Wednesday, Oct. 01, 2003 - 8:40 p.m.
Documentation

I finally got my computer back from the police Monday. They've had it ever since the assault.

As I lay there bleeding in the hallway that night, paramedics and policemen swarming around me, I told the cops that I had digital pics of Diego on my computer that would help them identify him. A few days later, when the detective visited me in hospital for my second tape-recorded statement--during which I got an inkling of what Diego was claiming, and also learned that the police had seized my computer as evidence--I told him that there was also a journal entry on there that would corroborate the truth of what happened.

And now finally this Monday I got to re-read it for the first time since writing it. I wrote this June 19th, the morning of the attack, about meeting Diego the night before.

The story is heartbreaking, but it's time to share it.

Thursday, 7:04 am

I was horny yesterday afternoon. My shoulder was feeling so much better (200% better than the night before) and I was well-rested and enthused about life. Surfed porn a lot of the afternoon – [my boss] was in meetings, and there wasn't much going on.

So I knew I'd stop by the cruisy washroom under the hotel next to the subway on the way home from work. I knew it. I was thinking a lot on the transit ride about how I rarely am able to sprout erections in public sex places like this, and I made a silly yet intriguing commitment to myself to experiment with this, thought-experiments or whatever, to correct this. The problem is shame, really, at its most basic. I can probably overcome it, so to speak, just by focusing on the block inside my mind and body and pushing through to the other side. So instead of reading very much Proust on the transit ride I did try some of this thought-experimentation, in an attempt to pop a boner right there on the bus or the subway, to little avail. But I bet I can eventually!

Isn't that funny?

Anyway, I ducked into the underground mall off the subway station, heading up the hallway toward the cruisy washroom, and there he was walking toward me, this young Latino kid, tall, slim and dark. We cruised each other fiercely. I turned around. He turned around. I stopped. He stopped. Walked back toward me. It was that easy. Diego was his name, but I couldn't hear it in those first exciting minutes, especially since he pronounces it in very Spanish-inflected syllables.

Very talkative and friendly in that delightfully shy way I enjoy so much. Just turned 19, he said. Up here for 3 months, arrived only a month ago from Mexico to study English (ESL) before beginning university back home in the fall. Grew up in *** province where his father runs a *** business. Likes to read, and we were just starting to talk about Mexican literature when we arrived back at my place.

It was in the context of discussing university, sitting here on my couch, that Diego began to talk about being really confused, sorting out his "preference". His English was pretty good, I only occasionally had difficulty understanding him; I expected that "preference" could be his word for "major" at university, given the context of our conversation right at that moment. But I also sensed that no, he was making a quantum leap into the present moment. So I asked him what he meant, and sure enough I was right. He was confused about his preference, did he like boys or did he like girls? He didn't know. He was very confused. The words came pouring out of him like water. Wow.

I asked if he'd ever had sex before, and he said no. I asked him again specifically whether he'd fooled around with a guy before. His answer was not yes or no, and I did have trouble understanding what he was saying; he looked so uncomfortable I didn't have the heart to ask him to repeat it. So I left it alone. For all intents and purposes, I had a virgin here on my hands. Oh my god, and he was so beautiful. Those brown eyes were mesmerizing.

I excused myself to go pee and use mouthwash in there and he knocked on the door sounding frantic - I was in the middle of taking a piss and wasn't sure what the hell was going on, couldn't hear him through the door (and over my annoying bathroom fan) but once I came out he asked if he could pull the blind, that he didn't feel good with the window open. (Very much like Enrique, actually - could it be a Latino thing?) I was happy to pull the blind. He wanted to know what I was doing in there. I said I was peeing. He didn't know that word. I eventually explained, then returned to use mouthwash.

I said I didn't know what to do now, based on what he'd told me. Did he just want to talk about his confusion, or...? I admitted that I'd brought him back for sex, and that now I was confused about what was right. His eyes smouldered with determination, with an emotional intensity that took my breath away: "I want answers," he exclaimed. "Answers, answers, answers!" I still didn't know what that meant. I don't now recall the words he used to explain, but basically what he said was that he needed to have sex to see if he was gay. He was very confused, he said, about what to do, about whether he would be any good. It was at around this point that I began to touch him for the first time, and he froze up. I cooed as I kept caressing his shoulders, his arm, his chest. He began commenting derisively on his body.

