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Posts Tagged ‘boylove’

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.

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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

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I am listening to one of the first CDs I ever bought. When I was 13 my mother took me to the newly opened Borders in the town. I selected two CDs to buy with my allowance that remain among my favorites in my now considerable collection. Exultate is a Vienna Boychoir CD featuring soloist Max Emanuel Cencic.  Only one track does not have him as a soloist, and only two tracks actually involve the choir. The rest are purely Max solos (or duets). I didn’t know that when I bought it, but I was pretty happy about it when I realized it. When I initially brought them home, Exultate was my preferred CD. I didn’t much care for the other after giving it a thorough listen.

That other is The Music of Westminster Cathedral Choir. Many of the tracks are 20th century works, and my 13-year-old ears didn’t care for that music. A few years later, however, my preference switched. I guess I matured enough and learned how to listen enough to enjoy the more modern music.

As I listen to the music tonight, the Unknowable Longing is in full force. Listening to those sublime boys’ voices, sweet clear, gentle or forceful according to the demands of the song, that familiar, almost friendly melancholy overtakes me and I race and struggle to put a name to it. (The power of the name.) All the usual suspects are considered and, as usual, set aside but not dismissed.

I love the music. The glorious, perfect beauty of the Renaissance polyphony. The exciting, exhilarating power of the 20th century compositions. So many different types of songs from different eras. I want to sing them, yes. I want to hear them life. But that’s not quite it. Hearing kjese songs, or performing them with women’s voices would be wonderful, but wouldn’t fulfill that longing. The boys’ voices are very important. Singing the Mendelssohn “Ave Maria“, I would feel this longing even in the middle of the performance. Yet when I consider singing it with boys, I still can’t conceive being satisfied.

If I were to go to London and join the Westminster Cathedral Choir I’m sure I’d still feel this way.

One last possibility occurs to me. One I hope is not true. Maybe this longing isn’t to sing with boys, but as a boy. To be a cusping 13-year-old (alas, my voice changed at 11, so I never had that pleasure) whose voice would soar through those Palestrina motets and Britten and Martin masses. If that is the answer, then I can never fulfill this need no matter how long I live, how much I accomplish.

However, if the name has as much power as it is said (I suspect is does) I feel that simply speaking (or writing) that desire would give some modicum of satisfaction. It doesn’t. It should be a relief just to know what I want. So it doesn’t feel like the answer. So along with singing the music and singing with boys, wanting to sing as a boy goes in the category of “true, but not the answer.”

It also occurs to me that how I feel has nothing to do with boylove. I think I mentioned that before. That, too, doesn’t feel quite true, but it’s worth considering. Maybe this feeling which manifests so deeply, primally, is the nature of music. Maybe music is an expression of a feeling that has no name. Do non-boylover-music-lovers experience this Unknowable Longing when they hear the music they love best? What half-formed imagery flits through their minds, ungraspable?

Sometimes I wish I could speak to a psychologist. Someone who knows how to poke around in the subconscious to help me name my desires.

 


 

Sometimes, when I feel this way, it makes me think that I should never listen to this music again. Save myself the pain. But writing about it really helped today. The Longing is still there, but it has its pleasant bittersweet quality now. Pen and paper. Cheaper than a shrink.

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The Boys (once again, not actually children) are gay.  OK.  Established.  Their best friend, Grace, sometimes gets annoyed with them because quite frequently when they’re talking about someone, or they pass an attractive male stranger on the street, they’ll immediately say, “he’s gay.”  It angers Grace, so she usually responds, “not every man is gay.”

That’s true.  Not every man is gay.  Know what else is true?  Not every man is a boylover.  But some are.  Enough are that it’s very likely that most people know one personally.  But more than that, it’s almost guaranteed that some famous people are.  Especially when you think that, often people who are in some way different make the best artists.  They’re insane, or have some deep trauma or a substance addiction.  Or they’re socially repressed because of their sexuality.

The stereotype of homosexuals in the arts, especially music, theatre and dance, didn’t come out of nowhere.  There are more gay people in those arts than in most other professional fields.  Quite likely because it gives them a more socially acceptable way to be self-expressive.  It will be interesting to see if increased societal acceptance of homosexuality will result in fewer gay performers, or if there is something else about the sexual orientation that leads them to the arts anyway.

But if the above theory is correct, and homosexuals go into the arts to escape a repressive society, then the arts would also attract boylovers.  It attracted me, anyway.  I am a musician because I am a boylover.  But I think I’ve expressed that before.  (Inspiration)  On the other hand, boylovers tend to like to stay out of sight, and on a stage doesn’t exactly fit that pattern.

