I was a quiet kid. Too afraid of my ex-Special Forces father to risk getting in ANY kind of trouble. Would have been voted ‘most likely to be invisible,’ if there were such a category. So naturally my circle of friends had a very small radius.
A Sunday school teacher took kindly to me. His name was John Dickinsheets. Funny name, huh? We called him ‘Mr. D’ for short. He was really old, probably in his 60’s or so, and I knew he had children in their late 20’s, plus grandkids, the whole nine yards. Not sure what happened to his wife, she was never part of the picture.
He invited me over to his home near our church, and introduced me to coin collecting. He gave me a bunch of coins over time, and taught me how to look them up in the big book of world coins. I put them in little slide protectors, the same size as 35 mm slides from ancient cameras like my dad had. I soon got a metal slide case for my increasingly valuable collection. Many a weekend afternoon was spent with Mr. D poring over coins. We took breaks from the coins once in a while, and I found our breaks really confusing.
Sometimes we’d go into the bedroom and he’d pull down my pants and underwear, and have me lie back on the bed. He’d kiss me all over my hips, which seemed very grateful for the attention, but also equally confused. After he kissed me like that for a while, I’d get dressed again and we’d go back to the coins like nothing had happened.
Sometimes he’d kiss me, and it wasn’t like a kiss from Mom or Dad. He used his tongue a lot, and it was really thick and bumpy, like he was part frog. He tasted like old people smell, I thought. It took a while for me to get used to the whole tongue kissing concept, I never heard of such a thing much less did it. It seemed to make him happy though, so I figured I had better get good at it. My first girlfriend was very grateful for my having received this bit of instruction.
Sometimes we’d be sitting at the kitchen table with the coins, and he’d put my hand down the front of his pants. It felt hot and humid in there, and his penis was really big and very hard. I didn’t really have any idea what to do, but just holding it seemed to make him really happy.
So Mr. D had some unusual hobbies in addition to coin collecting. I had no idea what was going on. It seemed odd, but no one warned little boys about Sunday school teachers in those days. Maybe girls got warned about a ‘funny Uncle’ – but boys? Nope. My slightly older brother had also been coin collecting with Mr. D, and while we never really discussed what happened, we both knew something was fishy. Eventually we went over together, in a guess to keep the weirdness down, but I still recall getting pulled aside in the bedroom for some awkward tongue kissing even when my brother was in the other room.
We finally stopped going to Mr. D’s altogether, and later moved away. As a test, many years later, I referred to a new friend whose name started with D as ‘Mr. D’ in front of my brother, and he shot me a look that could kill at twenty paces. He had been there too. And he’ll probably never forget either.
I was 11.