Date: Fri, 15 Jun 2018 18:50:21 +0200 (CEST) From: shorty999@tutanota.com Subject: Gouge Away Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. It is not true. Author: Shorty Note 6/15/2018: I will release my next story, "Pink and White," in mid-September, 2018. Gouge Away I can tell you that my parents and I all thought it was a little strange when he asked that I come in full uniform. Later we laughed it off when he told us, "it's too clean! We need to break it in." In truth, I'm sure it had to do with some sort of fetish. The way he untucked my shirt and undid my belt, with such careful attention. The way he seemed determined to leave as much of my clothing on as possible. It has all started to make more and more sense over the years, where it had made almost zero sense at the time. It was only five years ago, five insane years that mutated my life into something unrecognizable. I think puberty alone is more than enough whirlwind for an average kid to deal with. With all the other change-ups and curveballs thrown at me, puberty seemed more like an inside fastball, high and tight. "Tight." It's one of the words I remembered he said. "Damn you're tight. Loosen up. Relax." Since then, I've moved to a new town, started at a new school, and made new friends. I've grown a foot, grown some hair, and gained the power of procreation (in theory, I guess). I definitely think what happened had at least some effect on my sexual orientation today. I can confidently say I'm only turned on by little preteen boys, like I was then - imagine that. As I try to envision a path forward for my impending adulthood (do I pursue dispassionate relationships with women, or do I claim asexuality?), I can't bring myself to be angry. I understand him now. Honestly, it wasn't so bad until he got caught. Until the courtrooms, the child psychologists, the change in the way people treated me. I remember one day outside the courthouse Ryan asked me, in a near-whisper, "what did he do to you?" Ryan was a boy who had known Coach Scott like I had. Once upon a time, a Little League teammate. How awkward. Who asks a question like that? I didn't know how to respond. I think Coach did the same thing to us all, essentially. I think back on being 12, not knowing my body as I do now. Not knowing the feelings you get while masturbating home alone and peering through the blinds as groups of schoolkids walk by your window. I was a different me. I had no idea what was coming. So my dad dropped me off. Coach Scott offered what he called "clinics" to some of his players. He delivered the proposal after practice one day. "If it's ok with your old man," giving a nod towards my dad, who was standing by my side, "we can do some one-on-one drills out in my yard. Work on getting that glove down and making that quick exchange." There was sort of a moment where we looked at each other, my dad and I, to make sure we were both on board. Why not? "Absolutely," my old man said. "When?" It was in May, I remember that much. In the middle of the season. I couldn't tell you the exact date, but it had to have been on a Sunday because I remember Mom reminding me that I needed to finish my homework when I got home. I remember it took me longer than usual, my mind still buzzing from what had happened. I got out of my dad's car in full uniform. Number 5. "Wildcats" in red cursive across my shirt. "W" on the hat. All royal blue except my pants, which were white. I found a gem tucked away on social media recently - a picture day photo of the entire Wildcats team. I knew I was lucky to have found it, that the scandal hadn't forced its removal yet, so I copied it to my hard drive. I was kneeling in the front, wearing the same uniform, a hand on my raised knee, my blond hair sticking straight down out of my cap and over my ears. Eyes wide open. Smiling. Thoughts like "why me?" did cross my mind when I was 12 - not in a self-pitying way, more simply curious. What did he see in me? Was there something in particular about the way I looked, the way I acted? These were confusing questions. Not anymore. Damn I was hot. Coach Scott was on the right side, hands on hips, beaming. This was an end-of-season pic. It was post-molestation. At least three of those little faces had already, as the lawyer claimed, lost their innocence. And one of them was me. As I walked to the door my dad had his hand on my back, affectionately. My cleats crunched the gravel. At the door there were handshakes. Strong, manly handshakes. "I'll be back at 3 then, have fun," my dad said. Coach waved. "Take your time." Inside the house, I took off my cleats. "Well, Luka, you ready to break in that uniform?" When I think about the uniform conversation - the one that had happened earlier, over the phone, where Coach had told my dad to bring me dressed as if I was going to a real game - two things strike me as interesting. First, that Coach had been planning way ahead. He knew exactly what he was going to do with me. Second, the fucking red flag my parents missed. Here was a man, single and middle-aged, making wardrobe requests for the little boy he was about to be alone with for multiple hours. Like I said, we all thought it was odd at the time; even his explanation, in retrospect, was suspect. But it was a man we knew, and we trusted people we knew. I loved fielding ground balls. Judging the height of the bounce, the speed of the ball, getting in front of it, and then trusting your glove hand to do the rest. It was such a satisfying game. Meanwhile, Coach's positive