Garvey opened the door ahead of me, ushered me into the room, flipped the light switch, and with his hand on the doorknob, gently pushed the door closed. There was a finality to the click of the door latch as the mechanism caught. A click that broke the hum of the fluorescent lights and brought me back from the clutter of thoughts streaming through my head. Back to my future. Back to the fear and desperation of my immediate future. He told me to take down my pants. All I could think of at times like this was escape. But there was no escape. In the past I had tried pleading, bargaining, crying, or even physically trying to delay him by inching away. None of that worked. He simply crossed his arms over his chest, rocking back on his heels while pushing his hips forward, leaning his torso back as he did so. Balancing there, he waited for me. He told me that he would wait as long as it took and that it was better to get it over with. He said that by postponing the inevitable I was only adding to my own anguish. In the end, I unfastened my belt, lowered my pants down around my ankles, and naked from the waist down, submitted. I had learned. Tight-lipped and rigid with a quiet loathing and determination that I had learned from his hand, I accepted my beating.
When I bent forward and placed my hands on my knees, Garvey came closer. He approached and stood on my left side. When he got close enough, he reached out with his left hand and cupped, and then closed, his hand around my testicles. This, he told me, was to keep me from getting a hernia, or otherwise injuring myself in that area, during my paddling. My testicles secured, Garvey ceremoniously drew back his right hand, held it for a moment at its peak, and with a full swing of his arm, brought his open, bare hand hard against my bare buttocks. The first time I was ever "rapped" the resulting "smack" had been unlike anything I had ever heard before. I had never been hit like this and certainly had never heard the loud clap that resulted from such a strong flesh on flesh blow. The pain came swiftly next. I had learned not to yelp, but it was all I could do not to. He was, afterall, a fully-grown man and at the time of this particular incident, I was still a pre-pubescent boy. I could not stop the tears from welling up behind my eyes and they spilled out and rolled down my cheeks.
When Garvey's hand made contact with my ass, he didn't immediately remove it. Instead, he held it in place, and not breaking contact with my skin, proceeded to vibrate his palm and fingers back and forth as if reinforcing and rubbing in the pain for a few more seconds. This done, he counted it out loud. "That's one." Then he dramatically drew back his right arm and hit me again. "That's two." Again. "That's three." I started to reach for my pants and tried to stand up. "No, Jack, we're not done. Your teacher said you're headed for a "4" in conduct for this little stunt. You know what a "4" means. Now bend over." I dropped my pants back to the floor and assumed the position. And again Garvey wound up and swung his arm at me, clapping me on the ass with one last ferocious smack. It seemed to be the hardest hit yet and I lurched forward from the sheer force of his swing. "That's four. And let that be a lesson to you. You want to be a clown, Mr. Hughes? You go ahead and grow up to be a clown. But not around me."
As I have said before, when a young boy barely in grade school I was flattered by Garvey's attention. This is ludicrous but the first time I was paddled, despite how much it hurt, I was vaguely proud of having joined the fraternity of St. Johns basketball players. Garvey's players. In later years, teamed with my more blatant sexual abuse, I recognized Garvey's policy of doling out "raps" for what it really is: trolling for, and cultivating, submissive and seemingly willing young boys for his own sexual pleasure.
The handprints from these paddlings showed blazing red on my backside for days afterwards. I would hide them from my parents and family until they went away. The psychological handprint these beatings, and my subsequent sexual abuse at Garvey's hands, left on me are still there. They may never go away. PREDAFILE is an attempt to heal those wounds. I offer this forum to those of you, who like me, were hit by Garvey, were paddled by Garvey, or were taken to bed and sexually molested by Garvey. Begin the healing. Talk about your experiences. Anonymously if necessary. Take back that part of your past that you have denied and kept secret because of shame or embarrassment. Take back that part of your past, that part of you, that you could never share. Not even with those closest to you. Especially not with those closest to you. That's wrong. Garvey stole something from us. PREDAFILE is a safe haven. A place for us to test the waters as we get in touch with how we feel about the things Garvey did to us, and talk about them, for maybe the first time. A place for us to put our past back together. A chance to put our experiences in their proper perspective and maybe one day let those who love us most love us for who we really are, and help us heal. I offer you my experiences. Maybe, in them, you'll see a part of yourself, and reclaim it.
predafile@hotmail.com
