My Life Baring it All

When I get a story such this one that follows, I feel there is not much need for an introduction. You read it and comment with your thoughts.
E~

My family life was such a shit that I exploded with excitement and confidence the year that my Teacher from my school gave me a shower, washed my hair and held me. The fact that we were naked, well I never thought about it. All that I remember is that Coach told me that I was a valued child of God.

Later, that June of 1975 and I went to Camp Greystone. Coach worked there too. It should be said that  my parents never wanted kids, they even gave two away before I was born. So when my teacher and later my Coach showed an extra bit of parentage towards me I was thrilled. Me, once a slug of a boy, I got stronger and faster much because of Coach Miller. I tried because Coach liked me.

I've read the varied stories here. I was shocked at how much our world has changed. I recently went back to the camps of my childhood to discover how artificial, unduly protective and structured they have become. In my day, we had one swim test on Day One (always a naked swim) to prove that we could hold our own in the water. From then on we were assigned cabins and counselors. For most campers, our counsels and CITs were like substitute parents while we played and flocked in the wild, always with a buddy.

These were the years of self-discovery. I found that some coaches were good and some were different in school and at camp. In the years that I was a kid in school boys always swam naked together. We got desensitized to the whole "evil" of nakedness.

 More than once, my coaches touched me sensually---but not sexually. Coach Jim washed my hair. Coach Pat gave me my first "Your Body is Growing" speech and answered all my questions. Father John tucked me in every night at camp and never fucked me. Imagine that, a priest that didn't molest boys. Sorry for being snarky. But I get upset that all the good men who've never molested boys in, out, and around the Church are forgotten and never got praised for a job well done. Coach Tim, barely older than my own father, slept in a chair checking my fever throughout the night. The hands of many good men have touched my body. I owe them all a debt of gratitude.

We, in America, seem to have gotten all "STRANGER DANGER SCARED" because of a few that we have allowed others with agendas to to sink the whole male race of good men.

Now in my 60s I shake my head with confusion when I have to call and wait for the arrival of a parent for the boy I have to treat with an outbreak of Poison Oak in the nether region---for liability reasons.

I will be happy to die soon. Perhaps my last thoughts will be of Jim Miller washing my feet with soap and water and me giggling the whole time while he is explaining why a boy must change his socks daily.

---Dr. S. Stevens