FLUFFER71

Last week I received an email from Experian congratulating me on surpassing a credit score of 800, followed by an email from Chase Bank reminding me that my account was in need of attention. The irony made me smirk. After charging $1000 a month for medical insurance for over a year and making minimum payments, Chase already saw what was coming – Mr. Wallace was about to go bust.

Two years ago, after remembering satanic ritual abuse from my childhood, I cashed out on my retirement account to buy myself more time. Back then, I hoped that by publicly sharing the horrific, re-emerging memories from my childhood, someone from my family or the gay community with knowledge of the abuse I was exposing would offer assistance by the time the money was exhausted.

While I may have failed to call upon people’s better angels in time, given my circumstances and naïveté to date, I, at least, wanted to be more forthright about the abuse I faced within the gay community, specifically.

While I was able to figure out that my family was paying people/ shadow networks within the gay community to target me, others in my position may not have been as fortunate and questioned their sanity, self-worth, or, in worst case scenarios, a reason to live.

In my specific case, my mother needed the gay community to make me feel unworthy of love. In addition to spreading smear campaigns, she needed people to rage bate me as evidence that supports a narrative that I am mentally incompetent.

Best case scenario, my mother needed me to commit suicide, so that she could lay claim to the trust fund my grandfather left me, set to mature on my 50th birthday in April 2021.

Success for my mother was nonnegotiable. Should she fail, aside from being broke, my mother would be exposed. Everyone would know that my grandfather left me a house and trust fund because of my parents’ decision to sell me to a satanic cult when I was seven.

People would learn that my parents had been trafficking me since 1978. And with my mother’s downfall, so goes her cult… and the shadow network within the gay community that targeted me.

At a minimum, my mother should have warned all involved that I’m no stranger to the dark.

I see fake people.

TURNING 50 – “A UNICORN IS (re)BORN”

Like many people in spring 2021, I was re-acclimating to life at a safe social distance. Whether it was a sign of the times, friends electing to stay indoors, or my subconscious setting firmer boundaries now that I was 50, one thing was clear – In 2021, I was spending a lot more time out, alone.

I’ve never required a lot of friends to validate my self-worth. Whether it be dining out, going to a movie, or a night on the town, I’m perfectly content going at it alone.

For all its perks, however, the downside of being a ‘man of mystery’ is that it leaves you subject to gossip, makes you an easier target for people with ill intentions… After all, when you have no one to defend you, being a loner gives others ample opportunity to narrate your story, to fill in the blanks for people that don’t know you.

While I had a sense that I was the subject of gossip within the gay community in San Diego, it was three interactions with three bartenders at three separate bars that first left me questioning if I was the target of a concerted attack within the gay community.

I had been friendly with all three bartenders in the past, was even connected on social media with two of them, and yet seemingly overnight, all three had grown to disdain me, with no explanation offered.

The first bartender was the most subtle and childish. He liked to point at me when talking to others and laugh. When I ordered drinks from him, he stopped looking me in the eye and acted as if he was holding back laughter, as if he’d loose control if he made eye contact with me.

However subtle, it was a behavior I’d see in a lot more people in the years ahead. Message intended to be sent and received – I was a joke, a ridiculous man, someone’s who very existence was laughable.

Shortly before turning 50, I launched a TikTok account Fluffer71. I was aware that the bartender was following my account yet never supported my content, so I assumed he felt my creative expression was a joke and weaponized it against me. When he later laughed at a post on Facebook meant to be heartfelt, I blocked him from my social media accounts.

Whatever his reasons, I didn’t care to ask. When being bated, I tend not to engage, a characteristic that would likely save my life as matters escalated further…

The second bartender was more direct. When I went to pay him, I accidentally knocked over the drink he’d just poured me. What followed left me stunned. He looked at me in disgust and screamed, “Jesus Christ”, causing other people in the bar to stop and stare at me.

I was mortified by his behavior. I had just arrived at the bar and made it a point to visit him specifically, yet he was treating me like some drunk that couldn’t hold a glass.

I apologized to him but added that bartenders should have thicker skin when it comes to spilled drinks. When I left him a $10 tip for his troubles, he wadded it up and threw it in a garbage can.

The third bartender I actually considered a friend, so his comments to me were the most hurtful. After I paid for my drink, he leaned in with a look of disgust and said, “I know who you really are. You’re just a whore that takes it up the ass.”

While I’ve never been a man that judges another’s sex life, let alone goes out of my way to shame them, I was celibate at the time of the verbal attack. Perhaps it was because I was channeling my inner 7 year old, or the fact that the kid was waking up in a body 50 years old, but suffice it to say – sex was not a priority.

