There is a special place in hell for pedophiles. While I might rail against any form of sexual contact that involves non-consent [and I have posted about this before], pedophilia has always struck me as a particularly heinous and unforgivable crime.
What happened to me in my late teens did not feel like being made victim by a pedophile, and yet, technically it was. First off, I was under the age of consent. Did I ask for it? No. Wearing shorts, and the style was short, and exposing my luscious long legs did not occur to me as a sexual act. Indeed, that is the essence of innocence—as a younger me, at that age, I didn’t think at all about how I was dressing as a sexual thing. It wouldn’t have occurred to me.
I guess I had no business hitch-hiking either. The clothes I wore, the fact of standing by the road side with my thumb out, wearing a pair of jean shorts. To the predatory eyes of the man who stopped to give me a ride, I must have looked like a teen boy version of Daisy Duke.
I should have known that something was wrong by the way he drove, on and off the highway, but also about the direction he took the conversation. It started innocently enough. Did I have a girlfriend? Was she pretty? What was she like? And then it turned weird, but gradually, almost like I wouldn’t notice–and it veered behind weird and vanilla to keep my guard down.
What did he kink it up with? Did she ever tie you up? Did she ever spank you? Have you ever worn panties?
What was my mistake? I answered truthfully. Yes she had, yes she did, yes I have. He wanted to know more. He told me about how he had seen a man wearing a dog collar and that this man was being walked by a woman who held his leash, and what did I think of that? And would I ever let a woman do that to me? And would l like that? What did I think it would be like to wear a collar? Did I know that some men wear collars all the time? Did I know that women were really submissive? That only a man can be dominant?
The thing is, as I replay it over and over in my mind, as I have so often over the intervening years, I realise that he was simply looking for a “way in”. What was it that would turn me on. And then, once turned on, he could then proceed to the next step. His conversation was like a gentle, subtle probing—a way of finding out without being too overt. He ranged around and around until he found it, and then when he did, he started to play with it, to tease. He was “grooming” me. Collar and leash were already triggers for me, deeply exciting concepts. But in my teen mind it was always a girl that was holding it. And I remember thinking at the time, “how funny, maybe it takes a man…”
And when he knew that he had me, I remember looking out the window, and feeling so horribly turned on. And he said, “I guess you know why I’m doing this, don’t you?” And I just kept staring out the window, wondering if I was even still in my body. But I was so aroused. And when he told me to put my satchel in the back seat, I just did, and he told me to open my legs, so there was nothing between us, and he began to grope me. I can still feel how different his hand felt to a woman’s. It was heavy, muscular, insistent. There was nothing soft or gentle about it. And I let him fondle me, opening my legs for him and staring out the window, having an out-of-body experience.
When he pulled off the road into a secluded rest area, I would have likely soon been on my knees, but something about it scared me, and I ran. It was a secluded spot and it was the fear of violence, not the fear of being faced with his cock that made me run…and that in itself scared me, disgusted me, fascinated me. I was out hitching again and providence found me getting a ride immediately. I ended up in the car of a middle-aged family man with diapers on the back seat—and we sped away.
What I couldn’t shake was my feeling of how filthy I felt, but also why I had been so aroused, and what ifs. So many what ifs. And yes, although I was almost old enough to be allowed to say yes legally, there is a reason that there is an age of consent. I hadn’t reached it.
And I think still of the predatory way in which he “seduced” me, and how this has left a permanent mark on my psyche. I am still coming to terms with other parts of my childhood that constituted molestation, and am looking forward to trying to unpick them through hypnosis and therapy. But there was something about this man that was a universal in the predatory sex offender world that I came to recognise later in life.
Working on assignment in my late 20’s, I was on a project overseas with a small team of colleagues. One of my colleagues was an older man who was there for his topic expertise. I was an earnest and hard-working young analyst. I was also at my maximum pretty-boy phase. I wore my hair in a bob or kept it pinned, a bit like Brian Molko from Placebo. I painted my nails—a subtle shade of very light, almost transparent green. I put highlights in my hair. I wore lip gloss. In retrospect it amazes me that I got away with it in the corporate environment. I guess a boy dress liked that, a young man, was “asking for it”, right?
This older colleague invited himself to my hotel room to continue work. There was something about the way he said it, and the way he looked at me when he did, that made me say no. I picked up this strong vibe, but I could feel being triggered in the same way that I had been all those years before in that car. In this man’s case, my instincts proved correct. He was convicted and jailed 6 months later for being a pedophile—and jailed.
My presentiment of him was true, and I can still remember the way he looked at me, a kind of possessiveness in his gaze and in his skin. Gross. But what disturbs me even more was the occasional imagining of myself sitting on his lap like an obedient little boy as he fondled me.
My first experience in that car in my teens so utterly shaped my sexuality thenceforth, and it shouldn’t have. Because abuse is toxic and has the power to redirect the river. It has taken me decades to reclaim my sexuality for me, a process which I never should have had to do. How could my body have betrayed me in that way? How could my mind have just succumbed to the betrayal? How could a moment of non-consent so fundamentally reshaped my life path and sexual development?
Growing up, we all have fantasies, we get aroused by things. Up until that time in the car, I had never been aroused by a man. I was very girl oriented, in all the ways that I have described on this blog. I loved girls, feminine things, being feminine, and loved making out with the different girlfriends I had had. But I had also suffered emotional hurt in breakups [written about here] and was beginning to question whether it was possible to be submissive and to still attract a girl. This particular dilemma has stayed with me my whole life. If I were to put a finger on one thing that I seek with Mistress, it is this feeling that one can be held, loved, and respected even though one is deeply submissive. Being submissive does not mean giving up being challenging and interesting and fun to be with.
What I was already as a little boy, was a submissive boy. When those girls used to wrestle me to the floor in the taxi and take my socks off and tickle me, they were not creating my submissiveness, they were revelling in something that was already there [blogged about here]. What that man did by commanding me and groping me was to tap into this submissiveness, but to direct it to a place that was in his interest. Ever since that time I have had bouts of gay humiliation fantasies, a replay of a thousand times of guilt over become aroused by that situation. And finally, I have understood it and am leaving it behind.
I have nothing against any sexual persuasion, but I do have something against taking from others, particularly in the sexual domain. I begin to understand this, and I begin to understand that perhaps what I am playing out with Mistress is an elaborate dance that is at once creating new fantasy (around her and being physically with her in the moment), releasing shame around the fantasies of others, working out trauma, but also finding that I need not be ashamed of the parts of me that exist in me because of me and who I am and how I feel. I love being vulnerable, of being innocent, of being able to go to her with my heart open and to just let go…and as she says, I have only just begun to taste it. It is profoundly healing and strengthening.
And what I realise is that I have been gaslighting myself for all these years about this—refusing to acknowledge that what happened to me was abuse, and its time I did. It is funny how we can have something present for long and not ever see it for what it is.