Diary of My Horrific Sexual Assault
Life lessons of a loving gay Christian
In the fall of 1972, I was sexually assaulted by an adult gay man. Here is my story. [Note: the name of my deceased assailant has been changed to “Ron” to protect his identity.]
“I still can’t believe this is happening!” I proclaimed to my best friend at college — a university that frowned upon drinking alcohol and banned known homosexuals. “How did you get us invited to Ron’s football party?”
My best friend and I were merely 19 years old — sophomores at the ultra conservative university. And neither of us was on the school’s football team.
Ron was a sportswriter for our local newspaper; his specialty was reporting on the university’s football team. Ron was famous in town, as his picture always accompanied his op-ed piece. If one wanted to learn “the real scoop” on the university’s football players, you had only to read Ron’s daily column.
Ron also had a secret “underground” social club. Every Saturday evening the college football players had a standing invitation to join Ron at his modest home — for drinks and laughs! Oh, Ron’s private booze parties were astounding — and entirely confidential. And for great reason. It was illegal at our university for anyone under age 21 to drink any alcohol of greater than 3.2 percent alcohol content. This rule essentially meant every form of hard liquor was out of bounds. And if the school officials learned that you drank liquor, you were severely punished.
Yet, amazingly, on this Saturday evening, my best friend and I strolled into Ron’s home.
As we walked into the place, it was moderately crowded but not packed. I noticed several of the varsity football players. We exchanged knowing-winks to each other as if to silently say, “You keep your mouth shut; I will too.” Grin.
Suddenly, behold the man! Ron walked straight to me as if I was his long-lost friend. He was short (oh, maybe 5 feet, 5 inches), bordering on obese, and bald on top. And he appeared much older than the image portrayed in his daily newspaper column. And yet, Ron was still only in his 40s. He was not aging gracefully.
Confidently smiling his celebrity smile, Ron announced to my best friend and me:
“Welcome to my home. You are a friend of mine. I hope you will find my home to be very pleasing to you. Please help yourself to my open bar. Furthermore, take this large marker-pen and sign your name on my Wall of Fame.”
Ron pointed to his Living Room wall. Sure enough, on that wall were the signed names of literally hundreds of famous football players from the university’s legendary years of football. And with noted hubris, I, too, signed my name — right alongside the male superstars.
“Let’s get a drink,” My best friend eagerly said — to which I eagerly complied. And there it was: an entire Dining Room table of booze bottles. Now, mind you, I had been making it a habit that sophomore year to get drunk on beer — but no “hard stuff” ever had entered my lips. I did not know the difference between Whiskey and Gin; Vodka or Scotch. I thought: might as well begin now. After all, during my sophomore year, my goal was to taste evil. And I was an achiever.
So I poured orange juice into the lower half of a plastic cup (of size, perhaps eight ounces). Then I filled the top half with whatever my first liquor would be for the night (i.e., about four ounces of hard liquor). I drank that down, ate munchies, chatted up some of the juniors and seniors at this party [it seems like my friend and I were the only sophomores]. And we laughed. I remember the entire first part of the night was raucous, loud laughter.
And with every new round of alcoholic experimentation [“Say, let’s try Gin this time!”], my ability to laugh occurred more often, the room became less crowded, and my legs became less stable. At one point, I vaguely remembered thinking, “Where did everyone go?” It now seemed that the only two people in the bar area were my friend and me. And then, just me.
That is, except for Ron.
And that is where the trauma began.
Ron walked straight to me as if I was now his sole focus of interest. His prey. Unaware and plastered, I was flattered. He smiled. We laughed. I drank some more (and by now, I had zero idea of how much alcohol I had consumed).
My memory of what follows is very hazy. I remember Ron staring into my eyes, never moving off of the center of my pupils. And he had this big grin on his face. Kinda sly. And kinda evil, come to think of it.
I remember him unbuttoning the top button on my shirt. That seemed odd, but at this point, everything was spinning in my head.
Ron now unloosed my second button. Next, Ron is playing with my chest hair with his fingers. Eyes still centered on mine. Smiling that evil “I know what comes next” grin. A sinister face that implied, “And you have no fucking idea of what I am about to do to you.” Evil. Pure evil.
Suddenly, black.
I cannot recall what happened immediately next. In medical terms, this is a “blackout” — which is defined as:
“A memory loss due to binge drinking alcohol, typically at a Blood Alcohol Content level of 0.15 [0.08 is the level at which one is illegal to drive]. The person in a blackout may not pass out; instead, he is incapable of remembering how he got to a specific place.”
And I remembered nothing.
That is until I felt my pants and underwear being violently yanked off me!
My next memory was me staring up at a very bright overhead light. I deduced I was lying on a bed, on my back.
I peered down at myself. I was now completely naked.
Scared, I tried to prop myself up to get off the bed. My mind willed it, but my arms and legs could not move. They lay at my side as if each weighed 10-tons. Now terrified, I tried to roll over, off the bed. My body felt cemented to the bed; my arms and legs could not budge — like a person with quadriplegia. All I could do was squint my eyes from the blinding overhead light.
Then it occurred to me: the lights are so bright because he wants to enjoy looking at whatever he is about to do to me.
And Ron had me exactly where he wanted.
For the rest of the long, long evening, he repeatedly sexually abused me. First, one type of sexual abuse, then a different kind. Next, he repeated his abuse. Again. And yet again. “Please stop,” I said to him over and over again. Please stop. Please. Stop. Stop. It was incessant. It simply would not end.
And this was my very first sexual experience in life.
And it was with a man in whom I was not attracted. I would have never chosen him to be my very first “lover.” I had fantasized about handsome, muscular, lean, athletic, and virile men. And Ron was none of that. For years and years, I had imagined how wonderful it would be to enjoy a man’s body, to make love, and then hold each other afterward.
But this long evening was no fantasy come true. Instead, it was a nightmare that would not end.
But eventually, it did end.
After waking, I realized I was alone in bed. The sun now filtered into the bedroom. Thankfully, I discovered I could now move. Sick from a hangover, I rolled out of bed. Somehow, I found my underwear on the floor. I found my remaining clothes scattered elsewhere. I went to the bathroom, vomited, got into my car, and drove back to my dormitory room.
And on that sad day, I officially entered the world of being a sexual assault victim.
In my case, I could not report the crime — because it would incriminate me for underage drinking. I also could not inform officials of being sexual assaulted. If I had done so, the authorities might assume (correctly) that I too am a homosexual. And if the officials knew I was a homosexual, I would have immediately been kicked out of this particular college.
The perverse irony: I was sexually assaulted, yet I would have lost my career if I blew the whistle on a sexual predator.
So I kept my mouth shut at the “real men don’t cry” school.
And then cried the entire afternoon.
Sexual assault leave marks. You are not alone. I care.
Dr. Mike Rosebush is the founder/author of GAYoda. He has a Ph.D. in Counseling Psychology and is a retired Licensed Professional Counselor with 45+ years of mentoring thousands of gay Christian men. Read the complete set of articles here. You may contact Dr. Rosebush at mikerosebush75@gmail.com.
