Page 36 of Played
I laugh so loud that the people around us stop and stare. This is exactly what I need—not some support group full of strangers who don’t know my name.
Chapter
Seventeen
MASON
Running my fingertip over the crease of the scrap of paper in my hand, I scan the carefully written details in Maddox’s neat handwriting for what must be the thousandth time. I refold it and return it to the pocket of my jeans while looking up at the Episcopalian church. Two guys, one wearing a baseball cap and the other in a suit and tie but both carrying a Starbucks cup, walk past me and go inside. Are they here for the support group?
Am I here for the support group? Until today, I would have said no. Yet I find myself here anyway, wondering if it might do something, anything, to help me never picture that evil fuck’s face ever again.
I’ve been loitering around the building for ten minutes now, and I wouldn’t be surprised if someone calls the cops soon. I have no idea how I would explain my being here. Would anyone buy me being in the heart of the Bronx for an important business meeting on a Tuesday evening? I could claim I’m here for a hookup. That would be more believable. The reminder of my disastrous hookup on Saturday night has me taking a step toward the building. I should at least go in there and see what it’s like. It’s probably not for me, and it’s unlikely I’ll have anythingin common with anyone in there, but I won’t know unless I give it a try.
What have I got to lose, except for my dignity?
Taking a deep breath, I steel myself and walk inside. There’s a hand-written sign in the entryway that readsMSASGwith an arrow pointing to a set of oak double doors. My heart hammers as I approach them. My fingers tremble as I grip the handle. When I pull open the door, I’m hit by the smell of coffee and cleaning products layered over a faint odor of rubber and plastic. Nope. This isn’t for me. It’s not too late to leave.
“Come on in,” someone calls. “Grab yourself a seat.”
Shit! Too late. Should I pretend I’ve walked into the wrong place? The owner of the voice, maybe late forties with ginger hair and a thick beard, smiles at me. “You’re in the right place,” he says softly. “It’s hard to walk through these doors for the first time, but it will get easier, I promise.”
Tentatively, I step into the room and note the other two dozen or so men in here. Some sit in plastic chairs that form a circle in the center of the room while others mill around a table along the far wall, getting coffee and what look to be brownies. “I’m Chris.” The guy holds out his hand, and I shake it.
I consider giving a false name, but for some reason, I don’t. “Mason.”
“It’s good to meet you, Mason. Would you like some coffee? Homemade brownie? They’re salted caramel, my wife’s specialty.”
I shake my head. “I’m good, thanks.”
“Then please take a seat.” He gestures toward the chairs, and I choose one that has a vacant seat on either side. Crossing my legs and arms, I feel like the new kid at a school where I don’t belong and don’t want to be. This was a mistake. A huge mistake. And now I have to sit here for the next hour and feign interest in the Men’s Sexual Abuse Support Group.
Once everyone is seated, Chris gives a brief speech to remind us of the need for confidentiality and to welcome the new faces, which are me and a guy named Isaac who’s in his early twenties and looks even more uncomfortable than I feel.
The group starts with a brief check-in for those who want to update, and I am already certain this is going to be no help to me at all.
Then the first person shares his story. Jeff is a construction worker, which he told us in his update because he started a huge job yesterday and is feeling tired. A fifty-eight-year-old grandfather, Jeff spent over forty years of his life trying to forget the fact that his uncle raped him when he was fifteen. It was only when his second grandson was born and his daughter wanted to name the baby after her grandfather—who happened to have the same name as Jeff’s uncle—that he couldn’t lie any longer.
Faced with the prospect of his grandchild sharing a name with his abuser, he told his wife and daughter what had happened to him. They were supportive and showed him nothing but love, but he still struggles to talk about what happened and is dealing with the shame of never standing up to his uncle. Tears stream down his face as he thanks the group for being there for him and for letting him say whatever he needs to say without judgment.
My own eyes are full of tears by the time he’s done talking, and I join the rest of the group in applauding his bravery. Next, we hear from Jason, who was sexually assaulted by his boss when he was an intern. Most of the attendees speak, some only for a minute and some for longer, but each of their stories are unique yet hauntingly familiar. And all of them, including Peter the plastic surgeon and Max the war vet, share common themes of overwhelming guilt and shame as well as the belief that they should have somehow been able to stop what happened.
When nearly everyone in the room has spoken, Chris asks if the new people would like to share tonight, and Isaac shakes his head. “Mason?” Chris says softly.
Do I want to speak? I’ve never told anyone but my therapist what happened to me, and that was in the safety of her office with a wall full of credentials that promised confidentiality. I’m not sure I really want to divulge my darkest secrets to a room full of strangers. Strangers who might recognize me and sell my story to the highest bidder.
“You’re safe here, Mason,” Jeff tells me.
Everyone else signals their agreement.
The words pour from my mouth. “I was sexually assaulted by my boyfriend’s dad when I was seventeen. He caught me and his son together, and he was a homophobic piece of shit. Being forced to suck his dick was my punishment for being a pervert.” When I’m done speaking, I find everyone in the circle watching me. Not with pity in their eyes, but with understanding. Every man in this room knows what it’s like to be powerless, to be filled with shame for something we have no business being ashamed of.
I’m surprised to find that I feel lighter. I feel seen and understood, and I realize I haven’t truly felt those things in a very long time.
After the meeting is over,I hang back to help clear the chairs, and I thank Chris for being so welcoming.
“I hope you’ll come back,” he says. “It really does help. Some of the guys here have been coming for years now, and the change in them is stark. You did good speaking on your first visit.” He claps me on the back and goes to help Peter clear away the coffee mugs.
The other newcomer, Isaac, sidles up beside me. “That was brave telling everyone your story like that. I kind of wish I had now.”