But that’s not the point.  The point is, I just watched Unbreakable.  I’d seen it once before right when it came out, but I left it needed rewatching.

Just like The Boys, I can’t help guessing about others.  Are they like me?  There are certain things I do, interests I have, patterns I follow, that I do because of my sexuality and that give me away to those who know me.  It’s why The King and MFotF found me out.  I like boy performers, obviously.  Movies with them, choirs, dancers.  So when I see that pattern in others, I always wonder.

Consider this.  Wide Awake.  Stars Joseph Cross, 12 years old at time of release.  Sixth Sense.  Pivots around Haley Joel Osment (beloved boy of many boylovers), 11 years old at time of release.  Unbreakable.  Spencer Treat Clark, 13 years old at time of release, is a central character (and gives a very moving and endearing performance, I might add).  Signs.  Rory Culkin, 13 years old at time of release.  (A very young looking 13.)

Now as the King would tell me, this isn’t proof of anything, and I’m not trying to suggest anything.  It’s just a pattern.  One that strikes me.  It’s also a pattern that breaks down when you continue down the list of M. Night Shyamalan’s film credits.  On the other hand, something else breaks down with his most recent three movies.  Quality.  His newer movies have not been as well received as those with major boy characters.  And I don’t think that’s just because the movie going public started to learn his tricks.  The movies just aren’t as good.  Maybe, just maybe, Mr. Shyamalan has less emotionally invested in the newer movies.

So, the point is I don’t want to be like The Boys.  I don’t want to say every time I see someone pick up a Libera CD, “Oh, he must be a boylover.”  I want to believe that people can be interested, even passionately so, in boychoirs without being boylovers.  Same for boy actors, dancers, etc.  Because if it isn’t true, then:

  1. I truly am telegraphing my sexuality to the world, and all the world has to do is wise up and I’m outed.
  2. If the world wises up, these wonderful artists will lose their outlet, their audience, their venues.
  3. What a sad, pitiful species is man if the only thing that can get us to appreciate art is sex.

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That was a little unexpected.  I really should have seen this possibility, but quite frankly I was thinking of other things.

I guess I am no longer friends with the two boylovers I know out in CA.  It’s a little sad.  Right after MFotF left last Monday after I came out, I sent messages off to my friends in the online community, telling them about it.  One responded a few days later congratulating me.  But today I talked to CAPrime online and he told me he was disturbed by my message.  Long story short, he was worried that my coming out to my closest friends was putting him at risk.  I assured him that I don’t talk about him to the (now) two friends who know the truth about me, but he was concerned that there was evidence of our correspondence on my computers, and that that information is now vulnerable.

I told him, the people I told had already figured it out for themselves.  They were more likely to pry (though they never did, I’m sure) when they had suspicions than they are now that they know.  CAPrime was not convinced.

He asked me how I knew they would stand by me when I started working with children, or if I ever adopted.  I told him how the King referred me to the mentoring agency.  He reminded me that I was rejected by them.

Now, it’s not as if that never occurred to me.  Of course that thought went through my mind.  Maybe The King in fact told them not to take me.  It is possible, but I don’t believe he did.  I trust him not to lie to me about that.  That’s what friendship is.  Trust.  It’s why I told them in the first place.  To grow our friendship stronger, I had to trust them more, and so far I have no evidence to suggest that they betrayed me.

At this point in our conversation I was pretty angry, so I didn’t get to make all the points i could have, but I doubt they’d have convinced him.  I think now that suspicion is dispelled, that I have shown my friends trust, they are more able to trust me with kids, not less.  This may seem contradictory at first, but consider:

I apply to the mentoring agency to become a mentor and list MFotF as a reference.  She has some thoughts that I may be a pedophile.  That scares her a little, especially when I tell her that I am volunteering to spend time alone with a boy.  Something not commonly done by men my age.  It adds to her fear and suspicion.

When she’s called and asked in confidence if she would recommend me, she could say “no” without fear of offending me if she’s wrong.

On the other hand, The King, who knows, is free to say up front that he is reluctant to recommend me.  He is the sort of person who wouldn’t be afraid to do just that.  But no matter the type of person he is, the option is there, statistically increasing the chance that he’ll be a good reference if he agrees.

He can also ask me why I want to do this volunteering (which he did) and I can answer honestly (which I did).  It cuts out all the cloak and dagger.  Obviously, he can still say “yes” to me and “no” to them, but I think he has fewer reasons to do so.  I choose to trust him.  And I choose to trust her.

