The term "Full Circle" is all that really comes to mind when I think about BoyLove and it's placement in my life. Ever since I started working on the whole "BL thing" (as I always call it) I find myself having to go back to things that happened in my past just so that I can say "This is what it was like before, this is how it is now. This is where this comes from."

Truth be told, I was never what could be considered a "Loved Boy" (at least not by what standards the BoyLove community may consider them). I never fooled around when I was young, I never had a man that was important to me when I was a boy.

I never had a very good relationship with my father. And I don't mean "good" as in "healthy/unhealthy" but "good" as in "there/not there".

My dad spent most of my life working 60+ hours a week. I have only one (maybe two) good, quality memories of him. Everything else is of this cranky old man we had to be quiet for because he got home from work early in the morning, slept till the middle of the day and went off to work long after we'd gotten home from school, eating dinner and curling up with the evening television.

When I was younger, it wasn't uncommon for me to fall asleep in my bed and wake up in the car. . .or at my aunt's house or grandmother's house. (to this day, I still find it easier to sleep in a moving car than in a stationary bed). Because both parents worked at that time. I was constantly at someone else's place so they could work longer hours and save more money.

My earliest memories of my mother were of her tucking me into the sofa bed in my Aunt's basement late at night. She'd always crawl into bed with me until I fell asleep, and I'd always ask her if she'd be there when I woke up the next morning. She'd always say "yes". But she'd also always lie.

I'd go to sleep at night with her beside me, expecting her to be there the next morning. Only to wake up alone.

In my mother's defense, I'm going to say that she never really knew how much importance I placed on her being there the next morning. I never really told her.
But nights like that would always be the beginning of two or three day spreads where I didn't see either parent. Cared for, bathed, dressed by my aunts, uncles and grandmother. And waking up alone and not seeing her for days afterwards would often lead me to believe that my parents would never return.

Hence, I had a very good relationship with my extended family, at the expense of a better relationship with my own. In the end, though, I'd say that all things were equal. . .

But back to me and my dad.

The very first time I stayed up to meet the sunrise, I was with my father. The concept of "Three o'clock in the morning" was a new one for me--I didn't even know such odd hours existed.

He came up to my room one night and said "come on, I'm taking you with me while I go to work..."

At the time, he was a night custodian for a chain of restaraunts. I was about eight or nine. He spent his nights going between three or four different restaraunts and cleaning them.

So, I stayed up all night for the very first time. With my dad. I think that's the first good memory I have of my dad--I can't remember him even existing before that. Even though I know he was there.

Looking back on it, I can't doubt that I was loved by my parents. I was, after all, well cared for. . .but I think if you had asked me at the time "Do your parents love you?" I probably would have said "No." Because I didn't know my dad, and my mom always lied or disappeared.

"But we did it all for you." My mom says to me in her defense. "We took good care of you because we love you."

"I know that now, mom." I say to her. "But at the time. . .?"

There's nothing you can say to comfort a parent over something like that. They thought they were doing right, and I give them credit for that. And I appreciate and love them for it. . .

But I'm getting side-tracked.

The other clear memories of my dad involve cradle caps. In case you don't know what they are, they're a symptom of sleeping on rubber sheets--for kids that wet the bed.

Though I don't recall having problems with bedwetting, I do remember those damned rubber sheets.

Everyone knows what dandruff and dry scalp are. . .a cradle cap is what happens when the sweat from your scalp coagulates with your dandruff and latches onto the scalp, forming these hard, crusty growths that can get infected if not scraped off. A painful process that involves a lot of trust, and a lot of patience.

My mom didn't have the constitution for it. She hated seeing me cry or in pain. She had to be sedated when I split my head open in my stairwell and had to get stitches.

So my fondest memories of my father (outside of my first sunset) are of sitting in my father's lap while he scraped off my cradle caps with a double-edged razor. He never nicked me, not even once. And I never cried.

We'd talk about my day while I read a book, watched the hamsters, TV or whatever--anything to distract me from what he was doing.

