A Fond Farewell

What an experience it has been to rediscover this old blog. When the memory of its existence surfaced in my mind, my thoughts were of deleting it entirely.

But then, I saw all the comments various posts had received over the years since I abandoned it. I saw that it was quoted elsewhere. And I read over my youthful ramblings.

This old blog is not reviving, but I no longer have the heart to take it down. It will stand as a time capsule. Know that I am alive and well, and I hope that you might find some joy in my old musings.

Peace and freedom to you all,
Louie Singer

A final note on the “Unknowable Longing.”
Toská – noun /ˈtō-skə/ – Russian word roughly translated as sadness, melancholia, lugubriousness.

“No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody of something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom.”

― Vladimir Nabokov

Erotica

Let’s be honest: I consume it, and so do you. For the most part, my preferred source is Nifty Archives. I am a romantic. I like more than a pretty face. I prefer a pretty character. I want to fall in love as I fap. Also — in this country anyway — a lot more can legally happen in a written story than in a photograph, video or even drawing. And I do try to obey the law. With the exception of speed limits…

But erotica is limited. If you go out and research the relationship between child pornography and child abuse (I doubt there are any studies done on the relationship between legal child erotica and child abuse, though I’ve never actually looked) you will see two camps. Mainstream camp: child pornography leads to greater incidences of child abuse. Alternate camp: child pornography acts as a sexual release for pedophiles and can help to reduce real world incidences by providing an alternative.

Thing is, any kind of erotic media (adult, child, textual, graphical, hardcore, romance) is a lot like dessert. The hungrier you are the more you’ll want to eat it. And if you eat it, you’ll feel satisfied right in the moment, but it won’t take long until you are hungry again. Hungrier, in fact, because it didn’t actually nourish you. Also, now you’re a little fatter and feel slightly ill.

When I am lonely, I feel a constant need to get on Nifty and read smut. Or get on tumblr or flickr and find pictures of shirtless boys. I read, look, stroke, cum and then feel every bit as lonely as I did before.

Now, I’m not saying that erotica is bad! I enjoy it, I like it, and it has its place. But when I am unhappy, it gets in the way of me finding my way back to happiness. In the moment, I’d rather eat pie than cook dinner. But much like dessert, it has its place. At the end of a good meal, a slice of cake tastes great and tops off the meal, making it feel truly finished and satisfying.

Likewise, when I am happy, when I have spent a week of days with my Golden Boy, my heart is full of realized love for him, and the Longing (which has ceased to be Unknowable to me) is lying dormant, a good romantic man/boy or boy/boy story does nothing but make me happy (and horny), giving me the one thing that I cannot get from my Golden Boy: sex.

Being known

The Collective lives around the corner from my work. Very convenient. I have at times stayed with the Collective during snow storms, etc, so I could get to work more easily.

Now, I am giving voice lessons to 2of2. Today is our usual day. He gets out of school 45 min early and we meet at his house. Today, because of various circumstances, our lesson needed to be delayed. But a few minutes ago, 2of2 buzzed the intercom here at work

It feels GOOD for people to know about my relationship to these boys. While I understand the danger, and worry a LITTLE about that, the prevailing feeling when I notice people associating me with the Collective (“Hey Louie! Does 1of2 like…?” “Do you know if the Tertiary Adjunct is going to be at such-and-such a place?” “Could you give this to the Queen the next time you see her?”) is one of pride. Yes! I am their friend! I love them, they love me, and EVERYBODY knows it! So HA!

Sentimental

I have been sick. Coughing so much that I’ve lost my voice. Yesterday (Sunday) morning was particularly bad. I could barely get out of bed. I obviously wasn’t going to be much use in the choir that morning, so I called in sick to get a few extra hours of sleep.

That afternoon, 1of2 sent me a text message. “Are you dead dude? I miss you” I was so touched! And, of course, I missed him too. But did I say that? No, of course not.

The last time I ate dinner at their house, as I was headed out the door 1of2 called out to me, “Bye Louie! I love you!” Once again, I definitely love him too. But still I didn’t say so to him.

This bothers me. First, I want to set an example for him that it is OK and good to express his feelings, although he clearly doesn’t need that. Still, I don’t want to set the opposite example and influence him to stop.

But secondly, and more importantly, I want him to know that I do love him and that I do miss him. But I just can’t make myself say it. Fortunately, I’ve gotten over my inability to hug him! So at least he (and the rest of the family) are no longer under the impression that I merely tolerate the boys. They know that I genuinely enjoy my time with them.

