Gender: Male Age: 21 Location: N/A
I have labelled this a manifest, but it’s actually just a rambling of feelings and thoughts.
Thoughts that have been burning in my mind in the past couple of years.
I know full well what people will think about my experiences and theories attached to it.
So actually this is a futile attempt to bring understanding and perhaps enlightenment to those who condemn paedophiles. I know, you, the reader, have already made your mind up about this subject long ago.
Either you are a witness to the profound stupidity of our current society and their thoughts on paedophilia, or you are part of that same society and condemn them with a force and violence that is sometimes outright frightening.
But bear with me. Just for once.
A long time ago I have been labelled as victim of a paedophile. By far the worst experience of my life.
Not the paedophile, no. Those who labelled me as victim, the social workers, the psychiatrist, those made my life a living hell, and, not to forget, you. You, all those who condemn paedophilia in the worst way.
You see, I was indeed young, perhaps too young to be sexually engaged, I will admit that. But I didn’t see it like that back then.
I was a very shy kid. I had friends and all, but I was shy and always felt out of place. Whenever I was in a room filled with people I always imagined myself screaming on the top of my longs, but no one ever turned their head to see me.
People saw me, but never really did see me. I cannot make myself more clear than that.
I was eight when someone really did see me. A really nice and friendly man. Fourty somewhat years and everyone always called him Uncle, even though we weren’t related.
From the first time we met there was a spark between us. A feeling of trust. I always felt safe with him.
Safety is an important thing for me now, but back then, when I was a shy kid, that feeling of safety meant the world to me. This Uncle gave me something no one ever had, or has, been able to give me. That feeling of finally being seen, and at the same time feeling safe as if the rest of the world didn’t exist.
It was fifteen years ago and I still cannot put it into words, how much he meant for me at that time.
A part of our relationship was sexual. It started out as little games and touching at first, but it developed over time until it was a part of our bond. However, it was never, at least not to me, the foundation of our relationship.
It was always more important for him than it was for me, but he never insisted on it. We were as contempt with being together in a normal way, as in sharing our bodies in bed.
He never forced me to do anything. Of course, he let me know that he liked me to do some stuff, but he never forced me. Never threatened or manipulated me into his bed.
He simple asked, and I responded with words or actions.
He did his best to make me feel ok about it. Perhaps for his own benefits, or perhaps because he knew what that did to me. He could make me feel the proudest boy in the world after I had done certain sexual act for him.
For me the sex was exciting and pleasant. However orgasms and such weren’t really the most important thing for me as it was for him. For me I enjoyed the secrecy of it. Doing something naughty with a friend, something only we did and the rest of the world didn’t need to know about it.
He would always ask me for it. Never just do it, but he asked. He either asked me if I wanted to go upstairs with him, or if he could take some pictures of me.
Almost always I happily agreed with either of his suggestions, however I now regret I said yes to the pictures. Not because I know they are floating online somewhere, but because I think it’s those pictures that ended it.
I don’t know for sure what he did with them. Whether someone recognized him or me, or he sent them to the wrong guy.
It doesn’t matter.
One day my parents suddenly took me to this guy. An older guy in a building that had an office that looked like a living room. This guy was supposedly my friend. He repeatedly told me I could tell him everything.
Now, I want you to imagine something for me. Think back about your first time. Your first time with either a man or woman, boy or girl, doesn’t matter. Just that very first time you had sex with another human being. Remember all the emotions coursing through you, the excitement, the adrenaline. Now remember the day after, walking around with that stupid permanent smile on your face. That feeling of accomplishment.
Now imagine this, imagine you are suddenly sitting on a bright orange 70s couch, with a man across you, asking you the most intimate details about this act. About your first time. About all those emotions. And imagine him writing every word down.
This man will promise you he will never share what you say with anyone. Yet, he writes down every word.
I might have been eight, but I wasn’t an idiot. I knew full well that there was a reason for him to write it down. And it wasn’t for his own memories, as he had said.
If you managed to imagine yourself in the proper way, you will probably feel yourself pretty damn horrible.
And the worst part is, this was only the beginning.
You see, Uncle was my first boyfriend. That’s how I felt about it, that’s how I still see it. Or started to see it again.
The period following his arrest is by far the worst in my life.
Every minute I had spent with Uncle are among the best in my life. I was happy, truly happy with him.
And I had felt safe with him. That there was nothing in the world that could harm me as long as I was near him. And now he was violently yanked out of my life, and replaced by a number of people who all claimed to be trusted.
Every time they noticed I felt threatened they said that I shouldn’t worry. That Uncle would never be able to harm me again.
Imagine that, they tried to comfort me with the idea I would never, ever see the one I loved again. Over and over. Whenever I cried for the friend I lost they would repeat those words.
You will never see him again.
