I’ve heard you are in a spot of bother, and I am sorry about that. Were the shoe on the foot of a Democrat, then I am sure there would cheering and the pederasty movement would have a well-deserved boost, and there would be public agitation to lower the age of consent.
Pederasty? Did I say that? I am very sorry to have brought this up. We usually don’t speak of such things, and when we do, we are too shy to condemn them. I know that you are gay, and had an incident of abuse or awakening, depending on your point of view, when you were a young teen.
That is the true story. Whoever introduced themselves to you then, in whatever circumstances, is a criminal. You are, and I hate to say it, a victim. You aren’t a boo-hoo kind of victim, but what happened to you should not happen to a child. Full stop. The statute of limitations is likely up, and that is a pity. I don’t know if would do you any good to have this person have a modicum of justice, but it might, especially if another small boy or young man would be prevented from having to endure a similar ordeal. Whatever ink is spilled over you, dear Milo, this to me is the true story, and it ever will be.
When I grew up there were five little boys that I knew—all from different family circumstances, all of them, bright and smart and fun. One of them was my first official crush, and I must have been all of five years old, and so was he. There was a snow pile in the schoolyard, and we were king and queen of the mountain. The others I knew, too, and I even “dated” two of them, even though date is a chaste word. Once it was ice-skating and once it was a movie. We were always friends, but dating wasn’t in the cards, for what is now obvious reasons. But then it wasn’t obvious.
I learned later that when these little boys were little, they were visited upon by a friend, an older male, someone perhaps who was attracted to their brightness and wit.
They were funny boys. They knew what the convention was, and they tried to form attachments to girls. But they weren’t able to overcome what had happened. They felt that their lot in life was settled, that the map to their destiny was drawn by someone else, without their having a say in the matter.
Four of those little boys are now dead. Three died very young, one older but still young. One a suicide, and the others in situations that were brought on or complicated by The Disease. None of them married. None of them had children. They left their mothers behind, questioning, grieving, inconsolable, loving. Think of it: five families were prevented from being formed.
When I see you, and you are a wonderful human, I see the father and husband you could have been. What child would not love to be hoisted on your shoulders, and what woman would not blush from your attention?
I understand that the abuse happened, and that there is a direct line from the abuse to your “chosen” lifestyle—did you choose it, or did you think there was no other way? Or did that man so long ago set the course for you?
I get it. I honestly do. I know that I or you or anyone can’t snap our fingers and take you back to that age of innocence for a do-over, a second chance.
The balance of your life is your own. The course can be changed.