Sexually Abused as a Child ... and I Liked It

Growing up in a house devoid of affection was more traumatic than being molested as a child.

When touch warms up a boy's cold existence, the deed's immorality is virtually insignificant. At least to him.

Whether habit makes him return for more is debatable.

After 27 years of inner turmoil, silence and grudges, my precocious sexualization is becoming less of an issue.

Mother battered and devalorized me cruelly at home. At least, my molesters used no violence or awfully-crude language. Non-violent, feel-good, physical contact was welcome change. That was my logic as a child.

Gratitude in this context can shock, but I feel lucky.

Truth is, my experience with sexual abuse was benign compared to others'. I was touched more than anything, with futile anal intercourse attempts. That's why, to this day, I struggle calling the culprits 'abusers'.

Is "illicit source of physical closeness" a better appellation?

Most culprits were teens from our poor, delinquent and illiterate ghetto. Many came from large families cramped in one-room apartments. In the absence of room, they vented their sexual frustration outside.

Except my nanny's teenage son. His plaything lived right next door.

Mom caught us right after the act, one afternoon. But, since she respected his father, she said nothing. Instead, she cowardly had me break the embarrassing news to the guy's sister -- my then-best friend.

Am I wrong for hurting more over mom's inaction?

I'm an optimist. I, thus, can tune out outside issues if a loving home awaits. But, when you are abused, find nobody home to console you, you're lost. It's worse when you have an absentee parent in whom you can't confide.

The incident that scarred me the most was courtesy of a babysitter.

The personal assistant to one of mom's "friends". I was often left alone with him while everybody partied until the wee hours of the morning elsewhere. Knowing his intentions, I'd sternly watch cartoons to resist falling asleep.

Being only five, and after a grueling day at school, I always dozed off. I'd open my eyes to find myself on his lap, his tobacco-stinking mouth devouring my face and his loins frantically rubbing against my body.

One evening, I complained about that in graphic detail to mom. I begged not to be taken there. She promised to have him replaced. Countless nights after, I found myself alone with him again, sleepily succumbing to his urges.

Face to face. Butt to loins. Childhood helplessness to adult lust. A feeling of betrayal to a feeling of lucking out. A justified grudge to bestial insensitivity.

To this day, she swears I never told her about it ...