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Posts Tagged ‘friendship’

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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Sometimes I find myself daydreaming that I can talk to someone.  I can be quite articulate and eloquent in my head.  But I’m not often that way face to face.

I’m feeling depressed today.  Last night I saw and English men and boys’ choir perform at a local church.  They were pretty good.  I had some criticisms, but the lasting impression was a good one.  So I spent two hours watching and listening to a large group of cute boys with lovely voices.  One soloist in particular.  He sang the greater solo in “I waited for the Lord” by Mendelssohn, and the last verse in their encore, “Drop, drop slow tears” by Gibbons.  He had a beautiful, even, polished sound, and he was beautiful himself.  Some of the boys were probably nearly six feet tall, but I’d guess this soloist to have been no taller than 5′ if that.  (Not that height is the primary factor is beauty.)  Yet one could see he was no younger than 11.  Probably 12.

I wanted to speak to him after, but there didn’t seem to be a reception of any kind.  So I don’t even know his name.

After the concert I drove up to The King’s house to spend time with him and My Friend on the Facebook.  I wanted to talk about the concert, to talk about this boy, but when I got there I couldn’t say anything.  Even when MFotF asked, “How was the concert?” all I could say was, “good.”

Often after concerts of this sort, that is to say concerts with prominant boy performers, I crash emotionally — sometimes as soon as I walk out of the venue — and fall into this depression.  And I wonder why.  It’s the Unknowable Longing rearing its head yet again.  It’s been a while.  These concerts, and similar situations, remind me of something.  Something I want but can’t have.  Hard to have it when you can’t name it.

Sometimes this feeling is bittersweet.  I sort of savor it; the closeness to the idea behind the Unknowable Longing.  But not today.  Today it just sucks.  Hurts.  Days like today I wonder if it is worth torturing myself like this.  Maybe…  Something about the boychoir, the combination of boys and music, calls to me.  Entices me.  But I’m no closer to figuring out what that is today than when I first felt it.  So I could keep persuing it, or I could walk away and save myself the anguish.

When I put it down on paper like that the answer jumps out at me.  My idealist heart sees the choice between hard or easy and immediately chooses hard.  CAPrime would disagree, I’m sure.  Now if only I could get my Idealist Heart to do the dishes…

To change the topic, last week I was a little hot headded and over dramatic.  CAPrime and I are still speaking.  Our friendship will never be what it was at its peak, but it doesn’t need to end.  He just wanted assurances.  I thought I had given them to him, but it seems he needed more.  But he and I disagree on too many things, and CASecund believes whatever CAPrime tells him to believe.

Writing this down really does help, for some reason.  I don’t know why.

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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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Yesterday was my birthday.  25.  Quarter century.  It has been a less than ideal year, and an interesting final week.

So, 24 started out alright.  I had a successful recital, graduated with my master’s degree, went to a summer music festival where I renewed my friendship with Jess and learned a little about my isolationist tendencies and how to fight them.

Then, however, I spent the rest of the summer unemployed, racking up debt, got sick while uninsured resulting in completely losing my voice, got a crappy job as a waiter, quit that job, and generally was a lazy slob.  Oh, and I was rejected from the mentoring agency.

I’m now pulling out of that.  I’m feeling a renewed interest in my music career.  I’ve been avoiding all the illnesses that are floating around (though I did go to the hospital with an anxiety attack).  I’m finally turning my house back around – albeit slowly – and making it a pleasant place to live.  I quit the old job and got a new, better one.

And then last week I came out to My Friend on the Facebook.  That last one is the real reason I’m writing today.  I told MFotF and the King that even though they assure me that all is well, I would still worry.  And I did.  Do.  I took the King’s advice and kept my distance for most of the week.  It occurred to me that that may actually have not been the wisest course of action.  While it gives MFotF the chance to digest what I told her, let it sink in, it also gives her doubts a chance to grow.  I’m not present, reminding her of my humanity and our friendship, so the parts of her mind that tell her that people like me are monstrous can speak to her unchallenged.

On the other hand, most of that battle has already been fought since this is an idea that has been present for a while.  I’m starting to think the advice I’d gotten from that website years ago was 100% wrong.  It said to never let those you love find out for themselves that you’re gay, but tell them yourself first.  twice now, the opposite has proven to be quite smooth.  It’s slower, more gradual.  The other person can work out the fact that you’re still a human being, still the same person as before, without having to actually confront the truth.  When people see things coming they tend to be better prepared when they arrive.

Anyway, I left her alone.  She texted me that night, left me a voice mail the next and that was it for a few days.  At first I was patient, but on Tuesday I was getting anxious.  I held off calling until Thursday.

