A Man on His Knees
On Earth, an obscure book written by Matthew Lejuene in the year 2059 was entitled Mind Control Used Against Us All. It only sold a total of only 15 copies. One digital version survived the passage of nearly 140 years since the nonfiction book was initially published by a private press in Arizona. Here is one portion of the book’s introduction written by the author, Matthew Lejeune:
When I was a young man who had just turned 21 in 1991, this is what I looked like.
I certainly was no saint when it came to behaviors. I was very proud of my good looks.
I knew I was gay, so I was thrilled to discover that men found me to be sexually attractive. And, I became very sexually active at that time with numerous men who wanted me.
I was very innocent when I was taken to Sedona, Arizona, which ultimately became my home. I say “I was taken” because that is the complete and honest truth about what happened back then. A strange man met me in a hotel restaurant on Interstate 40 and then drove me to Sedona, where he raped me in a motel.
I felt that he had some kind of intense mental powers that controlled me and prevent me from escaping from him. My experiences with him made me want to study the whole concept of mind control, which I have done my entire life since then.
This was not rape in the traditional sense. I was not. This man did not force himself upon me sexually. He did not do that.
I simply had no defenses against his powerful mind. I considered that meant I was raped because the man used techniques that controlled my mind and therefore my emotions. I was powerless compared to him.
I found that I became helpless and completely under his influence mentally. I had told him that I had psychic abilities, but he was a master of mind control compared to my own limited skills and talents. I know that it is not typical for a man to tell the world when he is raped by another man. I also repeat that I know that this was not rape in the traditional sense. Yet, I stand by the emotional and moral truths of what happened to me.
To help you understand, I ask you to think of a picture of a man on his knees. The picture is a metaphor. One interpretation is that the man is willingly down on his knees as if to signify he is submissive by intent. He agrees to submit to someone else or something else. Being down on his knees is the nonverbal proof that he will do anything that he is told to do by someone who controls him, even if that control is not actually a physical control.
The metaphor also can mean that the man is kneeling down to pray for something. He may praying for something that he wants, but could never ask for directly.
I became submissive to that man in Sedona, Arizona. He claimed that he was from the future. He used what I consider to be considerable mental powers against me. Perhaps people from the future have mastered mind control. He did not actually force himself upon my physically. He brought me to my knees in the figurative sense. I lost control of my mind, my emotions, and my body. That is why I call what happened rape.
The man was named Ted Avila. He told me that he had been born in the year 2162 and that he had used a time machine to travel back to the year 1991. He wanted me to believe that he worked on the moon and that he was on planet Earth only to serve on missions. He wanted me to believe that his employer was some top-secret agency I had never heard of.
It was a highly unusual story that he wanted me to accept. He used those fictions as a starting point to control me in Sedona. I fell for it. I fell for him.
It is true that I could read his mind. Yes, I really do have psychic abilities. I’ll admit that freely.
But, in the process of trying to read his mind, I discovered that his mind and my mine were “locked together” resulting in me losing control to him.
I was traumatized by the experience of our minds being “locked together.” I have always blamed myself from attempting to read this man’s mind.
Had I left this man alone, perhaps I never would have lost control to him. But, I nonetheless consider what happened to me to be the moral and emotional equivalent of rape.
Over the years after experiencing what I did in Sedona, Arizona in 1991, I created a persistent fantasy for himself. That fantasy is a situation in which I interrogate this man named against his will.
I envision that I have tied him to a simple wooden chair. He wears only blue jeans but without underwear. He looks helpless because he is helpless. He knows he is powerless against me in that subservient position. I can do to Ted Avila whatever I want now.
Him: You cannot hold me here forever. Eventually, you have to let me go free.
Me: Not if I kill you. Then, you aren’t going anywhere.
Him: Why would you do that, Matthew?
Me: I told you already. I expect you to address me as “Sir” and never say my name at all. Do you understand?
Him: Yes, sir.
I enjoy watching him squirm. If I remain silent for several minutes, that makes him very uncomfortable. He doesn’t know how to figure me out. He doesn’t know what to expect from me at all. He just has to sit there and worry. That’s all he can do.
The truth is: I had never before been fucked by any man in the way he did in that Sedona motel. The mattress squeaked in that motel room in a stereotypical way as he plunged into me as deeply as he could again and again. That one moment of complete physical honesty as he dominated my body— It remains far beyond my capability to put into words. I was speechless. It was an intensely pleasurable experience. He was in control of my sexual pleasure and that control felt amazingly good to me. Our having sex knocked both me and him unconscious during our orgasms.
He controlled me. He controlled my thoughts and my fantasies. My body wanted more of the intense physical pleasure that he showed me that day in that bed in the Sedona motel room. My body craved those feelings for years, decades. I knew that I could not live without those physical pleasures he showed me that day.
So, why do I call it rape? The man took control over me in ways that I could not and would not have agreed to in advance. I was essentially an unwilling participant in sex with him. Yet, I also ended up enjoying the sex so much that I felt traumatized and broken emotionally from that day forward.
So, to get even with him, in my fantasies I beat him senseless while his wrists are bound behind his back in that simple wooden chair that I’ve tied him to. I keep punching him in the face very hard causing him to bleed profusely. I just keep slamming my fists into his face over and over as I remember those physical pleasures he showed me that day in Sedona in 1991.
That is all I can do. Fantasize. Imagine how much I can hurt this man who took mental and physical control over me. The only revenge I have now is fantasy violence against him.
I could kick him in his manhood for all eternity. I guess I just keep trying to destroy this man’s cock and balls. So I keep kicking harder and harder. Why? What good does it do? Do I think that this will bring me redemption?
His cock and balls brought me such pleasure that I can never have again. His cock and balls made me ejaculate like I never will again.
His sexual power over me was unexpected. It was total. It was also glorious.
I hate him for that. I hate how much pleasure he gave me. So, I just keep kicking him. Listen to him screaming. Begging me to stop kicking him. He repeats over and over, “I’ll do anything!”
I, too, would do anything. So, I know what he means. Very clearly. But, since I cannot get revenge upon him in other ways now, I just keep kicking him in my fantasy interrogation of him. That’s all I’ve got now. There is nothing else for me. I deserve nothing more.
If only his time machine were real, I would use it. I would travel back to Sedona to the year 1991. Back then I was a fresh, innocent cowboy at age 21. The one and only time my life meant anything to me. I would go back in time. I definitely would. Please let me go back there. I must go back. Please.
I repeat this fantasy because it gives me certain comfort in life. I have repeated the fantasy continuously for 68 years. Every day at least twice a day. I keep repeating it. I realize that this means I have repeated this fantasy now 50,000 times. I admit that means I am totally obsessed with what happened to me so very long ago. Fantasizing surely must be as automatic for me as breathing. But, unlike breathing, my fantasizing is a highly unhealthy aspect of my life.
As I write these words, I have lived some 89 years now. I have no way of knowing how much longer I will remain alive. I am surprised that I have survived for as many years as I have, especially considered the deep trauma I suffered when I was only 21.
In my mind, I can still see myself as that handsome young cowboy in 1991 getting fucked in a Sedona motel room. I feel completely pathetic every time I long for the physical pleasures I knew so long ago on that one afternoon in Arizona. I will never feel that way again.