Daddy Lonnie
by Dan-E Boy
from Issue #2

    I'm afraid the current problems with the religious right in Oregon may be partially my fault. I can't take the blame entirely upon myself, of course, as I'm sure many different things brought this about. But, as a self-respecting gay male, I must be honest with myself and others. Then again, my story could be just another incident in the long line of incidences that brought about the current opp ression this state now faces. Let me tell my story, and you can decide for yourself whether or not I'm guilty.

    It was about ten years ago, when I was thirteen,that I ran away from my parents' home in Southern Oregon and headed up to Portland, where I had lived several years before. When I arrived, after a nervous day of hitching rides, I thought of looking for a place to stay, but had no money. I couldn't think of anything to do but catch a bus to my old house and see if there was anything there for me. I ended up sleeping under a porch. Having no money, I soon resorted to hustling, something I'd done before, and I spent thenext two months of that summer cruising arcades, movie theatres and parks. Few days, and fewer nights, went by that I didn't make money from some man or woman who approached me.

    Here's where Daddy Lonnie enters the picture. I make no apologies for what I did before this point, I was a kid surviving on the streets. But this next part makes me wonder. I'll let you decide.

    I was in front of a theatre when this guy in his early thirties approached me. His moles and the layers of greasy sweat that poured down his face didn't make a pretty picture, but many of the people I'd been with weren't exactly pictures of beauty. So when he asked me to meet him at his hotel room, I agreed.

    When I arrived at his room in a fancy hotel, he told me to call him "Daddy Lonnie" and would I like him to read me a story? I sat on his lap while he read the story of David and Jonathan from the Bible.

    When he was finished, he told me it was time for a bath. After scrubbing me down, washing my hair, and drying me off, he dressed me in one of those fuzzy, one-piece pyjama suits with feet. Then, telling me I needed my sleep, he carried me into the bedroom, tucked me into bed, sang a lullaby about my guardian angel, and kissed me goodnight. Then he left. Just left. No sex, no word about what he wanted me to do, nothing.

    This was weird. I mean, I was used to all sorts of fetishes and fantasies, and I'd been dressed in costumes many times. A lot of people wanted me to pretend I was their little boy. But no one had ever just left like that. Still, I figured he had just gone to get something and would be back any minute. I fell asleep waiting for him to return.

    Later that night, I couldn't tell what time it was, I was awakened by the sound of singing. I looked up and realized it was Daddy Lonnie singing "Jesus Loves Me" as he sat on the edge of the bed and brushed his fingers through my hair. In the dark room, I had trouble making out his shape, but when he pulled back the blanket and lay in bed beside me, the sweat from his naked body soaked through my pyjamas.

    "Daddy Lonnie's here to take care of you," he whispered.

    The next day he took me shopping for new clothes. That evening we went out to dinner and a movie, with me still playing the role of his son. This went on for two weeks. Each day he'd take me shopping or to the zoo or the circus. One day we went to a Hockey game, and on Sundays we went to church. Every day he'd pay me, saying the money was "for candy." And each night, my "Daddy Lonnie" would climb into bed after I was asleep, sing "Jesus Loves Me,"and take care of me in his own special way.

    I guess I just got bored with being this guy's fantasy kid. Or maybe it was the moles and the way he'd sweat all over me at night. One afternoon, after we'd returned to the hotel, I decided to tell him I was leaving.

    "Lonnie..."

    "Call me Daddy, son."

    "No... I won't call you Daddy Lonnie anymore. I... I'm leaving."

    "You can't leave. You're my son." He sounded pathetic.

    "I'm not your son. I'm some kid off the street you don't even know."

    He started to go red in the face and sweat even more than usual.

    "I know you. You're my son and you will do as you are told. Jesus doesn't like little boys who disobey their fathers. Now get undressed and I'll start your bath water. It sounds like you need a good scrubbing tonight." He turned to go into the bathroom.

    "I'm not your son, and Jesus doesn't give a shit about what I do." This startled him, and he spun around to face me. "I'm just some kid you found on the street and paid to fuck. But it's over now. I'm leaving, and there's nothing you can do about it!" I started to leave, but he grabbed my shoulder and spun me around. He was crying, his face contorted into a frightening purple mask. He began to yell, but it wasn't loud. It was a quiet sort of yell, vicious and evil, coming from between gritted teeth.

    "You think I don't know you? I know all about you, and all the others like you. I care for you, I take you in and give you life, and what do you do for me? You leave!!" His voice was steadily rising in pitch. "You sneak out in the middle of night, or disappear in the mall. I give you everything you'll ever need, I give my life for you, and still you leave me. You know what you are? You're a faggot!"

    The way he was talking had me scared stiff. I couldn't move or speak. "You're a Judas and a faggot, just like all the others. You killed my Jesus and now you're trying to kill me. Well I won't let you, you hear me? I won't let you kill your savior!" And he slapped me. Hard. I tried to make a break for the door, but he caught me and threw me on the bed, all the while quoting scripture. But he didn't raise his voice. Everything was said in that same quiet snarl.

    He hit me again and again, and began to sing "Jesus Loves Me" as he cried. Finally I was able to break free of his hold, and was out of the hotel in less than three minutes.

    I was picked up by the cops in a park a couple weeks later. They sent me home, and I spent some time in a detention hall.

    I saw "Daddy Lonnie" again four years later. It was at my parents' church one Sunday where his group was gathering signatures for an anti-gay and lesbian measure. I was right in front of him before I realized who he was, and I froze in that spot. Would he recognize me? What would he do? I imagined him singing "Jesus Loves Me" through gritted teeth. But he didn't seem to notice me at all, other than to try and stuff some propoganda into my hands.

    Now, at the age of twenty-two, I can't go a week without hearing about him in the news. I hear he hates to be called Lonnie. That's my story. What do you think? Am I guilty? Did my rejection cause this man to embark upon his "holy" crusade? I don't think I'll ever really know, but I wonder, does "Daddy Lonnie" still take care of his little boys?