"I'm too skinny."

I told him he was beautiful.

"No, I am not. It's okay. Mexicans are ugly. You are almost blond," he said, looking at me. I laughed. Everything's relative. "Blond people are more beautiful."

"I am scared that I am not very big," he said, as I pulled up his blue t-shirt and caressed his fabulously flat tummy. He meant his dick. "How big are most guys?" he asked. Six inches is the average, I said. His eyes rolled, "Oh no! I am very small then!"

Well we got to that point, him out of his t-shirt, totally smooth ("What's that word for no hair?" he asked. Smooth.) torso that drove me fucking crazy, then out of his pants, white boxers with some purple cartoon figure thereon. Speaking of purple, the tip of his dick was sticking out the top, boding well that his estimates were conservative. I grabbed hold. "Oh my goodness," I said, peering into his big brown eyes. "What?" he asked, frightened. "You are not very small at all. It is a very good size!"

And it wasn't even fully hard yet. When I first got him out of those undies I estimated it was about 6 inches, and thick. More stunning was the thistly patch of jet-black hair surrounding it. So coarse, like a bird's nest - so beautiful. But later when his dick became fully rock-hard it grew another inch I think.

All the while Diego's commentary was about not knowing what to do, and asking me what I liked to do. I framed all my responses gently, meaning to communicate that whatever we did, whatever he wanted to do (or not to do) was totally okay with me. This seemed to calm him.

I needed a shower, and asked him to join me -- I'd just finished taking his runners off and his socks were pretty rank (this aroused me more than anything actually -- first time that's happened I think). He declined because he was worried about getting his hair wet and what his host family would say when he got home (they live in [the suburbs]). He was sitting there on my couch totally naked with a hard-on and I teasingly asked if I could take a picture, and he said yes! Oh my god that was probably the most erotic moment, snapping that pic.

Oomph!

I had my shower. The world's shortest shower, let me tell you. He was still sitting there when I got out, his cock down to 1/4 mast and still looking very full and yummy. He made a disparaging comment on its size. I leaned in and sucked him hard, then took him to my bedroom.

He kept asking what to do, and what did I want, and we hadn't even got into bed when standing up at the foot of my bed he yanked down my underwear and sucked me like a pro. He can't have never done that before! He said he'd never sucked a dick before, but I can scarcely believe it. (And it doesn't matter.) But wow, he was good.

We got into bed, and he kept asking what should we do, what should we do, was he any good, etc. I licked and sucked him, he sucked me once or twice more. I'd admired his ass in the mirror as we were standing up by my bed and so I twirled him around--"I'm not ready," he said, no doubt thinking I was about to fuck him, and I said no I wasn't intending to do that, and he said "Well, maybe I am ready. You could try, and we see how it goes?"-and licked and chewed on his slim back, eventually burying my tongue in his ass. Oh my god, haven't enjoyed that so much in aeons. Diego obviously hadn't been expecting this, and appeared to enjoy it.

Then he did ask if I would fuck him. I didn't need much convincing. It was hot. Again, I slipped in pretty easily, and it didn't seem to bother him too much. Nor did he appear to particularly enjoy it; it was more inquisitiveness on his part. He grimaced more than anything, but let me--encouraged me--to keep going for a good fifteen or twenty minutes before asking me to stop. He kept saying it was "okay", with a tone of pleasant surprise. It sure felt okay to me; I was very close to cumming a few times.

He asked if he could "do me" now, and I said no, not tonight, but that he could fuck me another time.

But then I finally pulled out, and grabbed hold of his (now rock-hard) dick. Didn't take me long to jerk him off.

I have to stop here: I've forgotten one of the most important parts of the whole sexual encounter. Which is, he didn't kiss much. He has beautiful full pouty red lips, and I wanted to kiss him so bad. Only a few times that I pressed my lips to his did he half-kiss back, sticking his tongue out maybe 1/4 of an inch. But that was enough to almost send me over the edge. Oh my god. He didnt' seem to know how to kiss; I'd certainly love to teach him.

