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Posts Tagged ‘boylovers’

My blog has recently been getting a fair amount of traffic from two German BLogs.  I wish I spoke German so that I could really read them.  I can sort of understand using translate.google.com as a crutch, but I’m missing so much of the nuance that I’m sure is in their writing.  Anyway I’m glad to have found others blogging, actually blogging, about boylove (boylinks’ BLog list is full of dead links and inactive sites); what it’s like and what it means to be a boylover.  Not just another blog-hosted pic site destined to be deleted after a sufficient number of moral crusaders complain about the “child pornography.”  Not only are their days numbered (perhaps mine are too.  How would I know?) but all they tell the world is what type of boy they like to look at.  A picture can speak volumes, but eventually words must be used too.  I don’t wish to demean these pic lists (they are what they are and they serve a purpose), but they feel…trivial.  (Now I sound arrogant; as if my own barely filtered ramblings are the height of profundity.)  They serve only one purpose to one demographic.  There is little dialogue beyond, “wow! he’s hot!”  And those who are not enamored with the pictures and their subjects are repulsed by our reactions.  They cannot see the complexity of the emotions we feel towards the boys depicted.  Only the lust.

And the world really can’t afford more polarization on the issue of boylove.  Or, I suppose it is boylovers who cannot afford it.  This started out one thing and ended up something else entirely.  I apologize for getting preachy, and for getting off topic, not to mention for any offence I may have caused.  I almost didn’t post this because of the tone of contempt (which I don’t feel) it conveys.

If you are the owner of one of the two German BLogs now linked in the side bar, welcome and thank you for linking to me.  If you are a new reader directed here from one of those blogs, welcome to you too and thanks for taking the time to come check me out.  If you have never heard of these two blogs before and you are comfortable with German (or even if you’re not and you don’t mind mucking through Google’s clumsy translation) then I encourage you to go see what they have to offer.

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I called off from work tomorrow.  They’re not going to be happy about that, but I must get better.  My voice is almost completely gone and I have a rehearsal tomorrow, a concert the day after, and then a service, another concert, and a singing-social event on Sunday.  I can’t take chances.

I remembered something as I walked back from my car the second time tonight.  (I left my phone.  Again.)  It’s raining.  Two days ago I called Jess and left a message about the melancholy feeling I get when it rains.  That elusive want isn’t the need to be needed that I talked about before.  I apparently have two unknowable longings.  This second one is more nostalgia than the other, I think, but not completely.

What I remembered was sitting on the front stoop of my house when I was a child (think 7-9, or maybe more like 6-8) with an umbrella propped against the wall, huddled underneath it in the rain.  I was making a tent for myself and enjoying the gloomy weather.  I’m fairly certain that the feeling I feel now when it rains is the same basic emotion I felt playing then.  This is significant because it proves my assumption about the rain-feeling’s origins wrong.  If I felt the same feeling that young, then it can’t be nostalgia for some forgotten adolescent event associated with rain.  It likely has nothing to do with boys.  I think I’d just come to assume it did because a) common layman’s understanding of psychology leads us to assume that all things stem from sexuality and our parents and b) boys are generally the only thing that can get that deep and strong an emotional response out of me.

But maybe it still is about boys in some way.  First, the feeling can’t be exactly the same now as it was then.  I’ve matured and evolved and had new experiences that have added to my associations with rain.  And I certainly experienced a lot of rain and tents with boys in boy scouts.

Or we could consider the possibility of an early sign of my sexuality.  (A dangerous and often misleading course of action, I have come to believe.)  I’m sure I ran fantasies of children caught out in the elements, despondent, needing rescue.  I think I remember thinking of that, playing that “game” with me as the distressed child.  (I remember being particularly fascinated with stories like Hans Christian Andersen’s The Little Match-Seller.)  I don’t recall that leading to rescue fantasy.  Only the helpless situation.  Only when I was old enough to cast myself in the role of rescuer did my fantasies take on that element, I believe.  But I’ve been fantasizing that general situation my whole life.

And I think this fantasy is likely familiar for most boylovers.  It goes back to the need to be needed thing.  We fantasize about children and distress not because it’s attractive, but because it creates a need for the rescuer.

