fun with the new prep school kids just starting primary school. Yes it sounds mean, but it was harmless school kid fun. The only trouble I had was that I was made fun of regarding the school uniform my stepfather made me wear and those bloody stack hats I had to wear when I rode my bike. The other kids didn’t seem to mind because I was good at sports and stuff so I was still hanging about the cool kids in the school. I was only really teased outside the school especially riding on the way home from school from 18 year old speeding in their first car that mummy and daddy bought for them, the ‘rich’ kids. Half way through grade six I just couldn’t take anyone of the yelling out of kids calling me a ‘nerd’ by passing cars, beeping their horns at me and all that. Image was so important especially in grade six and those stack hats was simply tarnishing my image and had to take action.

  One day I took a chance and just did not put on the stack- hat but had it dangling on the front handle bars ready to put on just in case the police were around or my dreaded stepfather. It was clear to me by this stage that my stepfather sometimes followed me home to ensure I was wearing the helmet. On that day I was almost home and without having to wear the stack hat and suddenly I saw my stepfathers car drive past me slowly, took and evil look at me and drove away. My heart skipped a beat and I was breathing heavily. I knew now I was facing trouble. This is not going down well with him and can smell the fear.

  I tried to stretch out the remaining length home, I rode very slowly and very nervously, wondering what he was going to do to me. But I made it home and without making a noise I pushed my bike in the backyard. To my surprise Samuel was already home. He was standing there in the backyard, like he was waiting for me in anticipation.

  “What have you done?” Sam asked. “He’s really mad……he’s….ummm……he’s angry with you Jay-Jay…” Sam said with a nervous tone.

  I knew I was in big trouble. Then I heard the back door open with force. It was him.

  “Where is he!?” Bob yelled.

  My brother tried to run inside and my stepfather gently stopped him and said.

  “Stay here Sam, think way you will know what naughty boys deserve…” Bob said in a devilish voice.

  My immediate thought was ‘shit!’ and I froze but I psyched myself up, waiting to take the beating and was thinking, ‘just get it over with’.

  Then there he was, absolutely steaming with smoke coming out of his ears. He was holding a baseball bat and I found myself staring at it.

  “I warned you!” he said with a scary but low toned voice.

  “I’m sorry” I replied with terror.

  “Get inside!......Now!” he screamed.

  I thought that was it. A yelling at; that’s all, nothing to worry about, it was over. I put my bike in the garage and nervously walked inside and went straight to my room. I quickly got changed and went to the kitchen for my usual after school milk and cookies with my brother lagging behind me. I thought life now after that moment just went on. So I made a mistake, got yelled at, and that was it.

  Suddenly without warning he pounced in the kitchen, I turned around and before I had time to panic he grabbed my throat. It was not a soft grab, it was forceful and
he was using all his strength. My brother got scared and ran away to his room crying. I didn’t blame him.

  “I told you what would happen, and you went against me! You selfish little bastard!......this will teach you a lesson” he whispered in my ear an evil tone.

  I felt like I have just danced with the devil and it was my own fault. He kept on squeezing my neck, I began to cry but felt more anger and the anger was growing uncontrollably and ubiquitously. So I spit in his face. I didn’t care what would happen next as my adrenaline was rushing through my body and felt pure hate beyond comprehension. He punched my cheek. I then fell and banged my head on the kitchen sink.

  “I hate you” I yelled. “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you ......” I kept screaming so the whole world could hear.

  I wanted to validate my hate for him and make him understand that right there and then. He then proceeded to kick me and then he picked me up by my shirt and carried me to my room and through me on my bed. He slammed the bedroom door behind him. I was terrified. I wanted to just smash the window and jump out. But I was trapped. He kept on slapping me across the head and kept on saying how much he despised me and how I’m always trying to upset him. He wanted to show who was boss.

  He then grabbed me by my pants, I was crying uncontrollably by this stage, living a nightmare. I can hear my baby brother in his room crying and yelling out:

  “LEAVE HIM ALONE! LEAVE HIM! I’M TELLING MUMMY!!!!!.....”

  He then put his hand down my pants and squeezed my testicles until I screamed with agony. I through I was having a nightmare. Is this how dads punish their son’s? I was confused, angry, sick and nauseous.

  “Stop.....please.....I’m sorry.....” I cried. The pain was intense and he was enjoying it. I begged him to stop as it hurt so much. I couldn’t stand the pain.

  “So you do have balls….don’t ya……you like a bit of cock …don’t ya?.......ya little faggot!!.....” he said as he was spitting in my face.

  I kept on screaming, hoping someone would rescue me. He was killing me. I begged him again to stop.

  “STOP WHO?” he yelled.

  “Okay, stop .........DAD...” I said breathlessly an in agony.

  He then let go. He pushed me away.

  “You bastard, you’ve got balls but you don’t show it, I had to check......next time it’s really gonna hurt...” he said.

  I thought that was it. Then without warning he rolled up his sleeve as I stared wondering what he was going to do. Spontaneously, in a split second, he punched me in the right side of my cheek. I screamed. Then he punched my left cheek as I started to see blood trickle down my nose. I was shaking like a leaf and I felt weak and useless. He started to giggle, almost effeminately. It sounded strange but evil. Then he just went for it, slapping my face left to right, left to right as I was begging for mercy. Blood splattered against the walls and as soon as he realised I was bleeding he stopped.