Said in many different ways in different tones, but always the same message. Uncle was gone.
One woman, I think she worked for the D.A., even told me Uncle would be locked up safely away from me.
Imagine that, the first love of my life would be locked into a prison (a place where the fantasies of a eight year old are not very friendly about) because he loved me. Or because I loved him.
Make your pick, the result is the same.
It got even worse.
You see, I wasn’t an idiot. Most people treat young children like they are stupid. They are not.
Perhaps they don’t fully grasp the world yet as adults, but that doesn’t make them dim.
Never forget that.
I noticed it only slightly at first, but with every session it became worse.
They had me talk about Uncle so much. And every time we got to parts that were supposed to be secret, the sexual stuff, the words we whispered to each other under the blankets, they pushed words into me.
So subtlety you would hardly notice it. When I said it was ok what me and Uncle had done, or if I said I felt good about it, they would keep on asking the same questions.
“You sure?” “So you really felt good about doing that? Or did you just feel good about it because it made Uncle feel good? Didn’t you just do it to make your friend happy? You sure?”
Over and over.
And if I even hinted that I might have been confused about it. Or wasn’t sure, they would hook onto that like sharks on bait. “Ah so, perhaps you didn’t really like it?”
I know they meant well. At least I understand that now, but back then, they might as well have plunged a knife into me.
I was surrounded by adults who wanted me to say Uncle did bad things to me. Not even with those words. If only they had used those words, just outright said it, I could have outright defied it. No they used smooth subtle words and questions to make me say it.
The bottom line was so clear but for the eight year old me I couldn’t really see it.
The only way I could make the adults around me happy was by saying the friend I loved was a bad man, and the things we did were bad and sick.
Imagine that, for the eight year old me.
Oh and when I finally suggested they were right. That Uncle had been bad, they said it was ok. Encouraged me to keep talking.
Imagine that, the first life lesson I was taught, after Uncle, that it was proper and ok to betray the one you love. That it is ok to lie about your feelings so the one who cared so much about me would be prosecuted as a molester.
And remember, I would never, ever, see him again, don’t worry boy.
I am not sure what precisely sent me into years of self-doubt and self-loathing. But if I had to point out one thing it would be the letter.
You see, I’m not sure if my conversations with the psychiatrist could be used in court. I doubt it, but then again I’m not sure what he was. In my memories he was one, but perhaps he was a social worker from the special victims unit. Or something like that.
I do know a well-used technique is by letting victims write a letter to their molester. This letter will then be used in court as a sort of statement. As a testimony without having the victim to actually having to give a testament.
They didn’t tell me this of course. The woman had discussed it with me. Asked me if I wanted to write a letter to Uncle about everything.
I jumped to it.
Remember, I hadn’t had a chance to talk to him ever since that day I suddenly stood in the weird office.
And they promised me it would only be for Uncle. For his eyes only. When I wrote that letter it had been the first kind of happiness I had since his arrest.
And I guess that was the first love letter I had ever written. I cannot really remember everything I put it there, and I doubt it was poetry.
I remember trying my best to put my feelings into words for him. And they were not what my parents, or any other adult, wanted me to write. I told him I loved him. And that everything was going to be ok. And that I would look him up in prison if I had to, but that nothing would keep us away from each other. Something along those lines at least.
I do remember the beating of my heart, and my flushed face when I wrote that letter. I had talked more than once about love and feelings with Uncle. But that was the first time in my life I really had to put it into words. To expose myself onto a piece of paper, with that woman in the next room with my parents. But it was for his eyes only.
To make sure I licked the envelope so many times my tongue hurt before I closed it.
For two days I felt good about it. Despite everything that was happening, at least Uncle would know I didn’t really think of him as a bad man. Two days only.
The woman returned, of course.
She never told me she had read my letter, but I knew. I was young, but not an idiot.
When she asked me if I wanted to write another, but this time with some help, from either her, my parents or my psychiatrist, I knew what she had done.
She had opened the most important letter of my life, and read it. Broken her own promise and now she shoved it into my face.
If you wonder how much an eight year old can take before he breaks, now you know.
That ruined everything I was at that moment. I became silent and docile. I wrote another letter with the help of my psychiatrist. One where I betrayed and hated Uncle.
Even now I get sick to my stomach thinking about it. It wasn’t true. It was all a lie, but it was the only way to make everything stop. To make them stop.
Everything that Uncle had given me. That feeling of safety and trust. His patience and care that had cured me of my shyness, had made me into a stronger smarter kid.
All that had been torn away in the span of a few months, by you. By the society that is so convinced an older person cannot be engaged with a young boy.
Everyone was so convinced he had either threatened or manipulated me into sex, they destroyed my soul to prove it.
They themselves threatened and manipulated so they could hear me say what they wanted.