catchphrases made me feel on point. "Atta boy" was a favorite. And that huge smile of his. It was the same smile from picture day. Picture day, on the right side, looking extra big and tall next to the little squad. Coach Scott was big. Like, he wasn't thin. He wasn't huge though. Just a 45-year-old man with a gut. He liked to wear cargo shorts. No notable facial hair, just a shadow type of thing most days. He looked like a dad, but he wasn't. We practiced on the lawn in his wide-open yard. His house was situated between rural farmlands a little ways outside of town. Earlier that year, it had been the site of a pre-season team meeting, so this wasn't my first visit. The sheer size of the lawn made it a perfectly acceptable space for drills. But practice ended earlier than 3. We were inside. "Luka! Coke?" "No thanks. Could I have a glass of water, please?" "Atta boy! Good answer, kid!" I smiled at him. "You eat healthy at home don't you?" "Yeah. My mom's obsessed." "Good. You aught to thank your her for that." He pointed at me. "Ok," I responded, unconvincingly. "Do it." "Ok Coach." "No, I mean it kiddo. Eating healthy makes you a better athlete. And a better person," he added. "I know." "You just wait and see Luka." He handed me the glass of water. "Look at you," he said, rubbing my head. "You look like a health-food kid." I giggled. "Really? Oh, god." "No, it's a good thing dude. I mean it, you're a good looking boy. You look fit. It's no wonder you're such a talented player." He sat down on the couch beside me. "Thanks, Coach." I giggled again, awkwardly. "Let's put some baseball on." He grabbed the remote. "Now, when you're bigger and taller, you're gonna be something else. Imagine. The travel ball teams will be fighting each other for you." I looked over at him with a raised eyebrow. "I'm short." "Yeah, maybe at the moment, Luka. For your age. But, you know, some kids grow sooner than others. You know that." "Yeah." "You're only 12. You'll grow." "I know." "It's true, I grew late too. I didn't even like girls when I was your age!" I laughed. "My growth spurt was really late, believe me. And all the things that, you know, happen with your growth spurt." I nodded. "Do you like girls yet Luka?" I shifted uncomfortably. "I mean, just between the two of us. Do you?" He shot me a devious, playful smirk and nudged me with his elbow. I screwed my face up, trying to hold back from smiling. I prepared myself to lie. "Yeah." "Of course you do! Kid, you're probably breaking girls' hearts already!" I grinned and shook my head, not knowing how else to respond. I'm sure I was visibly blushing. "Ok Luka, ok. Now, wait. So when there's a girl on TV, a really good looking one, doesn't it make you feel good?" "I guess." "It makes you want to keep looking, right?" "I guess." "There's a way you can make it feel even better. You know what I'm talking about?" I gave him a confused look. "What?" "Watch this, kid. Now don't freak out, ok? Just trust me. Watch this." This was the infamous touch. The first one. When the legal people asked me the question, "when did he first touch you there?" this moment was the answer. It wasn't direct contact though, since my clothes were still on. Direct contact happened a few moments later. "Stand up Luka, let me show you what I mean," he said. "Here, just let me pull this down," he said. His smile was constant, his demeanor skillfully casual. "Trust me, I know this seems weird," he said. What did seem weird was that I knew at the time my peers might've called this "gay," but I was somehow ok with it. If Coach told me it was normal, it was normal. He had that power over me. Plus, his mouth felt way better than I expected. I nearly jerked my knee into his chin a few minutes later. "You ever felt that before?" "Mm mm," I answered. Luka at 12 must have been a fun ride. My old pictures speak for themselves. I was a blue-eyed descendent of the Vikings (still am). My hair was long enough to show off my blondness, covering my ears and half of my neck, and it was nearly straight, bending and fraying gently where it hung down. I had a little upward-turning nose, and a big-toothed smile that pushed my cheeks up and made little puffs of skin underneath my eyes. And I had the slight frame of a boy whose body was sure it wasn't ready to reproduce yet. There I was, on the couch, watching baseball. Feeling pretty ok about everything, really, though still getting over my feelings of modesty. Every time Coach walked back into the room I turned red. It didn't help that I could feel my now-soft penis was still wet with saliva, clinging to the fabric of my underwear. "Come here, kiddo, let me show you something." I stood up, tightened my belt, and followed him. "This is the best way to end a day of baseball," he told me. A "massage bed" - basically just a normal double bed in a guest bedroom. "My players always tell me I give amazing massages. You want one?" "Ok." This was his move. He even had me take off my belt. It would be more comfortable that way. Baseball pants are so easy to pull down without the belt. He began like a normal massage. I was sprawled out on the bed. Coach, with his strong arms and fat fingers, was gentle. "I'm going to do something different now. This is for me, ok?" This was the second time that afternoon my pants had been pulled down, but it was no less shocking than the first. "This is so I can feel the way you felt in the living room." "Ok." He had gotten me the point where I was all in, he could do almost anything without me questioning