2005-12-21 - 3:29 a.m.
Did you read this article in the New York Times about the underage kid who was making hundreds of thousands of dollars from being a webcam performer, but then turned states evidence and is now getting all his cyber-johns arrested for child molestation? I have to confess that I didn’t know what to make of the piece: For all its incredibly self righteous “protect the children” undercurrents, something didn’t ring true.
Now, don’t get me wrong: I am totally against child molestation and abuse. I mean, who is FOR such things? The idea that someone could be otherwise – well, it reminds me of the time I went to a show and some dopey actor came up to me and said that he was doing a walk-a-thon to protest rape. I asked him, somewhat coldly, “Well, who would go on a walk-a-thon in SUPPORT of rape?” The actor gave me an odd look and walked away.
People who abuse and exploit the young are the worst villains there are. And there is no doubt in my mind that the poor kid who was mentioned in the story was both molested and abused by legions of filthy old perverts all of whom should have been dragged to the pokey to be flogged and shanked by huge black inmates with names like Mohammad and Dr. Hate. In the old days, such vile villains would have been pelted with stones. They would have been hanged at Tyburn Gibbot or hung, drawn, and quartered, each of their limbs strapped to a different horse, which would then be sent in different directions.
Yet, I find it striking that the article heaped all its scorn on the pedophiles on line, offering virtually no criticism of the kid’s family. His mom, for instance, just sat idly by while the boy set up his enormous camera in his bedroom. And she ignored the mysterious wads of cash that he claimed to have gotten as tips from his job at Starbucks. And his father, well, his father turned into a co-producer of the kid’s show, even hiring prostitutes to fuck the child on cam.
The truth of the matter is, if you read the article, you could hardly blame the pedophiles, who were merely acting true to their form. At least they were willing to pay for exploiting the young man. And, yes, you could prosecute the hell out of them. But, you know what, other pedophiles would merely arise to take their place. You read the article: These pedophiles were lawyers, judges, teachers, priests – they were the pillars of their communities. There is no end to the men who wish to have sex with children. They are like drug abusers – you will never stop them. The best you can do is regulate them. They are consumers – and the thing to do is shepherd them so they only have sex with folks of legal age.
You see, there is an unsettling truth to be learned here. Men enjoy defiling. And there is an unspoken secret, deep within a man’s soul, that if something sweet and young and beautiful is on offer, men will want to grab it, molest it, possess it, corrupt it, and disfigure it. It’s a biological thing. Men are predatory. And the law is clearly and rightfully constructed to protect the objects of the defiling. But the tale brings to mind the stories of Traci Lords, the porn star who was underage while performing and had the fake ID to prove it. She knew what she was doing. She, like this kid, considered her youth to be a commodity.
We tend to think of all kids as being the same – innocent, sweet, and lovable. However, you wouldn’t expect all adults to be the same, and neither should we expect children to be so. There are many revolting young people in the world – and this kid, if you read the story, was just a grisly piece of work, whatever age you are talking of. Oh, he was raking it in, all right. And, yes, he didn’t know the effect of what he was doing on his psyche, and that’s terrible – but the fault must be laid on his hateful family, who didn’t give him the emotional support and the feeling of being loved – this is what inevitably caused him to search for it on line. They are the ones who should be prosecuted.
The weird aspect of the tale is this: If the kid had been 18 at the time he was a webcam performer, we’d be rolling over ourselves to express our congratulations at the boy’s being a shrewd, if psychologically unbalanced businessman. We are too fond of the double standard: Make money and you are a hero. The same destruction to the psyche is evident, whether the kid is 17 or 19, believe me.
And now there is something self serving about his making story public. For one thing, you don’t see him offering to give back the hundreds of thousands of dollars he made. And, for another, he’s now 19, and is about to be charged with corrupting the minors with whom he did various webcam shows. Of course, he’s going to turn state’s evidence: He’s doing it to stay out of jail himself! And the reporter, who details the boy’s excesses with the lascivious detail of a pornographer himself, is, in his fashion, exploiting the child far more thoroughly than any of the vile pedophiles on line ever did. You can just imagine the reporter whacking his own hose, writing the article, and spewing as he moans the word, “Puuulitzer!”
I must consider myself to be a sexual predator, I am afraid, though I rigorously and righteously stay well within the legal line of consensual relations. I check IDs at the door nowadays, I assure you!
Since I have returned from Venice, I must admit that I have been going through what I can only call a sexual frenzy. I don’t know what it is: It happens a few times a year that I just have been horny all the time, and the men have simply fallen into my lap. It’s a perfect storm of mutual lusts. This, notwithstanding the fact that I am fat as a hippo and approaching sixty years old. I swear, the uglier I look, the hotter the guys I get are. It’s mystifying to me, but the daddy -- uh, I mean the “older brother” -- thing is so clearly working in my favor these days. I don’t pretend to believe that most hot guys like older men, but it turns out that this is a huge city, and there are far more guys who are into the Daddy thing than even my extended libido is able to process.
On the night I got back, I had this incredibly cute surfer boy -- 24, blonde, but with his hair in heavy, thick dreadlocks, which he kept stowed under a Skaterboi’s knit cap. He wanted nothing so much as to suck me off, and this he did, on his knees, stroking his own pink cock, until I squirted on his face and chest.
