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Here comes a defamation suit.

I can smell it, and I welcome it.

After 30 years it’s about time we brought it on.

The bloke pictured above is Gregory Stephen Masters, in the picture to the right a 16-year-old schoolboy at St Paul’s, Bald Hills, my old alma mater and the exclusive Anglican Church run (then) boys college about to hit the headlines later this month, when the Royal Commission into Child Sexual Abuse turns its gaze onto the proliferate abuses that occurred at the school in the 1980’s and early 1990’s.

If you haven’t guessed yet from the posts I’ve published over the past week or so, I was one of the more than a hundred victims of the predators that once stalked the fields of the green and red blazer and tie-wearing bastion of the nouveau rich establishment half an hour north of the Brisbane CBD.

I copped it first from the music teacher, an out-and-out c*nt named Gregory Robert Knight, who sucked the dick of any boy that he could get his hands on and figured he could abuse without fear of disclosure. Of course such boys were usually either poor, scholarship winners, from broken families, or orphans. In other words, as vulnerable as f*ck.

Myself, I fell into the first 2 categories. A Catholic by birth and upbringing, I had long been enrolled in a high-priced local church high school, but my working-class parents were fretting about being able to stump up the acceptance fees, and the ongoing vig, and given that my old man had threatened to knock the local Priest, Father Norris, to the ground after he had refused my grandma – a domestic violence victim – an annulment on the grounds that she should have just kept on copping being knocked to the ground, there was little chance that Dad was going to stump up cap in hand at the Parish office and ask for a fee remission.

So way back when, in the year nineteen hundred and eighty, along with thousands of other bright eyed and bushy-tailed 11 and 12 year olds, I bowled up one Saturday morning and sat the academic scholarship test for a place in one of the hitherto unaffordable establishment schools run by the Proddies. And landed third place in the State. The world was suddenly my Anglican oyster, and I could have headed off to any one of a dozen AGS schools.

My parents chose St Paul’s. After all, back in those days it was only 2 stations north of Geebung on the Petrie line, and the building fees weren’t too steep. My best mate was headed there too (his grandmother was paying), so all in all it appeared a good option, and in late-January 1981 off I toddled to my first assembly in the barn of what used to be a huge farm set on god-knows how many acres next to the Pine River.

It was the proudest day of my Mum’s life. And, as it later turned out, the worst day of mine. For rather than herald my parent’s imagined bright future of a chambers in the Inns of Court, or a place on the frontline with a pen in my hand and a phone to my ear, or even the much dreamt of padded leather seat in the House of Broken Dreams, instead it was the beginning of a nightmare that haunts me in my sleep still.

And the weird-looking bloke at the top of the story is one of the devils that haunt those dreams. He wasn’t the first – Gregory Robert Knight, the music teacher who encouraged my parents to instruct me to resume my instrumental studies, in order that he could abuse my pretty pre-pubescent form a little more – beat the weird-looking guy to the punch.

But after Knight had done his worst, and I was lost and confused and alone, the weirdo stepped right in. And for the next 18 months or so it was sleepovers, cigarettes and Serapax-spiked Vodka, and sucking my hair-growing small dick while I slept the drug-damned sleep of the dead.

I knew f*ck all about it until one morning I awoke in the dark to find the weird demon at my loins. I pushed him off, pretending to be still asleep, and lay for what seemed like hours in the dark awaiting the opportunity to escape. Then, when I heard the much older predator snoring, I bounced from my mattress on the floor, swept his money jar filled with coins into my hands, and headed swiftly for the door, muscles tensed and ready to sprint to Northgate train station where in those pre-Uber days I hoped a taxi awaited as my saviour at the rank.

Shakespeare however told us of the folly of the best laid plans of mice and men, and as it turned out, my abuser was only foxing, or maybe the jingle of the coin jar roused him from his ribald dreams, for before I made it 2 steps toward the door he had pounced, and was upon my back, with my face facing the floor, and I don’t want to talk about what happened next other than to say that in the 31 years since I haven’t slept a wink unless drunk to the point of oblivion, or medicated until I can keep my eyes open no more.

It’s a c*nt of a life, and the c*nt pictured bears a whole lot of the blame, although whether he or the music loving masturbator Gregory Knight, or indeed a whole lot of others – including the principal, the priest and perhaps the church itself – is the most culpable is a puzzle that after all these years can probably never be solved.

Now here I am, and it’s 2015, and my sordid experience encouraged me to ensure that my 2 beautiful kids never suffered the pain that I did, and which haunts me still. Pray thanks for small mercies, and for kids kept safe from the satanic demons that lurk in the cold dark black of the moonless night.

But what about the kids at Grammar? The English students in the thrall of the once young man who so loved hairless boys that he was prepared to beget his soul and his conscience, and perhaps even his sanity, just to stroke and suck their supine pre-pubescent penises? Or the swimmers stripped bare to their Speedos and lasciviously leered at by a lecher from the depraved damned depths of hell?

He’s a schoolteacher at Brisbane Grammar now, the paedophilic predator who pretended to be my pal, but was really friend to no-one but the undertow, and took innocents like me in, and wouldn’t let go. And holds us still, no matter how hard we fight and beseech him to release his hold.

Gregory Stephen Masters.

Greg Masters.

Paedophile. Predator. Prick.

Teacher at Brisbane Boys Grammar.

I haven’t seen him in more than 30 years, yet I hate him still. Or, more correctly, I hate what he did to me still. Hate the sin, love the sinner. That’s what the priest who told me I was a liar when I revealed to him the earlier abuse by the music teacher taught me.

I can’t sleep.

I haven’t for 30 years.

I wonder if I ever will.