CAPrime has chosen not to trust me to protect him.  I can understand his fear, certainly, but – MFotF just sent me a text.  “So I’m at a coffee shop in the city and there is a guy here talking to his beanie baby in french and serving it some of his coffee.”  lol – And now my neighbor’s boyfriend is pounding on her door yelling at her to let him in.  From the sound of it, he’s dragging around a 2×4 – it’s not like I don’t have experience not talking about stuff.  I’m a novice at telling.  It’s hard work.  Much easier to keep the secret.  But the reward is greater when you trust.

So there was one more choice to be made. He needed me to choose between him or The King and MFotF, or at least what they represent since such things cannot be untold.  (Some try, though.)   I didn’t choose him.

MFotF and The King – MFotF especially – were willing to reevaluate a belief they’ve been taught all their lives to keep my friendship.  CAPrime is not even willing to consider that such a thing is possible, let alone that I could identify them.

I was angry, but I got to vent to The King.  (I never used CAPrime’s name.)  Now I’m just disappointed, and a little sad.

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Quite a bit has happened.  Let’s start with the mundane and move to the more interesting.

A short time ago, my parents came to the city to attend an exhibition.  They enjoyed it.  After that they went to see Sissy’s new apartment.  She lives near by now, in the next state over.  On Saturday we all went to see my 2nd cousin perform his senior recital.  It was alright.  I supposed he’s a good enough musician, but he’s not ready for a career right now.  Neither was I at that age.  Not sure I am now, either.

This weekend my parents came back again.  They came to hear a special performance at my church.  It was a mostly pro choir (staff plus ringers) plus a few teen girls and one choirboy (11yo).  The performance was pretty good.

After the evensong, my family (Sissy included) and My Friend on the Facebook (who was one of the ringers) went back to my house to hang out.  Noting particularly interesting happened, but it was fun.  Why am I even writing this down…

The next day my parents took me to get my birthday/belated graduation present.  A digital piano.  We ended up selecting the Yamaha Clavinova CLP 330.  It won’t arrive for another week or two.  Then we went to Sissy’s had cheesecake (my birthday cake this year) and watched Dan in Real Life.  The movie was so-so.  It had some great moments, but it didn’t quite finish well.  It either needed to do a better job of making everything come together perfectly, or it needed to end more messily.  Like…oh I don’t know.  I didn’t like it enough to try and fix it.

Now the more serious stuff.  One week ago today, I was doing my taxes.  About 12:15 I went to bed.  My heart felt like it was pounding, but I was very tired.  I tried to fall asleep, but when ever I got close, I would jerk awake again gasping for air.  It felt like a heart attack.

I considered calling lots of people, but was too embarrassed.  I finally called the doctor’s office near my house and got to speak to the Dr. on call.  I told him my symptoms, and he told me I should go to the hospital.  I didn’t want to so I scheduled an appointment in the morning.

But I couldn’t sleep.  I tried to stay up the rest of the night, but it kept getting worse.  At 3:30 I gave up and called 911.

Hospital visits aren’t that interesting.  I told them all my suspicions and answered their questions over and over (“No, I have not been taking any illegal drugs.”), got an EKG, and finally was told “Anxiety Attack.”  Got some drugs, walked home.  When I went in, my BP was high and pulse was 140 bpm.  When I left it was normal and 90.

Went to the Dr. a few more times and got an ECHO done, but all signs point to anxiety.  I think the diagnosis is the cure.  If I don’t have heart problems, then I have a lot less to be anxious about.  Except…

Last night I told My Friend on the Facebook.  Spend the afternoon and evening with her, and had been thinking about it the second half of the whole time.  Actually, I’d been thinking about it for weeks, and less seriously for well over a year.  She could tell yesterday that I had something on my mind and asked me a few times what was up, but I kept saying “nothing.”

My Friend on the Facebook has a friend who was obviously gay, but he wouldn’t admit it for the longest time.  Finally he did sometime in our junior or senior year.  He went to her apartment, turned off the lights to make himself more comfortable, and spent the next three hours stringing together the words to form the single sentence, “I’m gay.”  That’s more than one hour per word.

The past few times she and I had gotten together, that situation was recalled, followed by a comment by her along the lines of “if you ever sit me down and turn the lights off I’ll know to worry,” or, “please, if you ever tell me you’re gay, just come right out and say it.”  They were jokes.  That’s just her.  But there was some truth to it.  She truly would rather have it all out at once.