As a matter of clarification for anyone that may have heard otherwise – if the version of ‘Damon’ you’ve been sold since I turned 50, nearly five years ago, is anything other than that of a single, celibate man trying to figure out why people are being mean, while simultaneously recouping traumatic, childhood memories – you’re witness to the smear campaign against me.

Since none of us wants to be complicit to a crime, if you joined in on rumors stating otherwise, my personal recommendation is to question your sources before speaking my name again. I can assure you, none of the cowards spreading gossip about me would have the audacity to speak their bullshit to my face.

In hindsight, I never reacted to the incidents with the bartenders because there was a part of me expecting the abuse. The attacks were inadvertently helping wake me up, reminding that in 1978 my grandfather had coached me through the very abuse taking place in the present.

Before being subjected to memory erasing hypnosis in 1978, my grandfather explained that people would try to bate me when I turned 50, and he coached me not to react, to focus on creative expression instead; otherwise, my inheritance would be in jeopardy.

Moving into 2022, the dark cloud over my town only grew darker… and it seemed to follow me wherever I went.

What I experienced wasn’t exclusive to bar employees. It seemed that wherever I went in the gay community, I could count on strangers either being appalled by my presence or laughing at my existence. Even people I had considered friends were making inappropriate comments about me. One even shouted “look who crawled out of the bathhouse” when I attended a tribute for someone in the community that had passed away.

One time, I actually got to witness the smear campaign take place live.

While traveling to San Francisco to hear a DJ I liked, I was conversing with a bartender since it was early and the place was dead. Mid-conversation the bartender excused himself because someone from the event needed to speak with him.

Whatever the bartender was told made him appalled. When he turned back around to face me, he yelled at me for loitering and told me to make room for other people, even though there was no one around us.

Another time while at a popular clothing store in Palm Springs tailored to gay men, I experienced a similar situation.

While trying on clothes, I heard a couple of men giggling in front of my changing room. When I came out, they were talking to the cashier.

When I went to pay for the purchase, the cashier told me the credit card wouldn’t go through. I was confused since I paid my credit cards off monthly and the bank hadn’t text me to verify the purchase, but I didn’t question him and gave him another card instead.

While running the transaction on the second card, I noticed that the men giggling in front of my changing room earlier were filming me on their phones, so I wasn’t surprised when the employee came back and said, “Sorry, this card won’t work either.”

I had been in the store for well over an hour, the employee had been friendly while assisting me, and my purchase was over $900, but now he was treating like some bum that needed to leave.

Instead of getting frustrated, I told the employee that it must be a sign. I had more than enough money in my checking account, so I gave him my debit card instead, which resulted in slouched shoulders from the men filming the exchange, as they put away their cell phones.

Of the monthly events in San Diego, my favorite was DILF by Joe Whitaker. While I never got a chance to know him, after dancing my heart out at his events, I always made it a point to thank him and shake his hand.

I was excited when I learned that Joe was hosting a cruise in San Diego for Pride featuring one of my favorite DJ’s. Although none of my friends were attending, I purchased a ticket and attended alone, which I regret.

Whatever was happening behind my back hit a crescendo for me that night. No one would engage with me, even acquaintances I knew by name.

I received a lot of dirty looks on that cruise that made me very uncomfortable. Mid way through the event, I regretted coming alone and questioned my safety in a public setting for the first time. A sense that only got amplified when I found myself taking a break from dancing. While leaning against the rail and watching the waves crash against the boat, a man came up behind me and said, “Not thinking about killing yourself, are you”, before running away in laughter with a friend.

Despite the negative experience, I didn’t want to break with tradition. Before getting off the boat, I went to thank the DJ, but even she wouldn’t acknowledge me, even though we were standing feet apart. Instead, she waved at people behind me and thanked them for attending.

Joe Whitaker was saying goodbye to attendees as they exited the ship that night, and it would end up being the last time I’d see him. Before departing, I reached out my hand and thanked him, but this time around the gesture of kindness wasn’t reciprocated. Like the DJ before him, he thanked the people behind me for attending.

I have other examples of mistreatment but they’d only be redundant. Dirty looks, strangers laughing at me, and people pounding their shoulders against mine as they pass by became the norm moving into 2023. Dancing in the corner became more of a safety precaution for me than about having the space to twirl and slay.

Instead of reacting or even sharing any of the abuse, I kept the details to myself. I expressed what I was experiencing more broadly on social media via Fluffer71 to let others know I was aware of the campaign against me, that it would be in their best interest to stop attacking my character… before they took things too far.

It should be telling to an outside observer when in one corner you have a man speaking publicly about the abuse he’s enduring, giving his attackers ample opportunity to defend themselves or clarify. Compared to the slander committed against me, where everyone operated in the shadows, and I never once had an opportunity to defend myself or my character.