In the end, it's strange, the things you associate with emotions. When I think about whether or not I was loved by my parents, I think about sunsets and cradle caps.

When I think about loving someone, man or boy, I always think about my routines and about these trust/hygene activities. Like my favorite scene from Love! Valour! Compassion! when the older couple is trimming eachother's ear hairs. . .that's love.

How does this relate to being a boylover? The routines that you get into with your boys, the grooves that you either make or fall into. Whether it be watching The X-files together or riding your bicycle or working out or playing video games. . .they may not mean a whole lot to you. But those routines are what your boys are going to remember.

I wouldn't wish cradle caps on any boy. . .But I'm almost grateful for them in a way. If it weren't for them, I'd have but one memory of my dad. In a dysfunctional relationship, the caretaking meant all the love in the world.
 

I can probably safely say that this is where it all started: An innocent story read when I was young.

It's funny, the things you remember....

When I was in the fourth grade, we had a book of short stories that we used to read a different story from about once a week and discuss...

One of the ones that I remember most vividly, (and I wish I had a copy of it now) was called Boy Friday.

Looking back on it, it was probably presented to the class as a "Don't talk to strangers, watch out for this situation and don't find yourself in it." kind of stories...

But, this is how it went for me:

The story centered on a boy, obviously, and I can't even remember the character's name, who stumbled across a classified ad one day that read:

And then a phone number and an address to call...

Seeing as how every kid needs an allowance, he decides to give the guy a call. Says he's 13 years old, goes to school, interested in the job and whatnot...

The guy says he's perfect. And to show up at his place after school the next day.

At first, the jobs were pretty commonplace...mow the lawn, wash the windows, repair a fence...

And the kid was sitting pretty...

It's revealed to the boy a few days into this arrangement that the man who hired him is a photographer...given that he has a basement studio and dark room...

And the boy is invited to pose, for an extra $7.50 a week...

Again, pretty tame at first...then the man started with "You're an attractive boy, why don't you take off your shirt?" and, later on "Can I take one of you in your underwear?"

The boy complied each and every time. And I remember the story culminating with the man asking him to have sex with another boy in front of th ecamera...at which the story took a turn and the boy started to feel weird about going back to that house...

A week later, the boy turns the guy into the police...
 

Nonetheless, I was very moved--one could say, inspired by what I had read that day.

I remember at the time, finding nothing but fault in the boy's actions...even though I do think back on it now and think that maybe the man may have moved too quickly (but, then again, it was a short story, meant to be read in the span of a week by a fourth grader...) and, thinking again, that the boy always could've said "No." and that everything probably would've been fine...

I remember wanting that...

I remember spending the next week surfing the Classifieds for "Boy Friday" and hoping to find myself in that situation...knowing that I wouldn't say "No."

Like I said, it's weird...the things you remember.

I remember keeping my eyes and ears open for anyone that was suspected of being a pedophile...so I could ask him if he needed a Boy Friday and thinking that there wasn't really anything wrong with it as long as I was always allowed to say "No." when I wanted to.

Nowadays, every now and then, I look back on that story and think "Wow, if it were only that easy..."

It was in the midst of this quest for a pedophile (ages 10-12) that I met Charlie. Charlie and I met through the Boy's Club.

Charlie was also mentally retarded.

He was...30+ years old, had the brain of a 10 year old boy. I had always had a hard time making friends--where other boys were playing war games I was playing house. I preferred the gentler, more understanding company of girls.

It was this inability to make friends that caused the counselors at the Boys Club to pair me and Charlie together. I was afraid of him at first, but also told that he was "Just like a boy, only bigger." (It was the seventies, I'm supposing also that there are better protections about such "pairings" today...)

Charlie was a great friend at first. I delighted in having a friend that was so much bigger than I. I could climb on him while we swam in the pool. And he could always throw me the greatest distances...not to mention beat up anyone that picked on me.

Charlie then started talking about how he'd always wanted to be naked in the locker room shower. I agreed to it with little thought in the matter. Because I had also been quite curious about his body and I was looking forward to seeing just exactly what he looked like without his clothes.