it. He was also on top of me, straddling me, and I was lying face-down. I was small, he was big. It didn't seem like there was much else to do other than lay there and let it happen. And oh boy, did it happen. First, he coached me. "I'm gonna put one finger in. Just relax and push out." There must've been a moment where he took his shorts and underwear completely off, but I never even realized. "It's called lube, it makes everything more slippery." I didn't even get a good look at what he was doing, I just noticed his bare legs out of the corner of my eye. His knees were on either side of me, and they were huge. "Ok, Luka, be a good guy and relax even more, ok? This one's bigger." It took some time. Between all the pain and clenching, all the "ok let's try again," I wondered, how did I get here? He eventually got a sort of rhythm going. I could let him push in as long as I knew when the push was coming. "Ok, just a little more kiddo." I'd never actually seen cum before. So, when it came, I knew what it felt like before I knew what it looked like. Most of it had gone inside me, I think, but some had dribbled onto my butt cheek. I saw him wipe some off of my shirt, too. At this point, I didn't even bother to ask him what it was. I just let him clean it off. The first thing I did after he got off me was pull my pants up. I was still so shy about that. I knew he was naked behind me so I waited a few seconds to let him dress before I pushed myself off the mattress. When I did get up he was still hurriedly aligning his shorts, and I'll never forget the sight. My coach, half-naked, with his thick hairy legs and tighty whities, his crotch bulging, his belly sticking out just a little from under his shirt. His semen stained my boxers when it leaked out of me later on. It's interesting to remember that I never even saw his dick that first time. There were three more times, and the second and third were a lot like the first. They were more clinical, though. Not as much time was wasted. During the second massage he complained about me being tight. The third time he was happier. "Ok Luka. That's good. Very good Luka. Just like that." The second BJ was in the living room again. The third time, we skipped the TV thing and went straight to the bed, where he could blow me laying face-up and then roll me over and fuck me laying face-down. Did I give away any signals to my mom and dad when I got picked up after these clinic days? As far as I know, I did not. Coach made sure I knew the no talking rule. This fact didn't manage to save my parents from crushing guilt once the truth was out, no matter how many times I told them "I'm fine." They have only recently started backing off the constant check-ins. Sometimes I swear if I hear "how are you doing" one more time I'm going to start murdering animals. My dad, in particular, seemed pretty upset about the whole thing. One night I was in my room and I overheard him getting heated while talking with someone on the phone. "I just want to gouge his fucking eyes out." To be fair, it is a fucking nightmare being "that kid." There were no secrets in my town. People knew. It sucks, but that was the reason we ended up moving. I told my parents - I couldn't stand being treated like I had some terminal illness. The way people would avoid eye contact, or talk to me in this gentle, creepy tone of voice. The fourth time was more different. "JT's coming too," my dad informed me on the drive over. "Oh, really?" A relief. Maybe this time would be more like normal practice. Apparently this wasn't JT's first clinic either, unbeknownst to me. A fun fact: in the old team picture JT is actually right next to me. He's to my left, and it looks like our elbows are touching. In the aftermath of this whole episode, I never ended up figuring out for sure who it was that spilled the beans. I know where I'd put my money, though, if I was a gambling man. Odds are, JT was the narc. The biggest clue: he cornered me at practice one day. "I think we should tell on Coach." I was like a deer in headlights. "Really?" No thank you. I feel bad about it now, but I brushed that shit aside like a wet sunflower seed. JT was on his own there. I don't remember how he ended up next to me on picture day, but for the most part we had been avoiding each other since the fourth clinic. JT was another 12-year-old, a quintessential lanky boy with deep green eyes, short brown hair, and braces. He was a pitcher, taller than me of course, but still pre-pubescent. Again, I can't argue with Coach's selection here. What's weird is I can look at him now in that picture, and in other tucked-away throwback photos of him on his family's Facebook profiles, and I see this quality in his eyes that I have a hard time describing. It's like I can't stop staring at him. I can't stop masturbating to him. How can I describe it? I see an uneasiness. He's smiling, like he's been asked to do, revealing a mouth full of metal and colored rubber. But, for some reason, he's guarded. There's a shyness in his expression, a sense of vulnerability. It makes me horny as hell. I have a memory of seeing that same exact face at Coach's house, on the bed in the massage room. We found ourselves there after another surprisingly fun session of infield practice. You know, I bet nobody ever talks about how Coach Scott was the best coach in the league. The nicest one. The one who all the kids were most excited to play for. JT and I spent most of our innings in the infield, JT usually on the corners, and myself at second base. I