However heartbreaking to experience, throughout all of the abuse I just kept asking – Why is any of this happening? And why was I expecting the attacks? More importantly, why did the old songs revisited on Fluffer71 offer me of sense of reprieve and insight into the abuse? And why were my views decreasing as I progressed?

While I wasn’t quite connecting the dots yet, in September 2023 my life got turned upside down when I began remembering hypnosis sessions with my grandfather and satanic ritual abuse from my childhood involving my parents… also noteworthy, a month prior to the revelations I quit my job and cut off my mother.

Given my budget, I only went out to the clubs a couple of times a month. And since I’d already quit my job, I utilized Fluffer71 to transmute the pain and isolation I was feeling.

The only thing noteworthy about this period is how hurt I felt by gay friends near and far who never acknowledged the pain I was expressing. Even though I was remembering abuse inflicted on me as a child because I was gay, few seem to even care, and no one within the community ever reached out with recommendations or resources to help me overcome the traumatic abuse at that time.

In my friends’ defense, maybe some never saw my posts. And let’s be honest, no one wants to hang out with the “witches are trying to kill me” guy (talk about buzz kill by the punch bowl). And most importantly, none of them knew about the specific abuse I was experiencing within the community, at least not from me.

All things taken into account, by my 53rd birthday in April 2024, I removed myself from society all together. A couple months later, I created my last TikTok, which by then had views in the single digits. What updates I had left in me I kept limited to Facebook and instagram.

I took advantage of the time alone to clean myself up. Although I had cut back, given how much of my backstory centered around bartenders, I implemented a “no drinking at home alone” policy, which is another way of saying I stopped drinking alcohol. I also stopped smoking that August (…and have since relapsed, after writing “Confessions of an Earth Angel” last December. I’ll get there).

Due respect to the heroes in my story to date, mainly Jake and Max (with honorable mention to Brandon and Brian). When Jacob learned of my circumstances last November, without asking he rented a U-Haul and helped me gut out my place with everyone-noted’s support.

Since last December, I’ve spent the majority of my days in Jake and Max’s guest room. The best way I can describe my current state is that I am a man in a state of paralysis, who doesn’t know how he’s going to pay bills next month, let alone keep health insurance. I can’t sleep for more than 4 hours and often wake up crying to my existing conditions, which is only amplified by the knowledge that I have a house and trust fund that I can’t access.

Throughout my creative endeavor turned public outcry, not one person from my family ever reached out regarding the abuse I experienced as a child or an adult. Even if my mother thought I was delusional, why would she not try to comfort me or offer help? When I first confronted her about the abuse by text over two years ago, why was her response, “I have Phyllis, Uncle George, and Liz… who’s going to support you?”

However impressive my mother’s defense team, it occurred to me – Those don’t sound like the words of an innocent woman, does it? I accepted her response as an admission of guilt and blocked her phone number. Before doing so, however, I reread her “who’s going to support you” text, and responded, “God.”

Although I survived the psychological warfare and my mother’s attempts to make me buckle and look insane, I’m still a man without justice in the fetal position on a guest room bed, asking how so many people within the gay community with knowledge of the abuse could let this go on for so long?

Although I’ve attempted to go out, by design, gay bars just give me PTSD now. The music and laughter haunt me, feel like something more akin to the Ballroom at the Overlook Hotel than the places that once offered me a sense of liberation and reprieve.

Putting a boy in Underoos doesn’t make him a superhero or a man. For the gay men that attacked me, this was never about you, and I’m not mad. This is about me exposing the shadow organization(s) that put gay men and my mother in a position to believe that any of this was acceptable.

However you slice it, I was force-fed hate and trans-tooted ™️ it into a musical. For those who claimed to love me yet found my creative expression laughable, something rather beautiful took place while you were judging me.

In April 2021, a seven year old boy turned 50. Following his grandfather’s instructions, he reflected on the music that meant the most to him throughout his life and found the bravery to express himself again…

In the process, I remembered that my family sold me off to a cult that has been trafficking me since 1978.

For those getting to know me, I invite you to read Confessions of an Earth Angel and The Haunting of Damon Wallace, the latter of which I wrote a month after my 50th birthday.

Fluffer71 on TikTok was my journal, how I got from there to here, via wonderland, and survived the premeditated attempts on my life, spearheaded by my mother.

As a sample of my journal, I included a few of my TikTok’s throughout this post. Of all of them, the following – created in September 2022 – captures my journey to date the best.

Last week I woke up in the middle of a night screaming, asking God why he hates me.

Hearing the words aloud brought me to tears, which led into a long overdue, pent-up rage that I took out on a pillow that only meant me comfort.

After regaining my composure and before going back to sleep, I apologized to God, but I asked Him the same question I present to all of you.

How many tears can one man cry?