Gay Conversion Nightmare – We Did all the Wrong Things
It seems extraordinary to some who do not know the full story, but I do not blame my father at all for what happened to me. How could he know that he too was a victim of a quack? Right from the moment that I realized I was gay, there were two priorities that I executed with swift determination. The first was that I had to tell my father. The second was that I had to do something about it.
My father raised me as a single parent ever since my mum died in an accident. There had been two step mums and a few lovers but no one was ever in the way. Unlike many widowers, my father actually sought advice and comfort from me. When he was going out with someone, they had to pass the “Matt Test”. That basically meant that I had to tell my dad in private whether I liked them or not. They could come out for a visit and then my dad would ask me later on. As it happened, I liked all the women he brought home but I knew that he would not bring them if I did not like them.
Everybody says that their parents are the best but my dad was really the best. I could not have asked for a kinder, more considerate father. I tell my father everything to this day. We share our problems and try to come out with solutions together. Our bond is so unusual because we are very different personality-wise. I am bubbly and a bit of a chatterbox yet he is silent. He used to joke that I did his talking for him. That was so true. If someone came to our house when we were alone, they would only hear one rather shrill voice speaking and responding to themselves.
The Unwelcome Feelings
Right from the beginning I told dad that I did not have much interest in dating. Many of my friends in school would go crazy about girls and were constantly trying to either touch them up or see their bits. I had no interest. It was simply not my kind of thing. My dad said that I would soon get the hang of it when I became a full teenager. According to him I must have been a late developer. At no point did we ever think that I was gay. Some guys say that they subconsciously know it but I did not. I fully expected to get married and have kids in due course. In any case I wanted to be the perfect dad just like my dad has been all these years.
The real crisis started when I met Tom. He had been in the school apparently, but I never noticed him. He was two years ahead and as everybody knew; we never really took notice of older guys in school. The girls were a different matter for my friends who were obsessed with hooking up with an older girl. I just blanked out those older guys. They had no interest for me until Tom. Suddenly I was getting those butterflies that everyone had talked about. I was day dreaming about Tom and having night dreams that could only be described as being “dirty”.
This was not supposed to happen and I was alarmed. I talked to my dad about it and he was absolutely shocked. “Maybe you are gay, no?” My dad had never really gotten out of the Latino way of adding a no at the end of a rhetorical statement as if asking a question. I said “God no. I hope not”. I meant it. This was the last thing I needed. I knew there were some queers in the school but for the most part they were either weirdos or geeks. That is not the kind of crowd I wanted to be in. How would I survive school if I suddenly turned gay? The possibilities were just not practical.
We Make a Plan
My dad said that we should google it up and see whether there was someone that could help me. I know it sounds absolutely ridiculous but we were that naïve. I thought I could google someone to help me sort out my sexuality. The first list was horrendous. It was full of porn links and even I was appalled that my dad saw that in front of me. We put on the family filter and googled for a specialist. The first few articles were generic nonsense by internet writers who wanted to fill pages with dross. The adverts at the top were for other irrelevant services. For example; why would you advertise a big black dildo for a person searching for a way to stop being gay?
Anyway on the second page, we actually found what we were looking for. Apparently this was a discreet rehabilitation center for young men that were struggling with their sexuality. We liked the sight because it reassured us that there would be nothing physical. I had read about gay conversion therapy on the Wikipedia page and it was a bit grim to be honest. That is why I was so convinced by these charlatans who promised they would not do anything physical.
Words Hurt More than Hands
I never want to hear anybody telling me that words do not matter. They do. They can inflict incredible psychological damage that takes even longer than physical wounds to heal. Dr. Thistle (not real name) was a quack, but a smooth talking quack. We bought all his lies like lambs to the slaughter. Everything he said, we did. Everything he wanted us to believe, we believe. In the end I became convinced that “gayness” was an evil spirit that wanted to prevent me from having a family and children. I started hating my body for desiring that which was forbidden.
The most convincing thing about Thistle was his ability to mix different philosophies and belief systems into some kind of crazy maze. You could not Pidgeon-hole him as a religious nut or a new age fraud. He was somewhere dangerously in between, able to play his trump cards whenever it suited him. Everything he said sounded logical at the time but in hindsight, we were absolute fools to listen to the man. He was convincing and even gentle but he stirred violent thoughts in me.
I came to the conclusion that the only way to get rid of the gay spirit was to destroy the body itself. This became my life mission. If the body was not going to have holy thoughts, then I was going to get rid of it. Thistle used a quote from the Bible to suggest that even those with “ancient wisdom” had long realized the need to get rid of body parts that were harmful to us. It is a miracle that I was a clumsy butcher or else we would be talking about a different thing altogether.
Gay Conversion Nightmare: The Surgery that Went Wrong
I conceived this idea of cutting off my penis. This was the first time I did not tell my dad about my plans. I instinctively knew that he would say no to that. To me it seemed that if I cut off the penis, I would still be holy and “proper” as the good doctor had promised. Thistle had talked about the possibilities of modern science where he could store my eggs. Apparently they were going to be sucked out of their tubes. I will not say that he ever suggested that I cut my penis off but he definitely led me to it with his suggestions and seemingly helpful justifications.
The pain was excruciating and I went into shock. The doctor said that I had only cut off a little bit but that the penis would be curved. It would require very painful surgery to get it going up again properly. In the meantime, I have to deal with painful erections. This will go on right up to the time that my dad can come up with the money to help me. He said it was his fault for allowing us to go to Thistle in the first place. Dad said that he would love me anyway, whatever happens. According to him:
“children can never be defective and we can never return them to their maker for faulty performance”.
That little quote has been mainstay during the painful months of recovery. I am not sure that I will not be permanently messed up by the painful erections. My fear is that I will continue associating sex with guilt and pleasure. Perhaps that is what Thistle wanted in the first place so in a way he has succeeded in his plans. I now have a boyfriend but the painful erections are causing tension. He says that he will wait for me to get the operation done but even that does not sound too convincing. Thirteen months is a long time to wait for a healthy sexually active person. At least I am no longer suicidal.