We progressed into physical intimacy like it was second nature--we would sneak off into the woods behind the club or into the shower when no one was there so that we could look at eachother.

The big thing about Charlie was that he never, ever touched me (other than throwing me around in the pool). And I never, ever, touched him. (Not that I remember, anyway.)

Charlie, at best, could be considered a voyeur. He liked to watch me undress, touch myself. After glimpsing eachother in the shower or behind the woods for awhile, he'd ask me to "Do it for him." and I'd always roll my eyes and say "Oh, okay..." as if I had nothing better to do.

What we were doing together bored me. I didn't know, at the time, what I really wanted. Only that I wanted more. And going back to the Boys Club was getting increasingly difficult. I was tired of having to sneak off. And because Charlie was someone I didn't consider to be very attractive I didn't really want him touching me anyway. I actually remember thinking to myself that Charlie was a good person to keep around as long as he was useful, but that it was time to move on.

Not finding any "replacements" for Charlie, my relationship with him continued for almost an entire year. I should also say that the reasons for not finding any "replacements" were also because of my relationship with Charlie. I can count on one hand the number of other, better friends that I had pushed away so that I could spend time fooling around with him.

I think back on the phone calls from Paul (the swimming teacher's son) and George (my best friend from Catechism) and say "If I only chose differently..."

Everything came to a head shortly before my 12th birthday in a way that I had never thought possible.

[I should say that this, by the way, is all introspection. I wiped out most of what occurred during that year. I have no proof, no memory of anything. Only things recovered through hypnotherapy and regression/relaxation techniques...]

I took a break from swimming to go back into the locker room and get a drink of water. I remember bending over to drink from the fountain when I felt water dripping on the small of my back. I straightened up a little and saw Charlie's erect penis sticking out from between my legs.

He'd gotten out of the pool when I did and followed me to the fountain.

I bumped my leg on the fountain as I slipped out from his arms and backed up against the wall. I told him to "Cut it out." that I wasn't in the mood.

I finally started to tell him how I didn't want to "do it" with him anymore. And that I no longer wanted to be his friend.

He accused me of teasing him, of using him. And told me that it was time for me to "pay up".

I tried to get away, he grabbed me by my arm and threw me into the shower. I slipped, fell. He lifted me up by the hair on the top of my head and knocked me against the wall.

I woke up a short time later. I don't know how it was that no one had managed to find me--but I was alone. The kids were still playing in the pool. The locker room was still empty. I awoke in a pool of my own blood and vomit and shit and urine. My insides ached and my head was throbbing.

I showered off, toweled off, got dressed and went home. I never set foot in that Boy's Club again.

To those Child Advocates that are reading this, I know what you're thinking. "You were abused when you were a boy, so you want to abuse boys too..." But this is not the case. I've run into countless BoyLovers who have had similar urges while they were young--and were fortunate enough to have had them answered (satisfiably answered) at the time.
But I could never "abuse" a boy. What I do remember, though, is that I wanted to be loved like that. I actively pursued a relationship with a known pedophile. Much of my own justification about my own BoyLove feelings is knowing that if I felt that way, there must be another boy out there that wants the same thing. And when I encounter a boy that is seeking that kind of affection/attention--what often pushes me to enter a relationship with a boy like that is so that he will never experience what I did.

It's too easy for a boy's desires to lead him to the wrong place, at the wrong time. I'm living proof.

But that's when the lying started, the cover ups. That's when I started avoiding people, when I stopped trusting them. When I shut down associating with people altogether.

Until I was sixteen, I was little more than a recluse who did nothing but write and read and play video games.
 
 

Nevertheless, I will admit to the fact that the violence of my past did at one time influence what I would perceive as love later on. Violence, coersion, avoidance and mistrust were literally all I knew.

The first time I fell in love was when I was sixteen. He was my age, his name was Bobby.

I had a gift for fiction and creating stories--it happens when you do nothing but play pretend.

In High School, I found myself getting more popular with D&D gamers. I was an extraordinarily good role-player. And it was in this setting that I met Bobby.

