July 17th, 2005


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jimbojones
11:05 pm - this story has three qualities: random, disturbing, true
Once when I was about 10, my parents had some sort of engagement that prevented them from being able to pick me up on time from a boy scout weekend camping trip. The assistant scoutmaster graciously offered to take care of me for the five or six hours that they would be unavailable after the event was over. Ha. As soon as we got back to his apartment, he found some pretense to strip down to nothing but his underwear. He was hot, he was more comfortable that way, whatever. I didn't mind, did I? I didn't give a damn. Then he wanted me to rub his back. Okay, fine, actually my mom had constant back trouble and I rubbed her back daily, I didn't mind that, I was even proud of my massage skills, so it was a little odd but whatever. Then he wanted me to rub his inner thighs. Right where the legholes of his tighty-whities ended.  I actually started to, and did for a little while, but it made me uncomfortable as hell.  So I was like "Uh, this is just weird.  Sorry."

It didn't even occur to me that this guy was actually trying to come on to me sexually. In the slightest. It was my SCOUTMASTER, right?

We had spent what in retrospect was a REALLY disturbing amount of that weekend - including on the camping trip itself, as well as at his apartment alone (after I had declared my unwillingness to continue rubbing his inner thighs) - discussing what I would do if a gay man tried to rape me. Again, I was completely oblivious. I thought it was weird that he kept talking about this crap, but it didn't even occur to me that he was sizing me up as a victim.  Luckily for me in this particular case, I might have been oblivious, but I was also a really really angry child who was ready and willing to fight anyone at any time and would never accept defeat without inflicting as much damage as I could on the way down. I knew very well the concept of losing, but I also knew very well the concept of hurting the "victor" so much he dearly regretted it. And I made that philosophy really clear during all these discussions. "But what if the guy was really big and strong, like a pro football player? You could get really hurt badly if you fought. I'd hate to see you get hurt.  He wouldn't have any reason to hurt you if you didn't fight." I'd angrily reply that I'd tear his throat out with my teeth. If he tried to put it in my mouth, I'd bite it off.  If I could, I'd gouge his eyes out, fishhook his cheeks, savage anything I could reach with anything that I could.  "But what if the guy was so big, and so strong, you didn't have the chance to do anything like that?  That you had no chance of keeping it from happening?  You'd just get hurt for no reason.  I hate to think of you getting hurt." It didn't matter, I'd reply.  I'd hurt him. It didn't matter if the hypothetical football player was destined to win and have his way, it didn't matter how badly I got hurt for fighting, it didn't matter if it meant I'd die.  I'd FIGHT. And I'd make him regret it.

It wasn't empty bravado, it was my usual mindset in those days.  I didn't necessarily think I could win things, but I damn sure believed in being able to be so vicious, so utterly wolverine ungoverned, that I could make anybody wish they hadn't fucked with me, whether they won or not.  That I could force people, if not to leave me alone, at the very damn least to have a healthy respect for the price they'd have to pay if they didn't.

Recalling all this from an adult's perspective, it seems amazing now that I never knew what was going on. That good old Scoutmaster Dale was a pedophile. But I'm quite sure the only reason I didn't actually get attacked that night in his apartment was how obvious it was that I was far too full of anger and defiance to be made to submit. Maybe he was (reasonably) scared of getting his naked genitalia anywhere near a kid vicious enough to bite them off if given the chance. Maybe he just realized that there was no way in hell that there was going to be any getting through any such prospect without visible marks being all over BOTH of us - much less without me "telling on him."  Which I damn sure would have, being who I was.  I dunno. Either way, discretion was apparently the better part of being a pedophile that day, and he put his damn clothes back on.

I didn't realize what had actually happened that day until I was 20. I don't know what made me remember that night out of the clear blue while sitting in my apartment in Charleston reading a book and listening to CDs, but I definitely remember the feeling of shock when the memory first occurred to me, and then I realized what it actually meant.  I still feel guilty that I didn't realize that SCOUTMASTER DALE was himself the "gay football player" he was so obsessed with, and that I might have failed to prevent some other, more pliable kid(s) from a worse fate at his hands.  If anybody was in the BSA in Birmingham, AL (troop 96? I'm honestly not sure of the troop number anymore, and there is more than one in Birmingham) in the early 80's, and had worse luck than I did with "Scoutmaster Dale" - names NOT changed, and I wish to god I knew his last name - I'm really, really sorry.  I'd have done something if I'd known.  And by all means if you DO know his last name and there's something YOU want to come forward with, for god's sake let me know and I'll be more than happy to appear - in court or otherwise - to tell my own story along with yours.

 
Current Mood: headachey
Current Music: Nine Inch Nails - Right Where It Belongs

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Comments:



 
From: eldritch_crank
Date: July 18th, 2005 - 09:01 am
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[User Picture] From: jimbojones
Date: July 18th, 2005 - 09:19 am
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I haven't the foggiest who the sponsor was. I'm not even certain of the troop number anymore; I THINK it was troop 96 out of Vestavia Hills, but I wouldn't bet my life on it. I remember two or three of my fellow scouts from that troop fairly well, but all I remember for sure of the organization itself is the jerk in question's first name, "Dale." And that he was an assistant scoutmaster, not the head scoutmaster.

I made some fairly exhaustive web searches to try to confirm the troop number, but unfortunately there isn't a whole lot of data available online even about current troops, much less about troops from the early 80s.


