Read Online The White House Boys: An American Tragedy by Roger Dean Kiser - Free Book Online Page B

Acceptance
    “Y ou look at me cross-eyed one more time, and I’ll have Hatton beat the pure living shit out of you,” said Dr. Curry in a very firm voice.
    I didn’t think I was looking cross-eyed, but I tried my hardest not to look cross-eyed anyway. Let there be no doubt that when Dr. Curry spoke—or anyone in authority at the school, for that matter— even God himself was to pay attention. If not, God would surely share in their wrath.
    “I’m sorry, Dr. Curry, sir. I was just playing around in my mind,” I told him.
    I watched Dr. Curry as he puffed on his pipe. By now, I was used to the smell of that cherry blend of tobacco he was so fond of. (To this day, the smell of cherry tobacco nauseates me because of the disturbing feelings it conjures up.)
    As I sat motionless, as did I on most occasions when visiting his office, saliva began to build up in my mouth. I was afraid to swallow for fear that he might hear me as the slick, wet moist mixture fell down into my throat. The more I thought about the spit, the more I felt my mouth fill up with it. I knew that I had to swallow or I might choke. So, with one big, brave swallow, I allowed the large ball of wetness to slip into my throat. GULP .
    “Are you mocking me boy?” he asked without looking up from his paperwork.
    “No, sir, Dr. Curry, sir. I was just swallowing my spit.”
    “Did I tell you that you could spit?”
    “No, sir, Dr. Curry, sir.”
    I hate him worse than Mother Winters, I thought to myself.
    Dr. Curry began humming some unrecognizable tune. “Hmmm . . . mmm . . . hmmm . . . mmm.”
    I was afraid to look at him cross-eyed and I was afraid to swallow, so I tried to sit perfectly still, and stared straight ahead. I knew that at any moment this devil had the power to have me beaten and possibly killed, and I didn’t want to die no time soon.
    “How many times do you play with yourself each day?”
    How many more times would he ask me the same damn question? How many more times would I have to say, “Dr. Curry, I ain’t never done that kind of thing”?
    I denied it again.
    “Roger Dean Kiser, you are one little lying bastard. Everyone of you boys do that. RIGHT?” he said, his voice getting louder and angrier.
    “I don’t know that, Dr. Curry, sir.”
    “Are you calling me a liar?”
    “No, sir, Dr. Curry. I wouldn’t ever do that.”
    The more he talked and the more he hounded me, the more I despised him. I hope someone kills him one day , crossed my mind. It frightened me that I thought that, and I hoped that didn’t mean I had the “killer instinct.”
    “You are going to sit in that damn seat until you tell me the truth.”
    I said not a word and my fists began to tighten. Afraid he might notice, I loosened them and forced my hands to relax. I wanted so much to scream, “I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!” But I did not dare.
    “What’s it going to be?”
    “I don’t know what you mean, Dr. Curry, sir.”
    “Are you going to sit there all night or are you going to show me how you jack off? Stand up and drop your drawers and let’s have a look at the goods.”
    I knew right then and there that I was as good as dead. I knew that a beating at the White House was now at hand and that there was no way out unless I did exactly what the sick bastard wanted.
    Slowly, I rose from my chair and began to unbuckle my belt.
    He leaned back, satisfied. “Let’s get a move on. I don’t have all day.”
    I wanted to run, but there was nowhere to run. I wanted to hide, but there was nowhere to hide. I wanted to die, but I just didn’t know how I could make myself die right there on the spot.
    I will never forget the horror of having to drop my pants in his office that day. His eyes scanned my young body as if Santa Clause had just delivered him the perfect gift. He smiled.
    As my body began to swell, I watched his bushy eyebrows twitch up and down and his smile slowly faded. His expression changed and he lowered his head until his