BoyChat

...that the preteen rectum is more easily penetrated than the preteen vagina. No personal experience here, but I have seen rather small children deposit some pretty impressive dumps into the toilet—some noticeably larger than my (I presume) fairly average erect penis. If these big dumps can come out without lube, then I guess something a little smaller, with the benefit of lube, could certainly go in a few inches without undo discomfort.

Would your average older preteen be interested in (receiving) gentle, shallow, anal intercourse? Probably not in our society, but that is a reflection more on our society's anti-sex stance that on anything inherently wrong with the act.

zlurker

Crysta

Jim

The fact of the matter is, we hold all the cards. We (speaking on the broad scale) have sex with their children. And when they arrest us and put us in jail, a zillion more of us are still having sex with their children. And when they get us in therapy and "cure" us and teach us how not to "offend," a zillion more of us still slip through the cracks and still have sex with their children.

And there's not a damn thing they can do about it.

For every pedophile they arrest and put in jail, ten more are fucking their children.

I love it when the bloggers say, "They want us to believe they're harmless, but look, so-and-so got arrested!" That just shows how clueless they are. We are not harmless. We never claim to be harmless. That's their own wishful thinking. The truth is, they will never be rid of us. Their children will never be "safe" (as they define "safe"). We are the most dangerous people in the world, and there isn't a damned thing they can do about it..

Yes, I have sex with jeebuz in some fantasies, his bloodied, ragged body laying limp on the cross, while in r/l I utilize the baby jeebus buttplug.

Ever have fantasies about ghosts? Possession? Being a cat or some sort of mutant half breed and purrin' your affections? Getting sodomized by tigger's tail? Or showing elmo just how much it can tickle?

Boys are as varied as adults. Some have big dicks, others small, some like to be bottoms, others tops, still others are quite versatile. But you imply there exists in your fantasies just a single boy: he has certain tastes about anal sex and a certain dick size-- and to justify your personal conclusion you need to assume all boys are identical to your one fantasy boy.

I'm not surprised by your position. I have often contended that most posters here are much more in love with a certain (media designed and propagated) 'fantasy' of boyhood than with any real boys with their real dicks and assholes (of various proportions and potential uses). And that boychat instead of creating a virtual counter-culture that brings these larger (and oppressive) societal values into question, simply reinforces them.

SnowFire

I awoke from a nightmare. Beads of sweat carressed my body like the hands that I had been dreaming of. Cold hands. Dead hands. Unloving hands. My father's hands.

I couldn't move. I dared not move...nor make a sound. I choked back a moan that welled in my throat. Would it ever stop?

We danced...in the night upon the bed, in the darkness (the darkness of souls torn asunder). We danced with a rhythm of damnation. Danced like kindred spirits in a dance of the damned. Neither wanting to dance nor wanting to stop.

But we did stop and he lay there, breathing deeply of his sin. He inhaled the bitter fragrance of his damnation and wallowed in his sweet oblivion.

I dared not cry. Tears would spoil the moment for him. Tears would bring down the illusion that I was enjoying myself. Tears would only show the pain that he was bringing me. No, I dared not cry...tears were forbidden. So I lay there, my body and my soul laid bare before him.

Then I felt his hands upon me...touching, carressing, probing, prodding. Cold hands. Dead hands. Hands that touched my body but not my spirit, not my spirit. Not my spirit because there was no more spirit to touch. It danced away from me like a ghostly dream. Something that I once had but no longer could envision.

What love I had left died that night, upon that bed, in the darkness, the darkness of a soul that could no longer feel. My love died...a cold lonely death, unmourned, unnoticed in its passing. For the briefest of moments, it was there...tugging briefly at my heartstrings. Then it was gone. There was nothing. No remorse, no pity, no hatred, no desire, no love...no nothing. I could feel nothing. I WAS nothing.

Another dance? he asked, although he and I both already knew the answer. It was always the same. He asked, but never waited for an answer.

I lay upon my stomach and buried my head in the pillow. Dance with me, his voice whispered in my mind. DANCE WITH ME. I danced. I always danced. There was nothing left to do but to dance. It had become my whole world. When it wasn't happening, I was worrying about when it would happen again. I always danced. I had no choice.

There were screams. There was pain. There was the dance...there was always the dance."

Hi Snowfire et al,

Snowfire wrote: All I ask is that you try to understand me, perhaps a little support and love, but I didn't come here looking for help or pity. I came here because BC looked like a place with caring, loving people and I believe I need that. Is that too much to ask?

Well, it may be. :) But I did in fact find myself pondering your relation of abuse in my meditation, and the more I looked into it, the more I learned. I learned about myself and some paths became clearer again, which is always a good thing. First, I want to thank you for having the courage to share something so personal. A lot of the folks here get wrapped up in their hypersensitivity, but they do listen, and I think they try to see through their tears.

I'd like to try to share with you some of the thoughts and revelations I had. These aren't really organized and I'm not trying to make a particular point. But since your post was of value to me I thought I would at least give you something in return, however humble.

Each of these is in a little box called a thought-box...

Trying to see Snowfire's dad... a man who probably did love his son, and probably not a bad person. So why the infamy? When a person is starved, as boylovers in this world are so often, they become full of despair. They lose faith in the world and feel that it has betrayed them. So they betray the world, and theirselves. Their sense of right and wrong has been crushed, because they can see no fairness in how they have been treated. So why treat anyone else fairly? This is despair.

You were a son, but also a boy. You were a sexual object. When your father's eyes glazed over and his primal hungers took him, he did not see you just as his son - he saw you as an object of desire, an object of lust. He consumed because he was hungry. In itself lust is not wrong, but it can be damaging when sexuality becomes violent. But the fact that you were an object of lust is not a cause for shame.

It is right that you eat a cow or a piece of fruit - that you consume life? Is it right when a wolf eats a rabbit? Is life treating the rabbit fairly? Life consumes life. We all consume and are consumed.

Your father took from you, he fed off your beauty and your youth. Had you given this freely, as it is your nature, it would have been joyful for you. But his hunger was such that you never had that chance, and it has left a scar, a feeling of bitter loss - the source of your anger.

Yes you are a victim. So is your father. You are victims of a world which denies the beauty of your nature, which drives you to desperation and despair. In your father's case that meant taking favors from you with guile. He was treated the same in his life, robbed of his self-love. Where does it end? Your pain is a price. You paid that price to gain something. If you don't steal as your father stole, if you are the martyr who has been injured but does not injure, then the cycle of abuse ends with you, and the cycle of karma is cleansed.

But there is more to it...

Snowfire is a "victim" as long as he sees his role that way. He was part of a relationship, an abusive unpleasant one. But even the victim designs his role. Take responsibility for your life.

You stayed in that relationship because you got something out of it. Maybe you needed to be touched. You would have liked it to be less forceful, but you needed it nonetheless. There was love and sympathetic fuel there.