Tortured Beyond Recovery

Uncle Carlyle had the same outline, but was paler and blond. I can recall only one of his visits: all that is left is a fragmentary impression of a handsome blond man. After that visit Uncle Carlyle became someone my Daddy used to visit in the hospital. Never again to visit us.

I was too young to wonder why and back then many veterans lived their last years in hospitals (I have no idea if he was one but it gave his status a vague context). Eventually my Daddy came back from his final visit: my uncle had died.

He lived in my memory as a fascinating ghost when remembered at all.

Eventually came the time when thinking I was gay I came out as queer identified guy. When I say it was tougher back then I’m not flattering myself. It wasn’t hard for me. I didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought of my sexuality. Nor have I ever.

Then my Momma told me the story.

Uncle Carlyle had been a kept boy / man. Rich men in places like Key West and Palm Beach kept him in clothes and pocket money. Eventually by means not clear to me my uncle was no longer dependent. Perhaps someone left him an inheritance.

In Miami one night Uncle Carlyle hired a couple of hustlers. (A cycle John Rechy could’ve appreciated.) They tortured my uncle until his personality expired.

My father had been visiting his brother in a psychiatric hospital where my uncle spent the rest of his life having retreated from the awful experiences of that night. His mind fled from the terror never to return.

I’ve never forgotten this.

And I rejected possible BDSM partners because they seemed incapable of conversation or dialogue. It was to be their way or no way. My nothing seemed far more secure than their wacky demands.

It is one thing to have foolish fantasies. Another to embark on them with a stranger.

Never want it so badly that you don’t protect yourself.