Now I am trying to buy them a Christmas present. For their birthdays I got each boy his own personal gift, but I don’t have the money to do that again, so I am trying to come up with a gift for the family as a whole. I would like that gift to in some way represent how much our friendship has grown, to express my love for the boys and my gratitude to the parents, but obviously I have an aversion to overtly putting my emotions on display. This is a long standing problem and I have been working on it for years, but I have never been so bothered by it as I am now.

I have one idea. And I can’t use it. On my Wilfred Owen page there is a poem: Impromptu. The second section is the perfect sentiment I wish to express, but I don’t know that I’d have the courage to use it, strong as it is.

Child, let me fully see and know thy eyes!
Their fire is like the wrath of shaken rubies;
Their shade is like the peaceful forest-heart.
They hold me as the great star holds the less.
I see them as the lights beyond this life.
They reach me by a sense not found in man,
And bless me with a bliss unguessed of God.

It perfectly describes my love for them (part of it, anyway) in a way that I think The Queen would interpret in a very positive way. I truly believe that she would read that “Platonically.”

But that isn’t the whole poem. So when asked where it came from: “Oh, it’s part of a Wilfred Owen poem.” Which leads to: “What’s the rest of it say?”

Yield me thy hand a little while, fair love;
That I may feel it; and so feel thy life,
And kiss across it, as the sea the sand,
And love it, with the love of Sun for Earth.

Yeah, that’s a bit harder to swallow as representing a mentor-protégé relationship.

The solitary pedophile in literature

I have admitted in the past to reading erotic fiction online about boys and boys or boys and men. Even other combinations, provided boys are involved. I have two thoughts:

First, this is not a flattering admission, but, do I have much choice? A heterosexual woman can read romance novels, or she can read Jane Austen. Those are by no means the extent of her options, but they represent a range of literary genres that would fulfill her urge to hear stories about people who feel the same way she does. Stories that make her feel…less alone, I suppose. The women characters want what she wants, do what she does or wish she could do…

If there is a Jane Austen for boylovers, I haven’t heard of him or her. So I read smut online. I pick through the Nifty Archives, wading through the mountains of absolute shit, looking for those rare gems: good stories that make me relate. Stories that, while most may not achieve the status of art or literature, speak to my mind and my heart as well as my penis. They are there. BAGHDAD, 790 A.D. is one recent such story, concerned more with the main character’s love of boys and his distaste for slavery than it is with large dicks in small rectums.

In addition to the rare find in the archives, there have been books published over the millennia that concern themselves with topics particularly relevant to people like myself. Touched by Scott Campbell is one. Sandel by Angus Stewart is another. I am considering compiling a list. If you have suggestions, put them in the comments below or send me a note. They should specifically relate to Boylove, rather than simply being of interest to a boylover, or seeming to insinuate such themes between the lines (although those would be good lists too) such as The Gunslinger by Stephen King. (I find the relationship between Roland and Jake to be remarkably intimate…)

The second thought is really not at all surprising, profound, significant. And yet, it is all these things to me. Almost never in any story on Nifty worth its bandwidth (Baghdad is an exception, but its historical setting negates my upcoming point), nor in any published work I have read with the exception of The Moralist by Rod Downey, does the protagonist pedophile have pedophile friends. He is alone. Often, starkly.

Now, as I said, this shouldn’t be surprising. If literature is to be an accurate reflection of life, then the truth is most pedophiles are alone. We live in isolation, often literally as well as socially.

But we don’t need to be. And not all of us are. Some pedophiles couple, if their sexuality is broad enough to allow for that. Others gather circles of pedophile friends. Being in this last category myself, I can say that it is remarkably life-changing. Having the ability to meet face to face with other people, real people, to whom you can talk about your inmost thoughts, your likes, your dreams–your fears–makes a huge difference in the way you interact with the rest of the world. Your confidence increases. Self-hatred decreases. You find yourself to be more motivated and willing to take risks.

Is it any wonder that the mere thought of a group of pedophiles can send terror shooting into the hearts of those who would see my kind repressed?

I think it is time. . . Well, to start with, it will well past time for serious literature relating to Boylove to be written. Thankfully, a friend of mine with great talent is well on the way to getting just such a book published. It’s a beginning, but we need more! But beyond that, it is time that literature reflected not only the circumstances of the average, solitary pedophile, but also the possibilities that some of us have achieved (made much easier by the internet which allows us to get to know each other before revealing our identities) and the power that gives us over our own minds and over a society that wants us to be scared and alone.

Nothing new to say

I wrote this almost a year ago now. It’s still valid.