So he came, all over his slim brown belly, one glob landing on his chest. Fucking hot. I was all set to jerk myself off—I was definitely ready to explode—when he looked at me with vulnerable, almost teary eyes, and said "I'm scared!"

Sweetie, sweetie, sweetie, I thought, grabbing on to him, caressing him, asking him to explain. "What is scary," I asked.

"I am gah-knowing my body?"

"Gah-knowing?" I said. "I don't know that word. Can you repeat it?"

"Gah-knowing," he said.

"Hmm, sorry I don't understand. Spell it please."

"Gah-knowing: K N O W I N G."

"Oh, knowing, yes. You are knowing your body. What is scary about that?" I said, strangely wanting to cry, to hold him in my arms and sob.

"I don't know how to explain," he said. "But it's okay. It is late, I have to go. And what will happen to us now?"

Again, I was almost ready to cry. What would happen to us. What would happen to us indeed?

"I would definitely like to see you again," I said. He said he wanted that to. Someone to talk to, someone to teach him more about sex.

He got dressed, and before leaving I took one more picture of him clothed. Then he launched into an impassioned unbosoming about his troubles. His father back home in **** province (the main city, I don't remember the name) is quite sick and not able to run his *** business. Diego's older brothers are in some remote province working in the jungle and are not reachable by phone. Both Diego's parents want Diego to stay here and complete his ESL courses, but Diego feels guilty and thinks he should go home and run the business for his father. He wanted my advice. What did I think he should do?

I began to feel mistrustful at this point, bracing myself for Diego to ask for money any second. He did not. I asked questions, tried to be as supportive as I could. As he was leaving, he very self-consciously asked if I would come with him to the bank sometime to help him withdraw money from the account set up in Mexico in his mom's name. The banker in Mexico, he explained, had told him to put it in his mother's name because he, Diego, was not "of age" and it would be easier this way. But he's been having trouble at the bank here withdrawing money because the bank account back home is not in his name, and he feels his poor English is making it more complicated, and would I please come with him to help explain his situation. I accepted this as true, and said I'd be pleased to help whenever we could find time that I was free and the bank was open.

And that's where it was left. He said he wanted to see me again Saturday, I told him to call me then.

Oh my god. What a night!

7:54 am

So there it is. Imagine this being read out in court at trial next June, eh? A small part of me is mortified about that, but more importantly the entry records the tone of our first meeting, my tender—not just lustful—feelings toward Diego, and that runs counter to the inane story he's concocted about what led him to attack me the next night. So I'm glad the journal entry, and the digital pics, and the emails I wrote to friends about him after he left that night, exist.

The prosecutor's office has not yet responded to my concerns about privacy; it's been three weeks so I'll have to bug them. I have talked to a lawyer-acquaintance though, and he allayed some of my apprehension. Because the aforementioned writings and pictures are on my harddrive, from a legal point of view the harddrive itself is viewed as "one document", and yes the defense lawyer will be able to review the entire contents for that reason. However, part of the judge's job is to admit only evidence that is relevant; if the defense counsel tries to introduce other of my journal entries or whatever, unrelated to Diego, given the legal climate since the "rape shield" law went into effect (about not allowing victim's previous sexual history to become an issue), such "evidence" will likely be inadmissible. But it depends on the judge.

And my therapist told me last night that other crime victims he's counseled have had all of their journals subpoenaed by their attacker's lawyer—pre-and-post assault writings! That possibility has really upset me, and I really need to hear back from the prosecutor to get some answers here. Maybe I need to get a lawyer myself.

Journaling has saved my life, umpteen times. Even here, writing for an audience, I write primarily for myself. But now I face the prospect of having to answer for my words, my experience, my inmost thoughts and fantasies, have them twisted and spat back at me by a hostile lawyer intent on painting me as some violent sex maniac who'd stab a young man because he wouldn't have sex. The June 19th entry won't give him or her a lot to work with, and there's nothing I've ever written that would either. But still: I'm apprehensive.

I don't know what any of this means for the future of Queer Scribbles but for right now I need this.

And I'll be damned if I'm going to stop writing. Twist my words all you want: they're mine, dammit.

They're me.