Then there was the thirtysomething yuppie who slipped away from his wife or girlfriend for, oh, about half an hour. He was tall and lean, with a receding hairline, and the chiseled, toned physique of a track star. His chest was naturally hairy, but he had shaved it close, so that when you rubbed your hands against it, you felt the stubble. But his nipples stuck way up out of toned and chiseled pecs. He desperately wanted to be fucked, and with almost no ado, we shed our clothes and he crawled right on top of me, with our legs intertwining. He rode me, moaning and gasping, his legs splayed so I could run my hands against his thighs, stroking his own tiny penis until he squirted a huge load on my hairy chest. “Fuck, I never cum like that,” he gasped, his breath ragged. After finishing me off, he kindly grabbed a towel and wiped off my chest, a gentlemanly gesture that most of the pigs I have sex with don’t really get into.
A day or two later, I had a repeat visit from the Asian UCLA student, who was clearly crazy with worries about finals and needed to blow off some steam. He was someone who had clearly done some masturbating while thinking of me, and the way he ripped down my pants and briefs to get at my dick reminded me of someone being reunited with a long lost friend. He sucked and clawed at my dick and balls in a frenzy, before flipping over onto his hands and knees and twitching his rather fuzzy ass at me temptingly. “Fuck me! Ohhh! Fuck me!” he cooed. And so I did, slamming into him just as he wished. “Fuck mee harder! Fuck me deeper!” he squeaked, so I did that trick by which you fling one leg over the guy’s ass so you can penetrate further inside. “Uhhhh!” he howled, squirting cum all over my bedspread. I flipped him over and shot my load on his fuzzy belly.
The next day, there was a young aspiring rock star with shoulder length black hair -- about 25, and a sad, boyish face. He came over in his jeans and leather jacket. We’d been talking on line for a while -- months, actually -- and he just decided that tonight was the night, I suppose. He was quite cute, in a wiry, alternafag-like way that was reminiscent of what we’d expect boys from Seattle to look like, I suppose. We made out and undressed each other to our boxer briefs. But then he seemed to freak out just a little bit. “I got a scar,” he noted, showing me a large set of old stitching on his chest. It turned out that the poor kid had open heart surgery something like a year ago! He was also very, very shy, and required a lot of warming up before I got him out of his underwear. It was rather sweet! But we romped and we rolled around, and I kept drawing back when he started to seem to have trouble catching his breath, so he would not get too tired. He told me that he was mostly straight and that it had been about a year and a half since his last guy – and he just went berserk as I went down on him. “Aaaah!” he gasped as he came. Afterwards, he mused that he was surprised he could cum at all – the medicine he takes apparently makes it tough for him to do such things normally.
Next, there was this OTHER college kid – 22, about 5’7, with an intense stare and one of those round-the-chin Abe Lincoln beards that are fairly trendy these days. He was drunk, having been out all night hangin’ with his straight bro pals, probably at a frat party, and now he needed to get off. He was pretty much into being servicing, so I stripped him of his clothes and he lay on the bed, legs spread, smallish cock straight up and pink. His eyes literally rolled back in his head as I sucked him, and he hooked his legs over my shoulder so I could rim his rather hairy ass crack. I put some porn on to entertain him, and he really got into it, even asking me to perform on him the various acts that were being enacting on screen. So during the scene in which the hot porn star was on his hands and knees, getting pounded, I flipped the little brunette over, and slid my dick up and down his ass crack, as he gently moaned. When he came, the kid came quick and urgently, all over my chest. “Fuck! I didn’t realize it was this late! I gotta finish a paper!” he gasped, running for the door.
Finally, there was this all American fella, about six foot two, sandy blonde hair, with an heart breakingly photogenic smile and chiseled chin. He was muscular and smooth, about 24, and said he was a college baseball player and bartender. He was like a soap opera star, I swear to god! Everyone’s Midwestern American dream. And yet, he dropped his camouflage pants and leapt onto my dick, while I tongued his perfect, bubbly ass, which was totally smooth, except for just a tad of hair right in the crack. In spite of the fact that he was a total Brahmin class human, the boy was totally submissive. I would tell him to lick this, and he obediently would. I ordered him to suck that, and he’d grunt “fuck, yeah” and get right to it. The physical gulf between us was so striking, I could hardly believe he was into me, but he certainly was. With both of us covered with sweat, he climbed atop my cock, so it just slipped between his ass cheeks but didn’t penetrate him, and he masturbated, squirting his load with a happy moan. He licked my balls as I came as well.
And that is pretty much it, really. Quite a busy two days! Just joking -- It was more like a week. Not to mention the fact that I was working at Megalith for that same time. So as you can see, dear blog-a-licious blog, love is everywhere! Why, I have noticed that even Fat Boy, the monstrous homeless devil who spends his days at the Novel, has a beau! Fat Boy – or, “huomo gordo” as I have taken to calling him since I got back – has been seen in the company of this sweet, unusually good looking Italian boy, who’s in his early 20s and has beautiful eyes, jet black hair, and a dimpled grin.
The boy has been living with Fat Boy in his van, which strikes me as being rather too small for one man, let alone two. But there seems to be a genuine affection between each other, which mystifies me. The Italian boy is always hugging and caressing fat boy, who lets out low grunts of delight in response and dandles the child on his knee, like Santa Claus at the mall. And then they retire to the van, which starts rocking and creaking in the Novel Café parking lot. I find myself thinking that a man should aim a little hire than to start dating a pig who lives in his car, but then again, who am I to judge? It is proof that there is someone for everyone, I suppose. It is just funny, that’s all. There, I am done for now. Next time we meet, I shall continue regaling you with my Venice travel diary, which I suspect shall be more to the taste of some of you.
