Vaguely Recalled Sodomy

Anyone in my life will tell you that even if you consider me trustworthy, I am capable of proving you wrong. There have been men such as this throughout all of history so of course I am not special; quite the norm apparently. The next person who refers to me as unique or weird, however, is going to get a stern visual appraisal and likely then be considered not worth the effort of explaining myself.

If it makes you feel better when alone or at night or at a club or whenever, consider this to be a big fib on my part but not a joke. I could never knowingly commit such an offensive act as making a joke out of the forcible rape of a boy in the basement of a church, but that is why you are reading this as well. Titillating subject matter.

The words here are to serve as a reminder that you could have it worse off, or that I still consider myself vastly more fortunate than most anyone I have ever known, anal sodomy episode which you are about to understand aside.

Just a few blocks from where I sit typing this is a school of some local regard. It is one of the oldest in the state, I have been told, and it is certainly the most historic in the community of my birth. The interesting aspect of this story, so to speak, is that even now I am the only person who I could consider responsible for this situation having occurred in the first place. No one believed me then, so why believe me now?

I am the only person responsible for not fighting back or screaming. I am the only person responsible for folding this sort of evil up into a neat, black envelope and attempting to lock it away in the darkest recesses of my mind. I was told not to make a scene, not to act out, not to cry, not to get emotional…told not to fight back. 

Fuck that shit. If a boy is locked in a damp, dark room of a church to be forcibly sodomized even once, all of existence is a crime against whichever god into which you place your hope and faith. You have the luxury I cannot afford myself: self-esteem and blindness to shame. Shame was forced into me.

The interior, stucco walls of the building in which this occurred had extensive water damage from a decade or more of a roof falling apart. The church today stands refreshed and reinvigorated, finances affording upgrades. But the building stands in testimony to my writing here.

Who knows? Perhaps someone who reads this will come up to me one day and say, “Yeah, Justin, you were butt-fucked by a man before you turned ten in the basement of your childhood church. That happened. Sorry we did nothing about it.”

Anyway, the basement of the church at this time was somewhat falling behind on the more modern conveniences of the early 1990’s. As far as I can remember there was no T.V., no cable, and the space contained poor lighting which was often kept to a minimum to see around the great open, but low, expanse of the interior. 

While my memory is consistently vague, I can recall entering the basement from the western-most end, romping down narrow steps with old, musty carpet into a drab, darkened interior. There were lights all over the room, but they were not all on. 

Whomever I was with, I do not remember who, perhaps suggested we leave the lights as they were, or perhaps I did. I cannot recall much of my youth, as my life has been less than well-managed with regard to my brain, and so this writing may finally explain why it is the case that I have poor memory to anyone who may be concerned. Trauma is a mother fucker.

My understanding now, looking back, is that I was wise enough to follow a girl my age into the basement, hoping to do something ‘naughty’, but not smart enough to cry rape. My further assumptions, should the previous assumption be inaccurate, is that none of this truly matters in hindsight to anyone but myself. The girl got away. I made sure of that.

Whoever the man in question was, he is no longer of significance and likely died of guilt or worse years prior to now. I label these as assumptions because no one else’s opinion on this specific situation is more important than my own and likely I have already made an ass out of you and me.

So imagine the scene: myself chubby, brown hair, thick glasses, generally questioning and disconcerted. Of course I will go into the basement with you, “nondescript female friend”, you are pretty and cool. If there was a girl there, in no way could she have known what this man was planning to do to me, or us, so let me have the part about the naive, adolescent, hyperactive male sexuality. 

We are in the poorly lit basement. The best light would be to our left at the entrances to the bathrooms as we face the eastward expanse of the basement; east toward the small kitchen area which is directly beneath the altar in the chapel area one floor above us. 

Maybe I say we should walk to the other end of the expanse, like it will be fun to go over there where it is dark, even if it seems spooky. Maybe she wanted me to say this because the experience was already exciting. Maybe we took off eastward at a sprint, giggling and happy, weaving around the large conference tables and laughing about how we could get in so much trouble. Maybe this is all just a story about innocence.

Maybe I work up the nerve to look into the darkest part of the basement; the utility closet to the north of the kitchen area. Two large, unlocked, swinging doors which at that time opened into a vaulted area separate from the overall basement. 

From what I can remember, this room housed the facilities for operating a lift elevator for the elderly and those who required handicap access to the main chapel area of the church. I think at one time this lift lowered into the basement of the church as well but from what I recall that feature was removed before my time. 