Perhaps that very fantasy – which is often featured in BL fiction – could be the root of what makes some pedophiles turn violent towards children.  The fantasy has an undeniably dark aspect.  It isn’t inconceivable that a young man experimenting in his mind with the rescue scenario could become fixated on the first half to the exclusion of the rescue portion.  Especially if he pays too much attention to the opinion of society at large that people who feel sexual attraction to children are monsters by “virtue” of their attraction only, and not their actions.  If he obsesses too much on the fantasy child’s distress it could eventually become attractive to him.  Especially if he comes to embrace that self-loathing that viewing yourself as a monster leads to.  Young men often try to live up to expectations.

Coming from someone as inexpert as myself, this may all be a load of bollocks.

In any case, the rain makes me feel melancholy in a sweet way that I want to nurture, while making me long for something unknown and lost.

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About 11:45pm.  My evil plan failed.  I think I waited too long.

After the pretty horrific show tonight, I went back to the room to change and go to the toilet.  Along the way I committed myself to try my evil plan.  Place myself in a hot tub on the main patio (not the adults only area.  Ick!) and wait for the pre-teen boys to come and crowd around me.

Epic fail!  Well…There was one pre-teen boy, but he was black.  (Nothing against black people.  I’m just not usually attracted to them.)  Plus he had his younger cousin with him who was uber chatty.  They both liked to tell tall tales.  Like how the older of the two fell off a boat into the ocean and was rescued by a dolphin because he made a dolphin noise to call one to him.

Other than those two, I was joined by a couple in their twenties, three middle teen cousins (1 boy, 2 girls) and two young teen girls who were somehow related I’m pretty sure.  I do believe my downfall was the hour.  I went too late.  Pre-teen boys are in general not allowed to swim at 10:30 at night unsupervised, and their parents have other things they want to be doing that late.  Perfectly reasonable.  Just inconvenient.  If I try earlier, there wil be no room to insert myself to begin with without losing my deniability to the accusation that I was actually seeking that company.

Anyway.  Maybe there will be boys on my excursion tomorrow.  Fingers crossed.

I just really want a relationship with a boy.  I miss it so sorely.

Many boylovers would like to be boys again themselves.  And I certainly wouldn’t say no to the opportunity.  I’d jump at it.  But I’d also like to be 15 or 16 again.  Something about that age where it’s just so easy to hang out with younger boys while still being the mentor.  The leader.  Setting all the precedents.  Teens that age are just a magnet for younger boys.  I thought about this twice today.  The first time right after the cousin trio got into the hot tub.  The two black boys who had been talking to me latched onto the teen boy.  They followed him around for ther rest of the evening.  Not that I minded.  But it did make me think of that.

The second time was when I got back to my room and took my third shower of the day.  I dropped my swim trunks in the bathroom and it sort of reminded me of boy scouts.  Not because I ever exposed myself to the younger scouts, but because I always wanted to just take the lead, show no shame, and encourage them to do the same.  Trying to lead the younger boys in confident body image and get myself a show to boot.  I never did though.  The only time I dropped my trunks in scouts was when I was one of the younger scouts, in front of a fellow 11 year old.  Still trying to not be ashamed.  Still hoping my friend would follow suit and give me something to look at.  (He didn’t.)  Even at 11 I was trying to see penises.  I ended up being the one to give a show though.  An older scout came into the shower room at some point while I was naked and my friend was fully dressed.  (We were both in the showers though.  Weird kid.  Showering in jeans.)  He sat down on a bench facing the bank of showers and waited for us to finish.  I was made a little uncomfortable by the situation, mainly because I didn’t feel free to talk to my friend in front of this person I didn’t really know, but I didn’t think much of it, and it didn’t really bother me.  In thinking back I always wonder about that older scout.  I can think of two possibilities.  Either he was far to shy himself to undress and was unwilling to shower in his clothes, or he was enjoying the show I was putting on.  Wish I could remember his name…

Anyway, that desire to return to an earlier point in life when I was closer to boys is a part of the elusive feeling/desire that haunts me.  That feeling of incompleteness that I can never fully grasp or define that drives me to seek out some sort of contact with boys.  Many other boylovers I’ve spoken with know exactly what I’m talking about and are equally unable to put a name to the feeling.  I’ve understood parts of it, but whenever I understand a new aspect of it, I lose my grasp on another part.  Or more accurately, I lose my grasp before I have a chance to understand the new.  Maybe it isn’t actually knowable.  Maybe there are no words, there is no thought to parallel the emotion.  Maybe it is truly outside the realm of reason.

Or maybe, whenever I think I understand part of it, I’ll rush here and write it down, and eventually have all the pieces, just needing to be put together.

But then, surely, if such were possible, it’d have been done already.

Maybe it has.

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