Eventually, too, Bobby started to talk about "Real Life" adventures. And the group started getting together on the weekends to break into houses and boost cars.

We never really did anything for the profit--it was all for fun. The rush.

Bobby lived in this old house in the woods, the short cut to and from his place involved using a burned out tressel-bridge over the river. It was in sneaking out one Friday night--in our night clothes on our way to another adventure--that I came to the sudden realization that I had a paralyzing fear of heights.

I froze right in the middle of that bridge. Which I knew was only train tracks and burned out wooden girders. I was scared to death of falling through--even though there was no way I could have. I got onto all fours and couldn't move.

"Take my hand." a voice said. I looked up to see Bobby in the moon light. In his black trenchcoat and ball cap, holding out his hand.

I told him I couldn't let go of the girder. I'd fall.

"I won't let you fall. Trust me."

Bobby lead me off the bridge, step for step, as I held onto him the whole time. Now I ask you, who wouldn't fall in love with that?

After that moment, I would've followed him anywhere.

The job went off without a hitch. We didn't get what we were expecting, but we still had fun. And we were sitting around his bedroom afterwards, in our underwear, passing around a jug of water and a towel to clean off the sweat. Cooling down after an adrenalized night.

Maybe it was the endorphins, maybe it was the event on the bridge. Who knew? But I couldn't take my eyes off Bobby. When the towel came around to me, I could smell him on it. I wanted to tuck the towel away and keep it. I wanted to be that towel...

My love for him went unanswered. He, unfortunately, was straight. And I, at the time, was so busy convincing myself that I was straight to even consider asking him for anything other than friendship. But he was the first person in whom I ever placed unconditional trust ever since Charlie.

We'd had our lives in eachothers hands countless times over the next few years. I was loyal to him beyond imagining. I knew I could be everything he'd wanted me to be if he'd just give me a chance....

The group disbanded when I was accepted to college when I was 21. Bobby went on to become a comic book artist. I, however, was intent on continuing my thieving. I was so good at what I did, I was going to make it my career.

Going off to college (which I told myself was the perfect guise) would be my chance to hone my abilities and be the best thief I could be.

It was at the same time that I was lusting over Bobby that I started to have inclings towards children. While honing my abilities as a thief, I also started to think about how those abilities could lead me to sexual fulfillment.

Whenever I sit down to write this narrative, I always want to start off by saying "I've always associated youth with beauty. . ." Truth be known, though, when I look back on my early experiences, I have a hard time finding any beauty in what I was feeling.

Puberty and a creative mind are a wonderful combination, ask anyone. Adolescent hormones and an over-active imagination make the best fantasies, and the best lovers. When I was sixteen, my first sexual fantasies (and I do mean "sexual") began to manifest in a rather unusual way. Not about the other boys in the locker room--not even about Bobby--and not about the girls either. But about my pre-pubescent neighbors that were still running around in their diapers.

We lived in a country suburb. Our houses were close together, but it was still lower-to-poverty class. My neighbors had a wading pool in the driveway beside my house. And the kids were always swimming in their underwear, for which I had a clear view from my dining room window.

At first, these fantasies were easy to ignore. In time, however, they were all I thought about. And they got worse. Once I'd humored the thought of touching one, the fantasy of touching a child would turn into a fantasy about having sex with one. And, once I learned that what I was thinking about was a matter of perversion, fantasies of sex with children turned into strategies of kidnapping and rape.

Perhaps it was shame or fear. Or perhaps it was who I am now, talking to who I used to be, telling myself that what I'd become if I took that dastardly route would be truly horrible. But I began telling myself that I hated kids.

Or, maybe, I did really hate them. Hated them for their precious bodies that were so unobtainable and far away. Hated them for their constant presense and their laughter that would conjure thoughts in me that I was ashamed and scared of. Hated what they reminded me of, someone I would never be again.

It's hard to tell anymore, what I was really feeling when I so proudly boasted that I hated kids. Who knows with teenagers, right?

Later on, in my twenties, it would be revealed by way of Hypnotic Regression that these feelings and fantasies were a result of all of those factors, as well as a few more, that all had to do with how I grew up.