And your biggest accomplishment is to make me hate myself. That’s right. The media, the psychiatrists and D.A. made me ‘understand’ it was wrong for me to enjoy sex with an older man.
Every time I remembered my time with Uncle with fondness, I was wrecked with guilt.
A boy cannot enjoy that. That was wrong and sick. You shouldn’t enjoy that.
Uncle had been a sick man and had done sick things to me, so I couldn’t have liked or enjoyed it. Right?
Imagine yourself walking around with that in your mind.
Oh oh and the best part? They blamed it on Uncle. When they saw my shyness return. When they saw the eight year old me stop talking and hide himself in his room, that was all because of what Uncle had done to me. Not what you have done, not what you have talked into me, or make me believe. No it was all silly sick Uncle.
It took me ten years to heal. Ten long long years.
Two years after the arrest of Uncle my visits to the psychiatrist stopped. At that time I was kind of ok I suppose. I had slowly forgotten about Uncle. At least I had forgotten my conflicting emotions, for a short time.
When I was twelve and started to sexually develop, all the guilt came back. Whenever I pleased myself I could not stop thinking about Uncle. Sometimes I had good memories, and often I had fantasies that Uncle was a part of.
And after my orgasm I felt sickened and guilty. Society had taught me after all that that was sick. That I shouldn’t be sexually aroused by what had happened. Still it did.
When I found out I was gay it got even worse. I thought he had made me gay. That because my first sexual experience had been a gay one, that made me gay for my life.
And there was no one to talk to. Yeah I could go back to the psychiatrist, but he had done so much trouble to make me believe it had been a sick thing I couldn’t go back there and talk about it.
Remember your first crush. The moment she or he walked into your life. That moment where your feet are nailed to the ground and you suddenly understand what all those songs are about.
Why some people act a little crazy sometimes. The moment you understand the words ‘in love’.
When I first had that, I had that feeling for about 5 seconds, until an anvil was dropped onto my stomach. Uncle had made me love that blond guy, not the fact I was gay or anything.
No no, I was damaged, I was a sick being.
Oh and it’s all Uncles fault, remember that boy.
I craved back to Uncle. I so desperately wanted it to at least have a happy end. But it couldn’t have, he was a sick sick man after all. I could never enjoy my memories of him, for that meant I was sick as well.
For two years I did my absolute best to bring the same destruction to my body, as the after math of my relationship with Uncle had done to my soul.
I succeeded quite I must say. Abuse of drugs and shady sex with older men did quite the damage.
All because of Uncle of course, not the fact I was taught every day I was a sick boy for wanting Uncle back in my life.
Luckily I met a girl who was as damaged as me. Not because of a sexual experience, luckily, but still damaged. She showed me how to pull my own head out of my ass and move on with my life.
It worked for a bit.
I was capable of waking up in the morning without the option of suicide to be the first thought in my mind. I was able to masturbate without feeling too guilty about it.
However I still wasn’t able to accept myself nor be in a happy relationship.
It was in my 18th year that I finally healed.
And this is for why I loathe society these days. This is why I know this violent disgust of paedophiles can be so damaging to people like me.
I had a girlfriend for a while, trying to be straight, in a futile effort to be happy. It failed of course. And after that I fell into an empty hole. I thought I could only be happy if I was with Uncle, or perhaps another one who was as sick as me.
So I started a search for them. Either fellow ‘victims’ or paedophiles themselves. The victims did more harm to me than good. I talked to some, but most were thinking back to their experiences with a disgust that would make my psychiatrist proud.
I didn’t find paedophiles, society has done a good job driving them far underground.
I did find something else.
It turns out that in the aftermath of the sexual revolution last century a group of psychologists started investigating the impact of a paedophilic relationship onto boys.
In those days there were actually quite some groups of men, openly paedophiles, fighting for rights and freedom. The social discussion that followed gave the psychologist a financial and moral platform to perform their research.
You can find them online, but I will not quote or copy them for obvious reasons.
The thing is, the results were not what people wanted to see. What you wanted to hear. Cause lo and behold; it isn’t damaging for the child as long as the two involved are on mutual footing. As long as there isn’t an aspect of force or violence (so rape or actual child molestation doesn’t count) both parties equally benefit.
Early sexual experiences do not have a negative impact on the child as long as the child is given the freedom to enjoy it. Meaning, as long as there isn’t a small army of adults telling the child over and over again that it’s wrong, there is no harm done.
When I first read that I think I passed out. And after that I couldn’t believe it. I searched more, bought the books and publications of the research. Over and over the same conclusion was drawn.
As long as it’s accepted in the child’s immediate environment, and as long the child acts out of its own free will, the sexual relationship isn’t damaging one bit.
It was difficult getting these researches. Cause, well, you don’t want to read nor hear this. As far as society concerns, it’s wrong, heinous and if a child says he enjoyed it he is lying, or is broken.