When I came out to The King…two and a half years ago, I pulled something similar myself.  We had just started a movie (The Maltese Falcon) so the lights were off, and it did take me a painfully long time to get from “I’m not attracted to women” to “I’m a boylover.”  We didn’t get to bed until around 2 am.  Half the time was him asking questions after the fact, but it was still a long time.

I took all of My Friend on the Facebook’s little comments as a suggestion that she was waiting for me to tell her.  So finally, as she was getting ready to leave, she asked one more time if I had something on my mind.

“I do,” I said.

“Do you want to tell me?”

I thought for a second.  I could see that this was it.  The last chance.  Speak now or for ever…  Not that there would never be another chance, but it was certainly the last chance of the night.  And who knows.  Maybe it was the last chance ever.

“I’m thinking about it.”  I continued to look at the floor, trying to gather courage, to buy time, to not set off another anxiety attack.

“I think you should tell me,” My Friend on the Facebook said after a few more seconds.  I nodded.

“Would it help to turn off the light?” she asked with a grin.

I smirked back at that.  “No, but you’re remarkably on target.”

She looked puzzled by that.  “What do you mean?”

Now I was confused.  She made the friggin’ reference.  How could she not understand what I meant?  “You know, with your…  You’re…  Never mind, that’s not important.”

I took a deep breath and said words that were easier than what I wanted to say, but committed me to saying it.

“I’m not straight, but you probably already knew that.”

She had a knowing smile on her face and nodded.

“But I’m not gay either.”

Now she looked confused.  She might have said something here, but I can’t remember it.

“I’m a boylover, which is sort of a nice way of saying pedophile.”

She now had a serious look on her face.  “How long have you known?”

“Since I was 13 or 15.”

“Have you talked to anyone about this?”

At that comment I got a little angry.  What does that mean?  Do you mean, ‘am I getting professional help?’  But I calmed down quickly.  She is going to see things differently than I do.  She is going to have feelings more in line with society’s than with my community.  So I tried to answer several questions that she might have asked at once.

“I’ve told The King, so I’ve talked about it with him, and now with you, but I don’t believe there is anything wrong with me.  I believe this is a sexuality that can’t be changed, just like being gay or straight, so no, I’ve never talked to a psychiatrist.”

Then she laughed.  Hard.  “Now I understand what you meant by my being right about the lights.”

That laugh told me a lot.  She was alright.  We were alright.  The tension, the fear was all gone.  Maybe we wouldn’t agree on everything, but our friendship wasn’t about to end.

We talked for another hour about how The King had told me of her suspicions a while ago, about all the signs from here I had been reading, signs she actually hadn’t been purposefully sending.  We talked about why I waited to tell her, why that was good.  We asked each other questions and I opened up to her in the truest way she’s ever seen from me.  Yesterday she was fine with it.  Today she’s still fine with it.  She said it doesn’t change anything for her.  I’m still the same person she’s known for years.

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Well, such momentum couldn’t last forever without effort.  It’s been hard for me to come to this blog recently.  I’ve had things to write, but I just didn’t feel like writing them.  Yet again, however, I am determined not to let this endevor fail.  I will continue this blog.

Part of the problem is the video games.  Another part is the depression I’m starting to feel.  It’s just a cycle, and this should be a relatively mild one considering things are going well in my life.

I’ve quit my job (Tuesday is my last shift), I like my new job, I’m supposedly going to be mentoring a boy, and I’ve been seeing a lot of my friends.

The other problem is that I’m reading again.  How does Stephen King do it?  In On Writing he recommends writing and reading every day, but how?  If I like what I’m reading, then that story consumes me.  I just can’t…  I can, but it’s difficult to write even a journal when I’m reading a book.  (Dark Tower III.  I love Jake Chambers!)

While time with friends is great, I wonder if it contributes to my depression as well as softening it.  Every time I’m with The Boys or My Friend On The Facebook, I kind of want to tell them my secret.  But I know how they feel about pedophiles.  Obviously the idea is that I could change their minds, since they would have to reconcile their friendship with me, a known individual, with their hatred of a faceless demographic.  But while they could (and I think would) choose me, the possibilities exist that they’d do the opposite, or fail to make a decision at all and just reject that part of me.  Not all my friends will react the way The King did.  I was fortunate that he already suspected the answer and had, for the most part, come to accept it.  He still had (and has) questions, but they don’t have a bearing in his acceptance of who I am.

I think I need to at least tell My Friend On The Facebook.  For friendship to truly grow, there must be truth.

Maybe Jess too.

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