  Then he walked out and slammed the door behind him. Paralysed with fear but relieved it was over I cried and cried and cried and shook like I was naked in below freezing temperatures. I just lay on the bed, thinking of nothing, I felt like I was some sort of bizarre trance. I was trembling. I thought I was going to die. In absolute fear I hid underneath the bed and I just cried. I cried and cried and cried whilst whispering to myself:

  “W-W-Why….m—m-me?....”

  I began to think of ideas of running away. But like Bob said, I just don’t have the ‘balls’. Just how was I going to explain this to mum. I didn’t think I could. At that age you sort of think you deserve it. You don’t really put a name to this sort of situation. But this is abuse at its worst. I didn’t really understand the word so I never said anything. I cried for an hour before staggering to the bathroom and washed the tears and blood from my face. I could not let my mum know what happened. It would kill her. So I used my mother’s foundation to cover up the bruises. I had to.

  ………………………………

  My mum got home from work and we all sat down to dinner and noticed I had been crying. She said what’s wrong but I said I had an upset stomach. My brother looked at me with disappointment, I think he wanted me to say what happened. However, I think my mother kind of suspected something but never said a word. The silence at the dinner table was deafening. Bob just said at me with one side of his lip upturned and if looks could kill, I would be dead. I felt like that this was not the end, it was the start of something and I had to figure out how I could accept this. It was almost like I felt like it was normal and this is what happened to ‘naughty’ boys. But it wasn’t. I realise that now.

  After dinner my brother softly entered my room. He was so empathetic and so much a little brother. He was concerned and told me that he will protect me. He was such a small little guy and adorable I thought it was nice. We both knew now that this was a secret. It had to be, otherwise if mum knew, she would probably kill Bob. I’m waiting for the day when mum catches him in the act but that was long shot. He always played the lovable dad in my mum’s presence and in public. Mum will find out; and it will be soon. The only problem is; I fear for the safety of Bob when my mother finds out he has abused her son that she treasures so much. My ultimate revenge is waiting in anticipation. Words can mean so much more than actions. Therefore the best is yet to come…..

  ……………………………………

  For the rest of my senior year in primary school I was doing okay. I loved to be at school but dreaded going home. I tried to avoid Bob as much as possible but always said ‘Hello’, otherwise he would beat me up for being rude. My intention was never to be rude but I was just scared to acknowledge him as well as how difficult for me to call him dad. My school work however was of high quality and got straight A’s. That year I also won the title of Victorian state school spelling champion of the year. My mother was very proud, Bob couldn’t care less. Bob only seemed to focus on Sam and his achievements and never bothered with me. I really didn’t care about him either, but it would have been nice if your own stepfather acknowledged you. I began to loathe him and dare I say, have had moments where I thought about killing him. Where do I get a gun? I used to think to myself many times and then just thought it was just a silly idea. After all, I’d get arrested for murder. So I erased that thought from my mind altogether. I wanted a future and had was excited to get to high school. So the beatings from Bob continued that year and I just accepted it. They were same sold slaps across the face, being called a ‘bastard’ and ‘poofter’ went I turn my back, nothing really severe, but the verbal and physical abuse just went on, just like life in general.

  …………………………………………………………………………………………………..

  Chapter four.......Getting down to business

  My stepfather and mum decided to send me to a highly respected secondary school nearby home. I was very excited about it and the subject curriculum was very interesting, especially the subjects I was interested in pursuing such as creative arts, social sciences and media studies. This time the uniform was just exactly that, a uniform, it was compulsory and no variation allowed, so the matter of looking ‘cool’ was no issue as we all looked the same.

  During orientation week, which was a week prior to the actual start of the term, I noticed that there was nobody there that I knew. Not one student or any of my primary school friends went to the same secondary school as me. Arriving on the first day of term, but as soon as I stepped on campus, I was terrified. This was in high school now and a new level of pedagogy that I was yet to absorb. I was on my own now. I was alone.

  All the other students seemed to know at least one or two others and huddled in the courtyard assembly are in groups chatting and giggling. I didn’t know what to do with myself. All the excitement of the lead up to my new life at high school went out the window and I was faced with the terror of being a loner. All the other kids sort of took one look at me, mumbled something about me and giggled as they were
pointing at me. I was humiliated and scared. But most of all, all I wanted was a friend. I was alone.

  Since day one in year 7, no one seemed to want to talk to me or even want to sit next to me in class. It really hurt my feelings. I felt like I was the different one, the freak, the weirdo that no one wanted to befriend with. What also seemed to make the situation worse was that I took a lot of interest and enthusiasm in my class work, especially the creative subjects like art, textile design and home economics. The other kids thought it was strange that I had displayed some artistic ability.

  In art class, almost daily, when we participated in painting and drawing the teacher would walk around the class just having a look at the work we were all doing and give some advice as she was wandering around. When she came around to me she was always captivated with the work I was doing and made a big deal and got the entire attention of the class and holding up my work displaying it in front of the class and saying;

  “Oh Jay, this is fantastic, what was your inspiration?”

  I responded with embarrassment, although it was ephemeral.