When I did call, under the pretense of checking what the plans were for today (Saturday), she was normal enough but didn’t seem interested in talking long.  But she was talking ot me, and that was good.  She called the next day to wish me Happy Birthday and was much more friendly, explaining that she was a little short with me the day before because I called during one of her favorite shows.  I understand that feeling.  I said as much too, saying I should really not answer the phone when I’m in that situation, since it’s not pleasant for anyone involved.

“I considered it, but I figured what you were calling about and was going to call you at some point anyway.”

I can see that being true.  I can also see her answering because she didn’t want me thinking she was avoiding my calls.  Either way, I was mollified.

We’ve spoken a few more times.  I’ve come to the following conclusions:

  • Any awkwardness I perceive may or may not exist.  Either way, it will pass.  It is not a sign of anything bad.
  • Even if she’s less comfortable than she claims, the only thing I can do to help is be around her and be myself.
  • Most of it is in my head.

She’s coming down today to help celebrate my birthday with The King and BBM.

 


Well, it was fun.  Not the most fun I’ve ever had with MFotF and The King, but fun none the less.  Here’s the thing though.  Now that I’ve told her, I want to talk about it with her.  But…  I can’t be the one to bring it up, can I?  Surely she is curious.  The King was, in any case.

I suppose I’m just waiting for the transformation.  Really, there shouldn’t be one.  That’s kind of the point of  a smooth coming out.  Nothing really changes.  It’s just a bit anti-climactic.  I spend all that energy worrying and building up courage to tell someone I’m a boylover and then after it’s over, it’s like it never happened.  I guess I’m just not sure what I feel about it.  That’s not completely true.  I’m glad I told her.  Tonight was a good indication that we can still be perfectly normal.  I just…want more.

GAH!  Shut up, Louie!

But just one more thing.  I’s possible that she is curious but doesn’t want to bring it up herself.

OK, two more things.  I still kinda feel like I’m walking on glass around her.  Not for the same reasons, obviously, but for instance, tonight I played a clip of the B minor Mass with boys singing the soprano and alto parts.  I felt embarrassed.  Duh!  I’m a boylover.  She already knows I like boy sopranos a little more than is normal, but for some reason I was still reluctant to play the song in front of her.  Maybe it’s just an old habit.

I should probably talk to The King.  Get his opinion.

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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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*note: All names I use are nicknames. I do not refer to these people by these names to their face, behind their backs, or even in my own head. The nicknames exist for the purpose of this blog only. Sometimes, I don’t remember somebody’s name and so I give them a nickname in my journal as well as in this blog. Some will be the same in both, some will be different. And I’m not telling which is which. :p

*warning: The following is a collection of adolescent memories. I am not proud of many of the events depicted. I do not condone them, and I regret them. Also remember that children and teens can be very cruel and stupid, and that I was only a horny kid myself. I don’t believe that makes the behavior acceptable, but I don’t think we (I) shouldn’t be judged by our childhood mistakes.

*WARNING: The following contains descriptions of minors in sexual situations. Don’t read it if you shouldn’t, whether that reason be legal, moral, or personal.

Tiny Tawny

And other music camp boys

Year 1

I first went to music camp when I was… I think 13, going into 8th grade. I may have been 14, because I remember only being able to go for the middle school weeks despite being old enough for the other weeks, but that might have been the next year.

Anyway, I don’t remember my roommate’s name, nor my councilor’s name that first year. I do remember the name of the dorm we stayed in. It was the same as The Beloved.

I also remember two other names. Chucky (who’s nickname shall be explained later) and Ozzy. Chucky was a slightly annoying boy a year or two younger than myself. I think he was mainly annoying because he would disrupt my time playing Civilizations 2 on my councilor’s computer. He’s memorable for reasons from my second year.

Ozzy lived across the hall. (Chucky also lived across the hall, but not in the same room as Ozzy.)

I also remember The King of Diamonds’ name, it would seem.

Anyway, my roommate was my age, as was Ozzy. The King was probably a year older. I don’t know about the Odd Kid. The Odd Kid had some mental disability.

I didn’t find my roommate at all attractive. By this time, while I hadn’t admitted that it defined my sexuality, I knew of and was mostly undisturbed by my attraction to boys. I was only attracted to physically immature boys, but it didn’t occur to me – I think – that that was significant. I just thought it was a phase.

My roommate was not prepubescent. That + his being black = me not at all attracted to him. Bummer. He was a cool kid though. He taught me the song “Burn baby, burn.” (Disco inferno!)

