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young boy Gus had been repeatedly abused and molested by the steady stream of men who did their own calling on his alcoholic mother.  Many times little Gus had been lured by the promise of an ice cream treat or something special from the candy store, only to be driven to a secluded area and savagely raped by yet another gristly ogre.  His mother may or may not have known.  She cared little, save for the fresh bottle of vermouth delivered upon their return.  Once refreshed, she would head to the bedroom and spread her legs as the boyfriend of the week labored furiously to fire off yet a second load within the course of 20 minutes.
     
    Little Gus learned quickly to bury these experiences (and his feelings) deep, deep inside.  His only attempt to tell his mother occurred shortly after an especially vicious encounter with one of the ogres.  With teary eyes and a small voice he began to tell her about the indignity and then; WHAAPP!  A vicious backhand caught him across the face and sent him tumbling over the coffee table.  A snifter of vodka shattered on the floor.  His mother screamed in anguish and unleashed kick after brutal kick to his midsection.  “Don’t you ever!”  -Kick-  “Ever say anything!”  -Kick-  -Kick-  “Ever let me hear you say anything like that again!”  -Kick-  Finally, she kneeled to the floor; not to comfort her broken son, but to lament the loss of her elixir. 
     
    And so Gus spoke of it to no one. 
     
    As he approached puberty Gus followed the lead of the friends he hung with.  He participated in the juvenile and vastly uninformed discussions that young boys engage in about virility, pube hairs and training bras.  He learned about fags and queers and shared in the vocalized disdain of such activity while in the presence of his buddies.  To suggest that he felt otherwise would have been suicide.  But as he grew and as his body developed, Gus could no longer ignore the wiring within his brain.  His wet dreams were not of Julie Lawry the buxom high-school cheerleader who lived across the street.  He dreamed of boys.  Naked little boys.  One night as he played pocket pool in an attempt to bring on sleep, his mind brought up imag es of Dondi , the orphan boy from the Sunday comic pages.  He imagined that it was Dondi’s hand stroking his pecker, that Dondi was lowering his head to have a taste of his throbbing member.  That Dondi was bare-assed, and lowering his bottom to receive a good thrusting.  There came a fantastic sensation.  His balls contracted and suddenly there was a jet of hot fluid.  Gus panicked.  He had rubbed too hard and the sticky substance on his hand was blood.  He threw off the bedding and held his hand before the glow of the alarm clock.  No, not blood, but jizz.  His jizz.  The jizz that his cretin friends at school had talked about .  I t had been brought on by the innocent face of the orphan boy Dondi.  And in the months and years ahead it would be the face of this comic strip caricature that would become his go-to image for achieving a successful session of whacking off. 
     
    For a long time Gus coped with his socially awkward dilemma quite adequately.  He kept his mouth shut about his affinity for little boys.  And he kept his right hand active, masturbating furiously each night to mental images he retained from reading magazines or going to the movies.  He did not date.  And for that he took a lot of shit from his buddies.  Even to the point of joking about his sexuality.  But he did well in school and played sports, always averting his eyes in the shower room for fear of springing a testosterone induced boner.  
     
    Fundamentally he knew that something was amiss.  The entire rest of the world could not be wrong.  That left only one answer…it was him.  And the summer after his senior year in high school as his friends and his life as he knew it began to drift away, Gustavus Milliken did some hard thinking about his