We throw the doors back and perhaps there is a loud double-bang as both doors swing open. We are kids looking to get in trouble, and I guess we wanted to get caught. I close the doors behind us and lock them. We have to be careful, I imagined, or we could get in trouble. She giggled.

There is a bit of light in the room, which we were not expecting. Perhaps the sun was already setting outside, or perhaps the one window was simply dust-ridden on the interior and fall-leaf-addled on the exterior. The utility room was certainly not a sterile facility, as there were loose items about the floor, random furniture, dust across everything along the wall, and under the window to the exterior near the unfinished ceiling.

Quickly something changed in the room. From excitement and wonder to confusion and fear. Maybe I tried to kiss her, maybe I tried to touch her, or any of an infinite number of innocent but reckless notions from either of us children. 

I cannot accurately recall. We had locke the doors and in secret were investigating the space. I imagine I felt a childish sense of shame that she did not intend to do something fun in that room with me and so I just took the opportunity to look around the place. 

We were not allowed to be in that room as students, after all, so maybe I would not get another chance to see what it was all about. There were many things along the wall, but I could not now accurately tell you of anything that stuck in the memory banks. A wrench? Some pliers? A can of WD-40? Fuck it, I would not want to remember. 

We were not alone long. A few minutes into our frantic pacing of excited youth and then the door knobs jiggle. The girl and I freeze and eyeball each other. Once they jiggle, as if to check for the lock. Then a pause and a sigh from beyond the door as a keychain jingles.

A key is inserted, and a man unlocks the door and comes into the room, closing the swinging doors behind him. The man did not slam the door closed, one still stood slightly ajar, and when he turned around I could not see his face. His head was lost to me in the dark of the room, the rafters of the unfinished ceiling, and my surprise at getting caught trespassing in a church basement.

What follows is the most general explanation I could provide for what may have occurred. In no way would I want to make any of this up, either to justify who I am or to rationalize my opinions of the world. However, my memory of shaming is perhaps the most destructive memory in my life and perhaps the life of anyone else who knows me, and so here we go.

The man informed us children that what we were doing was wrong, that we were trespassing in this utility room, and that we would be punished. He looked at me and told me that what we were doing was wrong and that we were in trouble. 

For all I know, I said ‘fuck you, man!’, and he slapped me in the face, knocking my glasses to the ground. I would like to believe I put up a fight.

For all I know, the girl took that first assault as an indication that she needed to flee, and flee she did. Allow me the honor of believing I took one for the team; the team being children.

For all I know, he actually put his hand on my shoulder, tightening his grip to imply dominance. Allow me to assume that I bit at his hand and spit in his face.

For all I know, he told me to turn around and kneel on a wooden chair in the damp, dark basement so he could spank me. Allow me to know I kicked the chair over and struggled to resist before he picked me up in one arm, stood up the chair with his other, and kneeled me away from him as if I were in supplication.

For all I know, I was looking to the north, in the direction of the local public library when he pulled my pants down to my knees. Allow me to choose to believe that I did not choose this life or circumstance.

For all I know, this man had already applied lubrication to his erect penis before entering the room or my boyish anal cavity. Allow me to forget.

For all I know, he came inside me weakly and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him as the light finally faded out of the day. Allow my belief that I was in shock, pain, and confusion as the sun set.

For all I know, I spent a few minutes in that room alone before spending a few more on the basement toilet for men. Allow me to recognize even then that I was old enough to know what happened to me was wrong as I sat alone in the toilet stall.

For all I know, this is not the first time anyone has ever heard of something like this happening and thus I am not special or unique; just guilt-blocked from facing hard facts of my life. If I have to accept that I am weird regardless of this memory, allow me to be weird and keep that opinion henceforth to your fucking self…me? Weird? No fucking shit dude.

I would never claim to be an expert on the comings and goings of a small town church. Or pedophilia. Or even sodomy. 

I have my faith and my spirituality which, to my best efforts, stay separate from one another as much as manageable. This vaguely recalled nightmare, I have prayed, is merely a bad dream that replays for the last 3 decades of my life. 

I would never claim a level of guilt greater than one I already have, but looking into our own past is harder than looking in the mirror, so for all I know all of this actually did happen and any further details would simply scare the reader further. Cheers to a life lived past this horror and with whatever salvation I may find in whatever the fuck we are supposed to be waiting around for after death. 

Afterlife? I’m still after a life; my own. My own life, free of shame, regret, and confusion about myself and my past and my future. Free from self-loathing and outward apathy. Free to let this just be a bad memory, or ideally the fictional manifestation of a bad brain. It would be better than shaming myself further by letting anyone reading this call me a liar, or worse.

Corporate Policy, JHB, 2025