Ozzy, on the other hand, I found very attractive. I can’t say if he was prepubescent, but I suspect so. He had red hair, was noticeably shorter than me and his voice hadn’t changed.

Ozzy was my best friend for those two weeks. I spent most of my time with him and with a female councilor who’s name I couldn’t even remember then, let alone now. She had a tongue piercing. I thought that was pretty cool.

I don’t remember specifically fantasizing about Ozzy, but I’m pretty sure I did. But I do know that the extent of my “sexual” contact with him took place in a single episode. I walked down the hall toward our rooms (it must have been near a performance because of our attire) and heard a commotion. I think I came to it late, because I don’t remember it’s beginning. The Odd Kid had taken a shower and the King had stolen his towel. Modest, the Odd Kid wouldn’t come out of the shower without it, and the King ridiculed him, refusing to give it back. He (quite correctly) insisted that the Odd Kid had nothing to be ashamed of, no reason to hide. Then he proceeded to drop his pants in front of Ozzy and myself as well as the Odd Kid (who couldn’t really see through the frosted glass of the shower door) to make his point. The King found it funny. I found it uncomfortably amusing. But Ozzy, who was changing into concert attire at the time, seemed to find it hysterical. He joined in the teasing, pacing around the room in his briefs, covering them front and back with a towel crying out, “I’m so ashamed! I have a butt!”

I laughed a little, because I did find it funny, kinda, but I was too uncomfortable and distracted to really get into it. Mostly I forced myself to keep laughing to cover up what was really going through my head.

First, I was absolutely shocked when the King dropped his pants. Ever since changing into swim suits in Boxy’s room when I was in first or second grade, and he gave me his “boys vs. boys” rationale for why it was OK to not change separately in the bathroom but at the same time in front of each other, I knew that boys weren’t supposed to be embarrassed being naked in front of other boys. But I also knew that most were anyway. I still feel uncomfortable being undressed in front of others unless someone else has established the precedent. So I certainly wouldn’t have had the guts to do what the King was doing.

Also, he had a really big penis. At 13, while younger boys were my primary and defining attraction, I was also 13. When presented with sexuality, I responded in kind. It was also at 13 that I made out with Princess (a girl) and had my truth or dare (dare or double-dare) game with No. 2 and The Sheriff (two boys). So, maturity aside, his penis was right there for the viewing and big enough not to be missed, so I looked hard.

But then Ozzy started doing his “I have a butt” thing and the King’s big floppy dong was forgotten. It was what I’d been hoping for the whole session. Seeing Ozzy naked. He sure was cute…

But I never did see him naked. In his underwear was as far as it went. He was even covering that, so I didn’t see more than his legs and torso and at that age I didn’t know enough, wasn’t mature enough, to fully appreciate those.

Anyway, I realized that Ozzy could just as easily have been the one in the shower, too embarrassed to come out. He probably would have let himself be shamed into it eventually, but he wouldn’t have been happy about it. And he certainly wasn’t about to expose himself now, when he didn’t need to, even while teasing another boy for the same shame.

My estimation of Ozzy dropped that day. At least I think it did. Maybe I just see it as the first sign in retrospect. I was also a little ashamed myself. I didn’t participate in the teasing, but I laughed. I laughed to cover my true interests. I laughed to prolong Ozzy’s show. But the Odd Kid didn’t know any of that. Not that I’d want him to. All he knows is that I laughed.

In the end I think I walked away before things resolved. My discomfort and the impending concert making me too anxious to see how things turned out.

That and my conclusion that Ozzy wasn’t going to let me see him naked.

Maybe if I’d gotten naked too…

Year 2

The next year, I was back for the middle school weeks again. This was the year I could have gone to the HS weeks, but scheduling wouldn’t allow it. (Boy Scout camp?) Ozzy was back too. We found each other early on, but a year had changed him a lot. Me too, probably, but I didn’t see that.

His voice had changed. He was taller. Still shorter than me, and still boyish in many ways, but puberty had certainly done a lot of work over the year.

So had popularity. That mean side I’d glimpsed the year before (along with a few more sides of him ;) had grown. It didn’t take him long to decide that I wasn’t friend material, but a target for teasing. He found a group of kids that liked that sort of thing and tore into me the whole session. The kids he ran with didn’t actually seem to have that much problem with me. They never teased me themselves, but they were very appreciative of Ozzy’s efforts.

Initially I was hurt, but he and I didn’t really run into each other all that often, so I was able to move on without too much difficulty. I spent my time with the female councilor I’d befriended the last time along with a few other kids I just met. And occasionally my roommates.