Having secluded myself from everyone, making only one or two friends wherever I was living at the time. And never trusting anyone, not completely. Even myself.

Because of limited scope and experience, I grew up (physically) never getting past ten (socially). Because of this, I still wanted to be with children when I should have wanted to be with people my own age. And that strong desire to be with children turned into a strong desire to want them sexually when I was a teenager. Which turned into a near-uncontrollable lust by the time I left for college.

At least, that's what my therapist said. Even to this day, it feels like a convenient excuse. A cure-all label for the mental anguish I've grown up with, just so I can get rid of some of this guilt.

What I can never get out of my head, though, is the day I started with the hypnotic regression. "Picture yourself as a young boy." He said. "He's sitting in the chair right in front of you. Is there something you want to say to him?"

That's when I proceeded to insult him. "You incompetent little fool! You idiot! You stupid, stupid, little brat! How dare you! How dare you screw up my life! Why? Why couldn't you just think more clearly? Why did you even have to trust anyone! Why couldn't you use that dim-witted brain of yours to save your own life!"

I grew up hating myself. When, all the while, there was a little boy inside of me who wanted nothing but to be confident and strong. The way a boy should be.

My first experience with a child was when I was seventeen. He was the two and a half year old son of a girl that I was close friends with in High School.

Two and a half is a wonderful age, I would come to find out. Old enough to look and feel and interact with the world, but not old enough to talk.

He was sitting on my lap one day while I played with him. His mother, going in and out of the living room and getting ready for. . .something, I can't really remember. All I really remember was the boy.

He was sitting on my lap. I tickled his toes and the bottom of his foot. Then the back of his knee and the inside of his thigh. He'd grab hold of my finger and I'd notice how strong he was. His eyes would light up and he'd smile and I'd be amazed at how a face so young could convey and even realize so much joy from something that, only seven years earlier, had brought me so much pain.

He was only wearing a diaper. I remember what his tiny ribs felt like under the palms of my hands. And the line of his spine under the tips of my fingers. Then I noticed how his diaper was sagging around his waist. "What was that smell? Did he do something in his diaper?"

I stuck my hand in to feel. No, he didn't wet himself. But it felt good, the way he just let me feel. His bottom was warm and soft and dry and smooth and all the good things that made a body like his a pleasure to watch.

His mother came back into the room. I pulled my hand out fast so that she wouldn't catch me feeling up her son.

I must have repeated this at least two or three more times, and he must have begun to see a trend.

He smiled, now, at every touch and tickle. If he wasn't noticing it at all. So trusting, so happy. She left the room again, I put my hands on his tiny hips. And then something happened that scared me, that makes me jump even as I sit down to write it.

This two and a half year old little boy, this tiny angel. Barely big enough to speak or walk. Took my hand by it's thumb and put it into the back of his diaper.

I'm not kidding, this isn't a fantasy. It's what he did, I swear.

And it was an experience that changed my life forever. It told me that children, no matter how young, loved being touched. Anywhere and everywhere.

All at once, my darkest fantasies seemed palpable, obtainable. And what were once strategies of violence, became silent wishes to reach a physical closeness and friendship with a child. I started, from that point forward, to work towards forming a close, trusting friendship with a boy that would eventually bring the physical closeness that I desired.

I want you to pay close attention to what you just read: . . .work towards forming a close, trusting friendship with a boy that would eventually bring the physical closeness that I desired."

Sometimes think that it would have been much easier and far less trouble and much less mental anguish if I'd just gone out and done what I was thinking: To steal off into the night and snatch a child from his bed and have my way with him only to return him come morning.

Instead, I chose to romance and work my way under the skin and into the life of a boy until he trusted me enough to give me what I wanted. Which left me feeling much, much worse.

Dominic was one of three children my mother babysat on the weekends. He couldn't have been much older than four or five. He was the middle child of two sisters, who spent most of their time with my mother. And, because he was the boy, ended up spending most of his time with me.

