I had a favorite cousin who birthed two adorable boys. The eldest (4) liked to rummage through her clothes and dress-up. He had a quick brain and he made us laugh. OMG! He might be gay, like me. I was my cousin's favorite thing. I felt no such thing. I felt sorry for him, like my mother does for me.

Father was elated, mother was ecstatic but the boy with the dress kept complaining his ass hurt. The parents exclaimed that it was a quirk but I couldn't help but think the worst. I brought up my sexual abuse concerns to her but she stamped them ludicrous. I respected their privacy. I couldn't prove something I did not see. I never brought it up again.

FFW two years later. I'm hanging out with my cousin-in-law, getting plastered, trolling strip bars and listening to music in his car. Between trolls we would call the wife and make excuses, sit in his car, and listen to "Jeremy" by Pearl Jam, sometimes, on repetition. We were fucked up. Before our final round and the last "Jeremy," he asked me to listen intently to the song because he had something to confess.

The reason his son was confused about his gender was because daddy dresses his son like a girl and fucks him. My head started to spin. Why did he presume I would understand? We went to our last strip club and I found an excuse to depart. Cis men will tell gays perverted crap because they think we are all perverted. What?!

I went home and told. I got death threats. My mother got involved. It ended my relationship with my cousin, she got divorced and the kid grew into a cis toxic military male bastard that hates us all. I don't blame him. 29-Dec-2021

we utilized every modern aspect of bringing up a child. He was my lover's child with an ex-wife. The child was a gift that was supposed to save the marriage. It didn't happen.

I lived in another state when my lover (Pap) and I met. He was traveling temporarily for work when we became acquainted. We dated joyfully for six months before a life ultimatum. Pap's work was ending and he was experiencing difficulty dividing his time between his son and I. He asked me to move 800 miles for his son's sake (whom I never met) to keep the dynamic intact. If he moved with me his relationship with his son would have suffered a hit. He was only five. I didn't want to parent or interfere with his right to do so. I respectfully broke it off. 28-Feb-2019

The first time I saw a gun, I was a toddler, my mother was wielding it to shoot my father. She shot once, almost hitting her baby brother, before being subjugated.

The first time I felt a gun, I was fifteen, it was pressed against my temple and my mother, who was suffering from a breakup, threatened me with leaving home or dying. I was so exhausted by her instability, I chose death. I closed my eyes and waited for the bang but she chose to spread her boyfriend's clothes in the family room, blocking my exit, and start a fire which I proceeded to extinguish.

The first time I held a gun was to steal it from my mother whilst she vented to her older sister, with the idea of returning it to the idiot that thought she could handle it.

I called my father, explained and pleaded with him to take his gift back. If I could bring it to him he would get rid of it. I put it in a paper bag, headed out and traipsed an hour by subway in panic, sweats and paranoia. I shivered at the presence of police but I didn't rest until it was in my father's hands and out of our lives. My father never allowed her to retrieve the gift and it was one of the most sympathetic gestures my father ever extended to me.

I fought my way out of misery, the ghetto, my mother, without the need for a physical weapon or a gang. I think its why my words are so striking. 04-Jan-2018