That year, they’d accepted more kids, so we were assigned 3 to a room. I’d been top bunk the year before, so this year I chose bottom, eager to try out something my past year’s roommate had done. Put a blanket up as a curtain to enclose the bunk and make it private.

Both of my roommates were middle schoolers since I’d arrived for the middle school session. They assigned all new arrivals together. Anyway, Top Bunk Boy was really into religion. He brought a 10 Commandments poster to camp with him and put it above his head on the wall. It was in an ultra modern, teen-targeted translation. Something like, “Hey, save sex for marriage, man!” He was cute, but I never really got along with him to the point that we’d seek each other out during free time.

The third boy (who didn’t get a bunk, but a mattress on the floor), I did get along with. It was the previously slightly annoying Chucky. He was no longer annoying. Plus, he was really cute.

I lusted over him for most of the two weeks. The three of us would goof around before bed, after lights out when we were supposed to be sleeping. TBB found Chucky’s “doll face” hilariously terrifying. I think it was supposed to look like the doll from Child’s Play. Chucky and I would also sometimes spend time during the day together. All that interaction increased my attraction to him.

Eventually, I started to take advantage of the fact that Chucky slept on the floor. I would watch him sleep. Music camp seems to be for me the place to do things I am later ashamed of.  (One time, at band camp…) Watching him sleep and jacking off while doing so seems slightly stalkerish but my real shame came just a few nights before it was time to go home.

Chucky was a briefs wearing boy. His briefs were (to me) surprisingly loose, too. It made me wonder if my judgment about briefs being uncomfortably tight may just have been a result of my wearing too small a size. (Actually though, my switch to boxers in 6th grade, peer pressure aside, was possibly justified. Trever was prepubescent. He had less to fill those briefs. I, at the age of 11, was physically mature for my age. A pair of Hanes boys underwear that would fit my waist at that age probably didn’t have a lot of room in front.) His loose briefs also made me rather happy. I was often in my bunk when he changed his pants (I never saw him change his underwear. The King’s is the only penis I’ve seen at music camp) and so got a good angle to view his crotch and I could almost see into the pouch around its loose edges.

While Trevor didn’t seem to have a problem stripping to his underwear in front of me while changing, he either wasn’t comfortable staying that way, or just truly believed in the worthwhileness of pajamas, because when he got ready for bed he would wear a white undershirt and a pair of pool (billiards) boxers over his briefs.

This annoyed me. Not because I had designs that the briefs or boxers or their combination would interfere with, but because I really wanted to see him take off his briefs before putting on the boxers.

But it turns out their combination did get in the way of my plans that one night. I hadn’t touched a penis other than my own since that camping trip with No. 2 and the Sheriff. Seamus (my best friend at home) obviously was never going to let me touch his, and Chucky was just so cute. I was too scared to try and convince him to mess around with me, so I decided that night that I would touch his while he slept and he would never know. I spent a painfully long time unzipping his sleeping bag far enough to get access to his crotch.

When I finally did, after nearly panicking ever time he moved, afraid he would wake up and catch me, I placed my hand on top of his crotch and groped. But I couldn’t feel much. There was too much fabric in the way.

So I slowly worked open the fly of his boxers and got my hand inside. I was really risking it now. No way to quickly look like I was innocently asleep if he woke up if I had to first yank my hand out of his pants.

When I felt around this time, I felt what I was fairly certain was his soft penis. I couldn’t tell much about it. His briefs were the type with the fly, so it had double fabric in front. I wasn’t quite satisfied, and wanted to feel more, but there was no way I’d be able to get my hand into his briefs without waking him, even as loose as they were.

All this time I’d been jacking off. As disappointed as I was with the results of my – let’s face it – molestation, it was sexually thrilling enough to send me over the edge. After I’d finished, my will to continue left, so I pulled my hand out, zipped up Chucky’s sleeping bag, and went to sleep myself.

The next day I was terrified. What if he’d woken up and not said anything? What if he told? I watched him closely trying to see if he acted any differently, towards me specifically.

He didn’t seem to, so I was relieved. That night I decided to try again (stupid!) but the way he was sleeping, the way he’d zipped the bag, made it difficult to get in without disturbing him. I considered briefly that maybe he did know and that he’d done it on purpose to stop me from doing it again, but that was a bit extreme. Most likely it was just accidental.

And then we went home. I was disappointed with myself for not thinking to do it sooner, and so have more time to try. Obviously, I think it’s best that I didn’t.