His weekends over were spent on my lap in front of my computer or playing video games. I regret, now, ignoring every word he said or pretending to pay attention to him. I was so focused on what I wanted from him: His small, smooth body pressed up against mine. Tracing the lines of his tiny neck and shoulders with my fingers. Smelling his hair and massaging his feet. Physical intimacy. Loving, trusting, pleasurable touch. It's all I wanted from him.

So, he sat on my lap. I'd lightly massage his back and drum my fingers on his thigh as I watched him play. I even had opportunity to smell him once or twice. That sweet smell of chocolate chip cookies and milk on his breath. And the smell of him on his fingers as he squeezed my nose.

I wanted him accustomed to my touch, used to my affection. So that some day, when I finally had the guts, I'd suggest we go up to my room for a little nap. . .and maybe something more.

I thank God, now, with every fiber of my being that I never had those kind of "guts". For I am very fearful of what I would have done if given the chance.

Fortunately, very fortunately, my relationship with Dominic was cut short when I had to leave for college. It was on my last weekend with him, though, that he was told how I was going to go away for a long time.

I got down on one knee so that he could hug me good-bye. And he said something to me that was like a stake through my heart.
He told me that he loved me.

He loved me. I was on the verge of tears. I'd finally succeeded in gaining his trust. Mentally prepared to take advantage of that trust in the space of a heartbeat. . . .and he loved me.

I had finally succeeded in becoming a cold-hearted, evil fiend.

I'd like to say that words could not describe how I felt at that moment. But they can. Because they're the same words that I torment myself with every day since.

What kind of a fiend, what kind of a monster, works his way into a child as I did? What kind of an. . .asshole betrays the trust of someone so delicate, so unconditionally trusting? What kind of hell-spawned aberration is hurt by the words "I love you. . ."?

I'll tell you: A demon, a fiend, an evil bastard, a monster, an asshole, an aberration. . .just like me. A reprehensible, deplorable, slime of the earth, mistake of human nature like me. That's who.

So I left for college. My "hatred" for children turning into a forbidden love affair. For, I seemed to long for their company more than ever as I realized the valuable gift I was given, but could think of nothing else but to abuse it.

This valuable gift I refer to is the ability to be trusted. It's not always easy to trust anyone right away. Further, if your personality is not only trustworthy, but a natural state of trustworthiness, it's possible that you could fail to be trusted wherever you go.

Here was a child that trusted me right away. If he could read my mind, would he have ever come near me? What did I do that hid my desires so well?

From that point on, I wondered about every friendship, every relationship I'd built. Was it because of who I was or was it because of something I did to cover up who I was? If all you are to other people is your outward appearance, was I a lie. . .or was I the truth?

I saw myself not only as unfit for human contact, but dangerous to those precious little people that I held so dear.

I secluded myself to University Campus, content with the idea of being a single man and spending the rest of my life alone. I was beyond help, beyond rescue, and the only solution was to sequester myself away from those that I would do harm: The children.

I haven't left University Campus in seven years. I have surrounded myself with adults with the sole purpose of keeping myself away from those precious bodies that brought me so much pain and guilt. Those valuable words of love that would further drive me to anguish as I wondered how anyone could love a monster like me. I'd watch them from afar, read about them, hang on every word they spoke, every musical note of their laughter. While, at the same time, hiding from their sight, turning my eyes to the floor and leaving the room whenever they noticed me staring at them.

It wasn't long before this forbidden love affair with children turned into a strong hope for just one, special child. A boy who would come into my life and trust me again. I wanted so much to be trusted again. I wanted to be a father someday, a teacher, a mentor. I wanted to pass on my experiences, to tell someone my stories and share my life with them.

But I feared my own resolve. If I were ever blessed with a child's trust again, how do I know I wouldn't abuse it? And to worse directions than I had before?

Only very rarely was I graced with the presense of a child. And when I was, they were the focus of my attention. I couldn't bring my eyes from them for the life of me. And still hoped and prayed that they'd talk to me or bump into me or chase me into that corner that I was always using to duck away from them. Something, anything, to let me know that I was okay. That I was sane.

