everyday in the library i read the newspapers, the sun and the star and the national pest, and i read about sexual abuse that a teacher inflicted on students at UCC, upper canada college, Canadas Andover, but more british--upper canada and the bna, forever intertwined, a snake eating its own tail.

and this teacher, 20 years ago, would come in the night, to the cubicles where certain boys slept, and he would touch there genitals, maybe a couple of times, no more then 6, once he tried oral congress but it didnt really work.

paul shepered did this to me, when i was doing my own stint at an exclusive boys boarding school (i can name his name now) the dorms for grades 7 and 8 were open form, with no privacy, so he took me to the duty masters room--where he slept when he was over at the school, where he spanked students who failed at a milllion things (i got spanked 50some times in the first year when i was there, and i got spanked three times the second year--he wasnt there when i was in grade 8)

he spanked me in the same place as he molested me, not at the same time though, and he taught me math w. the same gentle directness as he taught me to touch myself.

the problem with blatchford, who is brilliant and who is writing the best narrative possible in the globe and mail, is that it is a narrative, with the same villians and victims. there is still a scar, a trench in my head due to trauma because he raped me...and blatchford talks about grooming, about this fake personae of love that overtakes a man who fucks a boy.

i want to tell her its more compliated then that, more ambigous. i think that shepered loved me and wanted the best for me. i think that a 14 year old can consent to sex (i fucked lots of boys at st johns, from 14 to 19--the 19 year old was the most abusive, the most damaging, the most destructive)

i want to tell her that for a week or two before the first incident, i masterbated to boys for the first time, away from church and mother, i began to envision myself as queer, and sometimes it wasnt even men who i thot about...it was shepered. i loved him, i loved him as a father, as a mentor, and i wanted to love him as a lover. i wanted him to fuck me. and then he did (he was too gentle to fuck me, how do i phrase this--i wanted hard and rough and quick and dirty).

i am strangely loyal i am glad that he taught me about math and god and love and devotion and the complexity of new places. i am supposed to angry, wanting revenge, wanting to destroy him, i am supposed to go to lawyers and judges and cops and hope that he will be brought in chains, that he will end up in stoney mountain and be raped and murdered.

how am i supposedto feel these things, hang into blatchfords normative narrative when everytime i think of him i get a hard on.

(i know the damage he has done, i will give you the damage he has done, the anon. and destructive sex in parks, bathhouses, backrooms, theaters and peepshows; the having realtionships fall apart because i couldnt stand to be touched, the failing to be properly intimate and joyful, my fear and distrust of men, my fear and distrust of my own body and desires, my panic attacks, my depression, my terror, my sadness. he has destroyed me. i didnt consent. a 14 year old can not consent to a 40 year old, its not done.)

conserative xians must love me, single mother who i was too attached too, distant father, sexual abuse, boarding school, initial sex as queer, etc etc...i fit the standard mangled freudianisms of exodus, and the abuse i think ties into my interenalised homophobia--but then who doesnt have internalised homophobia...i cant answer if i grew up queer, if i was born queer, where sex comes from is a swamp where nothing emerges clean and continous.

i dont think that paul made me gay.
i dont know what to do about the hard ons, the loyalty and affection i feel layered among the hate.