Nothing new to say.
I’ve said it all before. And all I’ve said before has been said before that, by more eloquent men than myself. I have no novel words to tell that sound stronger or more true than I can find in my books, my songs.
But I need to keep saying it. Reading what I’ve already written does not satisfy my need. Reading the words of bards long departed merely feed my fire. Love.
Love. It grows every day. Each new pang caries with it a need, a hunger for contact, for vision. For love returned. Each new contact sates that hunger, but feeds the love. And being fed, it grows. And growing, it pangs and hungers all the more.
Nothing new to say.
I love these boys. I need their love. I want their friendship. I desire their company. Every day is spent pondering how to see them again. Every second in their company is spent in thoughtless rapture. Every moment away is consumed by equal parts fear and hope. Trepidation over the next step to take. Fear that the last step was too bold. Or too timid. Dread that time is wasting. Hope that all will come together.
Nothing new to say. But I need to keep saying it. Over and over for as long as it is true.
I love them.

Pattern, updated

In a post a while back (Pattern) I mentioned the first several major releases of M. Night Shyamalan and how boys were central to their story. Then I mentioned the absence of boys in his later work, and the much weaker audience response.

Well, very soon there will be a new Shyamalan movie. The Last Airbender. Guess who the central character is. An extremely powerful, very playful, immature, adorable, heroic 12-year-old boy!  Or 112-year-old boy, depending on how you count it…

The movie is based on Avatar: the Last Airbender which aired on Nickelodeon. Three seasons of around 20 half-hour episodes. I recently discovered the series (through the movie trailer, actually) and watched it twice through in a row! It is VERY good, whether you be adult or child; boylover, gay or straight; male or female. I recommend you go watch the show!

Sadly, I do not have high hopes that returning a boy to the central role of Shyamalan’s movie will prove to be an omen of high quality. Unless the trailer is just very cheesily cut, it doesn’t look like it will ever move beyond cliché YA flick. Such a shame…

I’m all out of T

Well, this wasn’t what I was thinking of when I announced my return, but I was amused, so here we go! (We need more humor about boylove in the main stream. Nothing normalizes a group like humor. If nothing else, it get’s it out of the realm of taboo and into conversation.)

A friend of mine sent me a note today about an ironic experience…

LOL! I was just at the lunch truck…and I ordered a BLT. The vendor said, “sorry bub… I’m all out of T. I can do a BL though. You feeling like a BL type of guy this morning?” Hahahaha!

If only he knew! The most ironic thing is, while my friend is a BL (boylover), he goes through periods when the more stereotypical “boy” (that your media-portrayed child molester would go for) is too young for his taste, and he could almost be considered gay. And he is in just such a phase right now. So, no. He’s not feeling like a BL type of guy this morning.

Yes, I know. My humor is twisted. See my previous post. :P

Holy Crap! A Talking Muffin!

Among my friends, I am infamous for bad jokes and humor that most people find more annoying than funny. Here is a favorite of mine:

So, two muffins are sitting in a microwave, spinning around on that little turny thing. One muffin turns to the other and says, “Christ! it’s hot in here.” The other muffin says, “Holy crap! A talking muffin!!”

I bring this up because this blog has become much like a muffin. You know it’s there, and you look at it every now and then, maybe even “consuming” some of it. But you certainly wouldn’t expect it to SAY anything! Well, not any more. THIS BLOG IS NO LONGER A MUFFIN!!!!

Just sayin… Of course, I don’t know WHAT I’ll post. Or when. But I definitely feel something coming. :P

No slow tears this time

I have to get to bed soon. Hour drive to rehearsal tomorrow morning.

It amazes me every time I go to an English Cathedral Choir concert, that first note sung by the boys. Such an incredible, beautiful, surprising sound. I hope I never get used to it, no matter how often I hear it.

I hear the sound quite often in recording. I suppose I just am so used to the sound coming from a speaker that when i hear it live, seeing the beautiful creatures in front of me, hearing the whole pure unadulterated sound is so transporting.

Company seems to be a good tool to stave off the depression that these concerts can bring. Either that, or i’m just in an emotionally different place today that doesn’t lead to depression. But I met a woman who sat next to me at the concert today. She thought I looked familiar. Eventually we figured out that she played in the orchestra when I sang Jesus in a performace of St. John’s Passion a few years ago.

The concert was of one of the most major English Cathedral Choirs. Obviously, they’re very good. But it was plain they had quite a few subs in the men’s section that weakened them. The boys, however, were amazing. There were several soloists, but none that affected me quite like that one nameless boy from the last concert I went to. He still makes me shiver.

I don’t have time to write down all my thoughts. I have to go to bed.

I hope I can read this later. (note: It was hard work, but I was able to figure out everything I wrote without resorting to guessing.)