This has been difficult for me to write about. I have wanted to keep these painful memories to in the past but I recount them for a purpose. I am writing this because I want people to understand what real abuse is like. I constantly read these newspaper articles where a man is arrested for loving a boy and I see how the police, the politicians, and the press call it abuse. How dare they minimize what happened to me as a child by calling these other relationships "abusive"? I know abuse. I experienced real abuse for several years and it is nothing like the typical man/boy relationship.
I also know something about man/boy love and I know it from a boy’s perspective. I vividly remember the men I met after my father’s death. My mother could no longer care for us so she sent us to a military school. It was there I met half a dozen boylovers.
It seems quite natural that these men would come to a boy’s school. I remember them vividly. I remember them because they were the only staff members who gave us genuine affection. They treated us with dignity, they treated us as if we were human.
I can remember the different men. I can remember them holding me. I can remember sitting in their laps, their arms around my waist, their hands resting on my thigh. They saved me. After the physical torture I endured from my father they showed me what sympathy, affection, and love was like. I knew what they were, so did the other boys but we didn’t care.
I remember Mr. C., he was the science teacher. On so many weekends he would take me with him to get a hamburger at McDonald’s or to see a movie. There was his friend Mr. D., who came to work as a substitute houseparent. He used to let me sit on his lap. There was Mr. R. who used to slip his hand down the back of my pyjamas. He said it was to make sure I wasn’t wearing my underwear to bed but I knew he liked feeling my butt. That was o.k. because I liked it too. He called me "Jimmy-James" when I couldn’t make up my mind which name I liked best. To this day I remember him fondly.
The coach, Mr. H. loved to shower with us boys. He smiled a lot at me, especially when I was in the shower with him. He convinced me to try out for the swim team. Mr. S. ran the military program and he was much better than the man he had replaced. He was once a scout leader and every weekend the boys from his old troop would come and visit him. They spent hours with him. He treated me decently and gave me odd jobs to do around campus so I could earn some money.
For five years, between the ages of twelve and sixteen, I spent much of my time with men who were boylovers. At no time did they force themselves on any of the boys. What they did do was genuinely love us and for that I am grateful.
So I can say from first hand experience what it is like to be abused. And I utterly reject the hysteria about the "abuse" of man/boy love. I reject it because I know the truth about abuse. I know what these so-called "child care professionals" have only studied. I have been beaten within the confines of the family and I have been affectionately cradled in the arms of a "pervert." I have felt the stinging pain of a fist across my face and the tender caress of a man’s hand across my butt. As a boy I personally experienced both kinds of "abuse" and I can only thank God that I met these boylovers.
You see those "exploiters of children" gave me back the things my father had beaten out of me. They taught me to feel again. I had to shut out my emotions; to be more specific, I had closed off all feeling of affection, love caring, and hope. I was a cold uncaring child. But I had learned to care again. It was taught to me by the tender caresses of boylovers. It was reinstilled in my heart by their love.
In all these articles about young boys being "abused" by boylovers an odd occurrence happens. The "abused" boys do not turn in their abuser. No, they try and protect him. They continually, voluntarily return to him to be "abused" again and again. No victim of real abuse does this. I never once ran to my father so that I could be beaten. His mere presence terrified me. Children who have truly been abused do not seek out abuse. They do not repeatedly, purposely put themselves in a position to be "abuse" over and over. Today as I am writing this account two boy, 14 and 15, are sitting in jail in Boston because they do not want to cooperate in the persecution of the man they loved. The police, in case after case, force boys testify against their so-call "abusers".
Throughout the gay community, pompous, politically-correct fools, some elected, spout off about "abusing" children. They disassociate themselves from boylovers. They repudiate them. They say, "there is no place in the human rights movement for these people." Gay politicians throw boylovers to the lions every chance they get. All, they say, to prevent children from being abused.
Enough is enough. I have told the hard, bitter truth of my childhood because it speaks to the lies these hysterics are telling. It has not been easy to recount what happened to me. Virtually no one, until now, knows that I, as young boy, watched, unemotionally, as my father died. At his funeral I felt not one bit of grief. But if on of those boylovers who I came to know, who had held me and touched me and loved me, if one of them were lying in that casket, my grief would have known no bounds.