think we shared an enthusiasm for the game, and the rhythm of taking ground ball reps made us forget where we were for a bit. Coach had a way with talking to us. He was fun and nice but authoritative at the same time. It made us feel more at ease than we might've been otherwise as he walked us down the hallway and shut the bedroom door behind us. "It's 2:30 boys, we gotta make this quick." JT and I had gone through a period of simultaneous slow realization that that day's clinic would, in fact, have a similar ending to the previous ones. The realization was tangible; it came in the form of occasional eye contact and studying of one another's body language. Did he know Coach like I did? In the massage room he had us get down on our hands and knees on the carpet. He had arranged the room beforehand so that we each had an ottoman, side by side, to lay our upper bodies on. I had been worrying about the potential embarrassment of having to orgasm in front of JT, but, to my relief, it looked like we might not have had time for that. The feeling of the lower-back of my jersey being carefully untucked sent a jolt down my spine. JT was facing me, our heads turned sideways. Our goofy preteen humor distracted us; we found we could make each other giggle by exchanging absurd facial expressions, reacting to the things he was doing to us. Even then I recognized that JT was shyer than I was, so I tried to take the lead in relieving the tension. "Ooh that's cold!" JT buried his face in the sheets. "Calm down Luka buddy." Coach was thumbing at my butt. I kind of liked it when he called me "buddy." It was a word he used on occasion, not one he spat out constantly. And it didn't feel condescending at all, somehow. I remember one other time he used it. I had just struck out to end a game. I had been sullen throughout our post-game rituals, the cheers for the other team, the high fives, all that. I was sitting on the dugout bench with my face my hands, taking a break from packing my bag. He sat next to me. "Hey buddy, you're ok." I shook my head. "It sucks, but you'll be alright. You're a killer. Nobody gets the best of Luka very often." I smiled and he gave me a little side-hug. An adorable moment, it was. The way he said it, I really believed him. A kid in a candy shop. Coach Scott lubed us up and began by shuffling back and forth shoving himself inside us in turns. Peeking back, I caught a glimpse of his seemingly massive boner and his ballsack being pushed around by his legs as he maneuvered sideways. "Just stay there like that Luka." He had stopped the switching back and forth now and was focusing on JT. Though he was technically bigger than me, JT was pretty thin at 12, and I think his figure somehow made it harder for him to let Coach in. Does it make me a sicko that I masturbate to this memory now? In the photos JT never looked as vulnerable as he did then, clawing at the carpet, biting his bottom lip. Coach made noises when he came, pushing as far forward as JT would allow. I don't think I have a single more vivid memory in my life than this one. I can still picture exactly the way JT's uniform shirt was folded and bunched up underneath his belly, the way his back tensed and arched, the way Coach's fingers moved as they kneaded underneath his armpits. I can picture the tilt of JT's hat, which he still wore, slightly askew. The lines on his face, his eyes squeezed shut. This was the innocence the lawyers had later droned on about, in its purest form. And Coach, the Dementor from Azkaban, sucking that innocence straight out through the butt hole, absorbing it into his squishy foreskin, consuming it. Next it was my turn. It was a showcase of Mr. Scott's anatomical superpowers, being like 45, and only needing a short rest before positioning himself behind me. Thinking about it now, he must have popped a couple ED pills earlier or something, because it really was impressive. I also believe now that he chose me for round two for a reason. And I'm not trying to toot my own horn, honestly, but I think I was probably the grand prize. Blonder, smaller, looser, and, perhaps, even cuter. Being round two, it took a lot longer with me. I remember watching JT grow impatient next to me, playing with his hat, now in his hands, unsnapping and resnapping the adjustable band in the back. Coach had asked him to stay there while he worked on me. This time was also rougher than any time before. I assume it took a lot more convincing for his dick to work its way to orgasm #2. There was a moment when he sped up, and JT stopped fidgeting and looked over at me with this incredulous expression. What can I say, I handled it pretty well. You can gouge away. Find him in prison, wherever he is. With holy fingers, you can gouge his eyes out, if you want to. He's a sinner, a lesser being. But don't forget, he was a kid once too. He was a kid, like me. A lot like me. Nobody gave a damn back then. They still don't. He was holding my hands when he finished. It was oddly paternal. The last 5 years have been pretty fucked up, no doubt. I have to keep in the present, I tell myself, or else the emotions of the past will drive me insane. There's one particular memory that haunts me right now. I'm on the witness stand being questioned. I don't want to be here, but I've been persuaded. I look over at Coach, he looks miserable, a broken human. He knows he fucked up. I realize it's me who has been chosen to drive in the final stake. "And you're sure this is the man that did this to you?" I nod, and Coach nods back.