Almost all these investigations have never really been published, other than in boy magazines and such. Cause people quite simply refused to accept this fact.
In many cases the fundings were cut short the moment they noticed the psychologist came to conclusions that it isn’t that wrong.
People wanted to have results that could make them hunt down paedophiles. Everything that worked in the favour or paedophiles was a lie.
There was one publication that had interviews with boys, around the age I had been with Uncle, telling about their relationship with their older boyfriend. These kids had not yet been exposed to the horrors that would follow once the world found out.
All had similar feelings that I had had to Uncle. All, without exceptions.
These kids were compared to another group. All boys of which their boyfriend had been arrested and had faced the same horrors I had. And again the similarities were striking. They had had the same life as me.
One of self-doubt and loathing. The disbelief that I had been so wrong as everyone kept saying.
What horrified me was that these studies were almost 20 years old. For 20 years people could have known. My psychiatrist, that woman, my parents. The entire fucking world, could have known why I enjoyed my time with Uncle.
There shouldn’t have been a reason for why everyone acted like they had. Damaging me almost beyond repair. They have been so blind.
Right now I feel like climbing on my roof and scream until my mouth bleeds.
Everyone who is shaking his head right now. You, you who after this still clings to the idea the paedophilia is wrong in every situation, yes you, I hate you.
I honestly hate you with every fibre in my body. It is you, the closed minded asses, that ruined my entire childhood.
Ten years of self-doubt and loathing, ten years of not being able to fall in love without agony, ten long years of pain, was the price I had to pay to enjoy a few months with an older man.
All because you cannot accept the fact that it is possible. That a child can in fact enjoy a (sexual) relationship with a man.
All of you scream for blood the moment a paedophile is caught, you scream for more protection of the children, you scream for harsher punishment, while none of you stop for one seconds and look at the child.
Oh you see the child, but you don’t actually see him.
Some of those kids are standing in a room screaming on the top of their longs and no one turns their head.
And that one man, that one person who does turn his head, who sees the kid, who would give his life for him, you label him as sick and put him away.
No I am not saying we should outright throw away the age of consent. I am fully aware children are really vulnerable. And there are many men out there with the wrong ideas.
But if a straight man rapes a woman, we don’t suddenly hate all straights. When a gay rapes another man, we don’t all call for the blood of all homosexuals (with the exception of a few), but when a child molester is caught we all scream for the castration of all paedophiles.
When it’s even hinted that a school teacher might look at children the wrong way all parents go absolutely mental. Even though he might never touch a kid in the wrong way, even though he might be the best teacher those kids will ever have. No, he is a paedophile; he should go far away from kids.
I’m actually not sure what I want to say. This is my way of standing on a roof and screaming until I bleed. I just so badly want the world to see what society has done to me. Has done to Uncle.
All because you are closed minded.
For fuck sakes, there are so many studies into this subject. Why can you accept that. Why?
If you had only for once moment, just one small moment, had accepted that it is possible, for a kid to be in a relationship with an older man, you would have saved me a world of pain.
I just cannot understand, for the world and everything that’s in it, I cannot understand, why you would rather have me back into that room, screaming, with no one looking, than accept that I was happy.
After everything you have done to me, I ask only one thing of you, only one.
Open your mind, just a tiny bit. I’m not asking you to accept all forms of paedophilia. I don’t ask of you to accept the wrong kind of porn.
All I want is for you to open your mind a tiny bit, just enough so those very few boys who are like me, will be saved a world of pain.
Dear anonymous reader, trust me, if even one boy in the entire world is spared, it will be worth it.
I know this site is perhaps not the best platform for this, but I didn’t know where else to put this.
Truth is, I’m absolutely frightened someone will trace this back to me, and the same society will turn their violence towards me for voicing my thoughts and experience.
I’ve seen the blindness and violence of society close hand, and it scares me.
For those who know my stories and think I’m just another paedophile trying to justify his own feelings, know this:
I use my stories to straighten and heal my own thoughts and soul. The story about the brothers is my way of explaining the bubble I was in with Uncle. That weird sub world where you can be really safe. Where nothing is wrong or shameful.
I’m currently using my uncle story (who is in no way or shape based on ‘my Uncle’) to relive my harsh road to sexual self-acceptance. What it took for me to finally be able to sexually enjoy myself.
I have not shared my full story of my Uncle yet, and I don’t think I ever will. It’s too close, and of course, I’ve already experienced one shitstorm, I don’t want to go through another.
And lastly, I promise you I will never engage myself with a child in any way.
The fact I enjoyed my time with Uncle is of course never proof that every boy would. I know this and will never gamble with the life as fragile as that of a young boy.
And mostly, I’m way too scared of you, my dear reader.
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