Before all of this started. Before puberty, before sex drive, before hormones, children used to smile at just the site of me. Even the young ones. I like to think it was because I used to shine with so much inner-light and peace that my presense brought them happiness. I was just so easy going and relaxed, not a care in the world.

Who knows why they smiled. For all I know, I could just be really funny looking.

Nonetheless, it was during those five years on University Campus, where my thoughts were filled with both trying to avoid them and secretly harboring desires to prey upon them. That I realized something was very wrong with me. For, the smallest children would look at me and cry. And the older ones would never come near. They could see perdition in my eyes, I could feel it. They were scared of me. And confused. Because behind all of that sin and guilt was an everlasting desire to be near. Which, perhaps, scared them even more.

Some time during my fourth year in college, I had a nervous breakdown--I was 24. Work-related stress combined with, sexual repression and confusion, lonliness and a lifetime of lies finally catching up to me had resulted in a sudden moment of realization and confusion that left me hollow and weak.

When you run away from society as I did, you become content in spending your life alone. And you find things to do by yourself. At around fifteen or sixteen, I turned to writing and poetry. And I got deeply involved in training myself for thievery.

The experience with Dominic had changed me to the point where I didn't want to be a thief anymore. I stopped working out and training. And got further involved in my studies--even though I was barely scraping by with my grades.

By the time I went to college, I had journals filled with everything that was going through my head at the time.

These stories, however, were no substitute for human contact. So, within the few friends that I did make, I would often lie or embellish or exaggerate the truth because I had no other experiences to share.

To this day, I still have a hard time telling the truth from the fiction.

I wasn't comfortable sharing what I wrote. My talents were mediocre, at best, and telling people "I spent eight hours writing today." Gets a little dull when it's all you do for weeks on end.

I sat down at work one day and tried to remember little details of my childhood. The address of where we used to live. What color our car was. The name of my second grade teacher. Which of my parents drove me to school every morning and what they looked like when I was young.

I got two answers for everything. One of them a lie, the other the truth. By the time I was 24, I'd been lying and telling stories for so long that I couldn't tell the truth from the fiction anymore.

I couldn't find a shred of personality that was truly myself, except for the lies. I searched my head for a memory, for a story, for any trace of. . .who I was. And could find nothing. I had to look at photos to even remember where I'd come from.

I don't know if it's the kind of mental breakdown that most people have. I don't even know if you'll understand what I mean when I say that all at once, everything I was pretending to be came crashing down and all I was left with was who I was when I started pretending. A scared, terrified, weak, and defenseless child. But that's the kind of breakdown that I had. Alone and in a place that I didn't understand, with a head full of lies and stories that were of no use to anyone at all...especially me.

I thought it time to see a professional. That's where I had the Hypnotic Session that I described earlier. After that, things just seemed to fall into place. Somehow, having something to blame all these lies and stories and urges and longings upon seemed to help put me in my place again.

I started making friends, and eventually dating. After about a month of trying to date women and failing miserably, I came to the conclusion that I was gay.

One more reason, perhaps, of everything I've been through all my life. Perhaps it was a combination, then, not only of being socially young. But of never really accepting my own homosexuality? As much of a stigma as it was when I was growing up. I mean, where I'm from, homosexuality is as much a perversion as. . .pedophelia. If not totally associated with eachother.

In High School, if you were a boy that people suspected as being Gay, they'd call you "Queer Bait". Where I came from, being gay and being a pedophile were one in the same.

Coming out changed the world for me. When I gave up on dating women and started dating men, all of my fantasies about little boys seemed to go away, the unhealthy ones anyway. I had an acceptable, satisfying direction for my sexual desires to go into. I no longer had sexual desire for little boys and no longer saw myself as a monster.

I've stopped leaving the room whenever they come in. And I can finally make them smile.

Now, I love kids, can't get enough of them. I'm even thinking of turning it towards a career.

Some days are better than others, though. I'll admit that. And not just with my feelings towards boys, but with my other problems as well.

Sometimes, I lose so much confidence in myself that I can't even walk.