Year 3

And finally, Tiny Tawny. My third and last year at music camp there were scheduling conflicts that seemed they were going to prevent me from attending. But recalling my experiences the year before, I really didn’t want to miss it. So my mother worked it out. I would attend for the length of one session, but I would be straddling two adjacent sessions. My first week would be the final HS week and my second would be the first MS. I vaguely remember insisting that I attend for part of the MS session, saying that it was more fun. Of course, there’s no way I could have known that since I’d never attended the HS weeks before.

But you know what? I was right. I met a few kids (Rocky, and some girl) that I spent time with, but for the most part I didn’t like the HS week much. I didn’t really care for my roommates. One ignored me, and one was alright, but the alright one also scared me a little. I was 15 at that point, but they must have been older still, because I felt like a little kid compared to them.

Other things that happened that year: I studied with a voice teacher other than the one from the years before whom I didn’t like (Mrs. Schumacher). Met another female councilor (I think the other one wasn’t there that year) who was a better fit for me. A girl had a crush on me for the first time that I’d noticed. Not fun. Lived in a different dorm building.

As the first week came to a close, in a move of great ballsiness, I asked the woman in charge of housing to please assign me middle school roommates when my current roommates left. I told her that I felt more comfortable with younger kids (which compared to my roommates the first week was true). She told me that wasn’t strange. I sure thought it was. She not only agreed to give me middle schoolers, but gave me the job of assigning ALL the rooms in my wing.

So I looked at all the boys for my wing and gave myself the youngest two. Both 12 I think. I don’t remember the name of one, but the other was Tiny Tawny. I then spelled out all the names on paper signs for the doors, each letter a different color.

Then I waited for them to arrive. The first roommate to arrive seemed cute enough, but was a little disappointing. He had a friend who was coming that week too, whom I’d put in the other room of the suite. (Each wing had two suites. Each suite had two rooms.) Since Tawny, the third roommate, hadn’t arrived yet, I switched him and roommate 1’s friend.

Then the friend showed up and didn’t seem to care so much about the boy who’d requested him, but was pissed at me for taking him out of his other friend’s room, whom I’d originally put in his room just by chance. So again I indulged them and switched myself to the other room.

So now I was again in a room with Tawny. When I saw him, my annoyance at the room swapping evaporated. I’d landed a good deal. Sure, Tawny was in my room to begin with, and I’d traded two of the three from each room rather than one, but I ended up with the best possible situation. I didn’t care about #3, but I was just as pleased to have him as a roommate, if not more so since the other option would have gotten in the way. #3 kept to himself.

Once again I selected to bottom bunk and again made my cave. Unfortunately, Tawny took the top. At first I was glad he got the better bed, but then I realized it was inconvenient. While it wasn’t this way from the start, pretty soon into the week, Tawny and I after lights out would stay up in my cave with flash lights and play cards and look at his skateboard magazines. Tawny was a skater. Preteen skaters are cute! And Tawny was my first clue to that. Nothing sexual ever occurred between me and him, conscious or otherwise, but I sure loved seeing him sitting there on my bed in nothing but his soft bright red boxers.

To give you an idea of how tiny Tiny Tawny was, he had size 4 ½ shoes. At 12, I was wearing size 8. Such adorably small feet.

Tawny and I sometimes hung out during the day, but usually we only saw each other in the room. But at 15, a week felt like a long time and our time together seemed significant. I think he really looked up to me similarly to how The Beloved would a few years later. But I didn’t understand that at the time. I was trying to be his peer, not his mentor.

That year I also interacted some with Mrs. Schumacher’s son. Mrs. Schumacher came back for the second week. He was probably 10 or 11 that year. Another real cutie. Red head like Ozzy. He was a singer, which thrilled me. Boy sopranos always have.

And speaking of Ozzy, I barely remember him from that year. I’m pretty sure he was there, but I think we kept respectful distance. I like to imagine that he was ashamed of how he treated me the year before. He’d certainly mellowed.

In the end, the girl who had a crush on me gave me a stuffed animal tearfully to remember her by. I felt very sorry for her. I kept the animal on a shelf in my room for years out of respect for her feelings, even though I never thought of her as much more than an acquaintance.

My goodbye with Tawny was much less emotional. Uneventful. Unmemorable. We agreed to keep in touch and maybe visit. We never did either.

(Of the three boys – Ozzy, Chucky and Tawny – I made the least of Tawny, yet I titled this entry after him. There were no real events to retell. We never really did anything other than hang out in the bottom bunk. But off the three, I felt the most strongly for him, enjoyed his company the most, and with him I have no regrets other than not keeping in touch.)

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