Hi, I’m Squid Villanueva and I was Molested as a Child
Memory is a strange beast.
Recently, a buddy of mine related to me a story going around in the entertainment business’ gay community. This tale is among the most celebrated of this community’s apocrypha, mind you. It stars a celebrity hairdresser and a respected dramatic actress’ man-child from her previous marriage with a bigshot veteran comedian. Now, for prudence’s sake, let’s call the mother DB, the son OBS, his comedian father VS, and the hairdresser Mr. Queer. The tale goes thus:
When Dina– er, DB– hired Mr. Queer to do her hair in all of her film and television appearances, she trusted him so much she’d leave young, impressionable OBS with the hairdresser whenever she’s on the set. Mr. Queer, being a decent and God-fearing faggot, wrestled daily with his desire to molest the boy. In the end, though, Mr. Queer proved himself righteous. It wasn’t that he was afraid of getting into trouble. The virtuous queen just didn’t want to introduce his young charge to such filth.
Years later, OBS– now a teen star in his own right– met Mr. Queer and had a long chat with the old family friend. OBS told Mr. Queer of the time when the boy and an unidentified bud of his went to a disreputable movie theater and met a funny little guy who gave the two teenagers the best blowjobs they’ve ever had. Imagine how Mr. Queer must have felt when he heard this.
Now, I’m not saying this is a true story. I just heard it form a source, is all. And when the internet Gestapo starts breaking my door down I’ll tell them you people are a bunch of cunts for believing all you read on the internet. The reason I told you this tale is not to malign Oyo B– er, OBS– but because hearing it fired up some synapses in my brain and triggered a long-repressed memory: a memory of darkness, of depravity, of a hairy armpit, and a grown man’s salty nipple.
I always thought my history of misogyny can be traced back to two things, namely: my horrid interpersonal skills and my lack of pride in the proportions of my penis. The former made me incapable of flattering women when they’re being dumb. The latter made me hesitant in actively seeking sexual friendship for fear of being ridiculed. And with pickup lines like:
Would you like to taste the Cup of my Iniquity?
And:
Would you like to take a sip from my Chalice of Perdition?
You’ll understand why I wasn’t a big hit with the ladies… at least not the ones worth hitting on. The living dead, on the other hand, is a tale for another time.
The childhood memory of molestation may be a third reason which led to my loathing of women; I don’t exactly know how but it’s always cool to blame your childhood for your present failures. Here’s how it happened…
Let’s call the man Pedro. Pedro’s family and mine were friends. They owned a compound of apartments a block away from our house. When he was in college, Pedro’s parents moved back to their hometown in Palawan or some other shitty, ass-backward island where people still live in mud huts, hunt boar with bamboo spears, and eat fist-sized jungle snails. Pedro was left to manage the apartments alone. My mother, being the gracious neighbor she’s always been, would often invite Pedro to share our meals, watch television, or just hang around and mess with us kids.
One weekend morning when I was six or seven years old, I asked Pedro if I can hang out at his house. I thought his place was a treasure-trove of cool stuff like big college books, kitschy paintings and posters, and the like. He assented and off we went to his place. When we got there, there was no electricity. It was a warm summer morning so he took off his shirt like most men do in their own homes. He stretched out on a ratty old sofa and asked me to pluck the hairs off his armpits, which I gladly did because I thought it was funny. Another thing I thought funny was his large, brown man-nipple. I already knew then that milk comes from a woman’s nipple but I was clueless, as eggheads still are today, as to the purpose of male tits. I asked Pedro if milk also comes out of a full-grown man’s nipples. He told me to suck the horrible thing and find out. Which I did. And no, milk didn’t come out from it.
Did I feel defiled? Violated? No. Defilement and violation are concepts I understand intimately whenever I bring out the biodegradable trash with what’s left of last week’s pork chops still festering in it. The experience was unimportant to me and so my mind just filed it away in the bottom drawer of my memories. This would lead many to believe that it wasn’t really molestation. I beg to differ. It’s important that I make as many credible professionals believe that indeed it was molestation that destroyed my sanity. When they finally haul me kicking and biting in front of a judge and try to smite me with the terrible Book of the Law for attempting to convert ohsocutsie lolitas to the Church of Coercive Love, I will simply say:
Hi, I’m Squid Villanueva and I was molested as a child.
And then I’ll hear the ungracious sound of criminal charges being dropped. I so rule, bitches.