And there are days when the world confuses me so much that it has me in tears.

As to my feelings towards boys, well, they have their better days too. I need to surround myself with images that are warm and wholesome, instead of hot and steamy. And I need to keep my mind on best wishes, instead of deepest desires.

I falter sometimes. Rarely. I'll wake up crying because of a nightmare where I'd raped a little boy in a bloody, screaming mess. Then spend the rest of the day feeling like a wretched, evil fiend.

Boys still catch my eye. I still long for their company. And I still consider their bodies to be beautiful, but in a very spiritual sense. I don't know if there's a comparison to be made. If I were to compare them to a sunset, it would suggest I admire them for their unobtainability.

But I see their beauty in my life as something very much obtainable.

If I were to compare them to a work of art, it would suggest that I put them on a pedastal.

But, though I would shield them from any harm and protect them from the same things that hurt me, I would do nothing that would keep them from living the life I feel they deserve.

I notice their smoothness, their softness, the sound of their laughter. Their words to me, now, bring comfort and hope. Instead of sadness and pain.

There's nothing I wouldn't do to make them happy.
 
 

I learn to trust people a little more every day. Instead of forming superficial friendships, I find myself building confidence and trust. I'm honest when I can. Sometimes to the point of being blunt. And I'm always taking interest in new things, finding other things that I'm good at.

There are two things that were integral to reaching the point where I am today: The first thing I had to do was admit it to myself that I love boys. And I do, with every fiber and every wish. The second, thing I had to do was stop running away from that love and just feel it.

I have never met a more compassionate, more caring, more generous group of people than I have in this community. The bond that we have in sharing a common secret has helped me to form friendships unlike anything I've felt before.

It's new and it's scary and exciting and liberating all at the same time.

But I'm still learning what it takes to get along with people. I still have a long way to go.

It was nice finding Free Spirits--to be able to talk about these feelings. But I need more, I need better. I need real life interaction.

Email and chatting and posting--it's too much like writing. Too much like fiction.

I meet more BLs every day. We're a world apart, a culture of our own. I've come to believe that, to trust it.

I know that I will never hurt a child. True evil is betraying a child's friendship. And I would never do that, not again. In that, I am grateful of the tears that one little boy brought me. If not for them, I probably would have destroyed someone else's life as well as my own.

These feelings I have of wanting to be close to a boy. They aren't wrong. There's nothing harmful in wanting a hug. Or wanting to lift them onto my shoulders and carry them. Or simply wanting to make them smile. Wrong and harmful are taking these things against their will. Or gaining their trust with alterior motives in your heart.

There's also nothing wrong in appreciating their physical beauty. I think that all children are beautiful. Short, tall, fat, thin. Everything down to their missing teeth, freckles, scraped knees, bruised elbows and cowlicks. But why boys? Why not?

Would a feminist not want to see strong, condfident, beautiful girls? Would a conservationist not want to see their favorite endangered species on a calender or a poster?

I love kids. For their insatiable curiosity, hard-to-answer questions and. . .incurable mischief.

Children represent everything that's right and beautiful in the world. Hope, promise. Advancement without compromise.

So, maybe I have always associated youth with beauty. It's just that I went from resenting that beauty to cherishing it. And I don't think that cherishing it in the way that I do now would have come otherwise.

I may love children in a way that might never be understood. In wanting to be closer and more intimate, these feelings are often questioned as harmful. But statistics show that a BoyLover is the least likely to hurt a boy, and the only reason that is is because of their desire to be closer and more intimate.

It's part of wanting to be trusted. And you don't gain trust by hurting and lying to someone. That's a basic instinct everyone has, to stay away from those that hurt you. Everyone knows this, male or female, whether they're two and a half, four or five, twenty or thirty.

If I had never admitted it to myself, I'd still be slinking off into corners and wanting to steal them off the streets. If I never accepted that my desires to be close by and trusted were not harmful, I'd still be spending the rest of my life alone.

True beauty isn't found, but revealed. But true love grows, and so do our kids. And that's why I love them.
 

Sparks.
 

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