 
From: eldritch_crank
Date: July 18th, 2005 - 09:42 am
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[User Picture] From: jimbojones
Date: July 18th, 2005 - 09:46 am
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Right, but how would I know for sure which one I'd belonged to even if presented a list of the ones in the area?

I can tell you for a fact that there is no one named "Dale" currently active as a staff member in any boy scout troop in the Birmingham area with any online presence. Beyond that, it all gets pretty hazy. To be positive even that it was Troop 96 I was in, I'd have to find someone with records of Scout rolls from about '82 or '83.


 
From: eldritch_crank
Date: July 18th, 2005 - 09:56 am
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[User Picture] From: jimbojones
Date: July 18th, 2005 - 10:09 am
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Someone's might, but mine almost certainly doesn't. We weren't a very camera-esque family; the number of existing pictures of me as a child could probably be counted by Dubya with both shoes still on.

23 years later, I only remember the names of two other scouts - a kid named Terry I was constantly getting into fights with, and a kid named Francis [last name censored] who I was very fond of. I don't think any of the other kids in the troop had problems with Dale while I was there, at least, because I had recounted the fact that Dale kept obsessing about gay football player rapists to several of them in a group (though not the weirdness at his apt - that might not even have happened yet, the recounting might very well have been on that same weekend) and they were all clearly shocked. Actually, they thought I was accusing Dale of being gay - which, ironically enough, I wasn't - and they found it difficult to believe, to say the least.


 
From: eldritch_crank
Date: July 18th, 2005 - 10:42 am
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[User Picture] From: jimbojones
Date: July 18th, 2005 - 10:56 am
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Troop 96 IS the Vestavia Hills troop. Google it, and you'll find it. The problem is, I'm by no means completely certain that Vestavia Hills is the correct troop area. There were several troops in Birmingham even then, and I didn't really attend one that was specific to the neighborhood *I* lived in, which was Eastlake. I couldn't even begin to tell you what church sponsored the troop, because I was an atheist from the day I was born and frankly didn't care about any such thing. I'm almost certain that I was never a member of any troop (this was not the only scout troop I was a member of) with a three digit designation, but I can't swear to that either.


 
From: eldritch_crank
Date: July 18th, 2005 - 11:15 am
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[User Picture] From: jimbojones
Date: July 18th, 2005 - 11:37 am
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Yeah. Exactly. Meaning without one unholy HELL of a lot of effort that might not even be possible, I can't even determine for sure what troop I was in - because I frankly didn't rememeber that number off the top of my head, it was simply the first under-three-digit troop number in the Birmingham area I could find online, and it's really obvious that there AREN'T any complete and all-inclusive records online, so my actual old troop might not even BE online anywhere for me to see its number and have my memory jarred, so...

Yeah.


 
From: five_speed
Date: July 18th, 2005 - 10:19 am
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Wow, what a story. You're lucky that it didn't go any further!

I definitely think you should say something. I mean, chances are the guy is in jail or dead, but you never know. He could still be a scout master. Or a priest. I'm SURE there's a way to find out who he is, but it will take a little research.


 
[User Picture] From: lindapendant
Date: July 18th, 2005 - 01:41 pm
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I'd have been the eight year old that got talked into believing that it was perfectly normal, and even better, beneficial for an eight year old to get fucked by old men and to keep it as our special secret. I was raised with RESPECT MA AUTHORATAH, do it/don't do it because I said so, and I never got the you can always tell me anything, and the there are certain places you have that should never be touched (catholic mothers didn't talk about those places and maybe wished they didn't even exist). I was taught that above all, be nice and don't hurt people's feelings. It's a wonder I survived. It's nice to be a parent and get to do it all different.


 
[User Picture] From: sesby
Date: July 18th, 2005 - 02:28 pm
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I am so sorry that happened to you. That makes me incredibly angry.


 
[User Picture] From: jimbojones
Date: July 18th, 2005 - 06:44 pm
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Thank you, that means a lot. But honestly, nothing worse happened to me than being a little sketched out for a few minutes and... displaying large amounts of my own anger and hostility in response to a potential target. Which wasn't exactly something unusual in my day to day life. I wouldn't even have been afraid of him if I HAD known what he was on about. My fear was all internally directed then - not being good enough, not measuring up to some standard, not being taken seriously. Those were my all-consuming fears. All I had left for the outside world after that was seemingly inexhaustible ferocity, just itching for a valid target to present itself.

I just really, really hope that I was both his first intended target, and that I managed to make him skittish enough of the whole idea that I was his last as well. If that's not the case, I failed somebody else pretty badly.


 
[User Picture] From: aj_reloaded
Date: July 18th, 2005 - 08:58 pm
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I went to catholic high school. We had a wrestling coach that was a little to enthusiastic about wrestling his charges. When one of his team got into trouble this coach would offer to punishments. Wrestle, or be booted from the team. Of course everyone wrestled him. I wasn’t a member of the wrestling team, but I once watched a ‘punishment’ session, and it was disconcerting.


 
[User Picture] From: biggeek
Date: July 20th, 2005 - 10:20 pm
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I don't know how many times I was attacked by big gay football player rapists when I was a kid...It turns out we had a nest of them in the crawlspace under the garage.

Seriously though, Scoutmaster Dale needs to have his dick cut off.



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