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The Flaming Artist Speaks to the World

Sexual Mentoring
from True Adult Fantasy Number 2

Ed Asner was my first love. In fact, he helped me realize that I, a terminally horny 14-year-old in 1974, was sexually attracted to men. I would fantasize about Lou Grant fucking Mary Richards, soon discovering that, if I replaced her with myself, my daily masturbation sessions became much more efficacious.

My sexual awakening led to the terrifying realization that my tormenters in 7th Grade Gym class were correct. Their favorite “cut” was to call me “Mrs. Rader.“ It’s not that I was overtly effeminate. (I didn’t even hit puberty until the week before I started 8th Grade.) My sin was that I was tall for my age, cried easily and fought poorly, making me an easy mark for any of my peers inclined to be a bully (but only in groups of 3 or more).

From then on, my erotic ideals were men old enough to be my father. My family had a sauna in our back yard, and I greatly enjoyed taking saunas with Dad and his friends. I’d sit among them, hunched over or lying on my stomach to hide my youthful boner, tightly wrapped in a sodden towel.

If my deepest, most desperate wish had come true; that one of these men had become my lover, friend and mentor; I’d have been total jailbait. Any pederast lucky or unlucky enough to find me would have been risking his family, career, freedom, indeed, his very life to give me the sort of relationship I was starving in agony for. I’ve watched the recent Catholic priest sexual scandals with interest. If, as an adolescent, I’d had any idea this sort of thing were possible, I would have become an altar boy in a flash.

Why would that have been wrong? Why all the witch-hunt hysteria? Why the sexual iron curtain between sexual youth and adults? Why assume the adult to be the evil predator and the youth the innocent, tragically corrupted victim? (How Victorian.) As I stated in last issue’s essay, I did feel victimized, but by isolation and unfulfilled need, not even knowing that there were men about me who would have been my willing sexual teachers. I had to wait until 3 months after my 21st birthday to find the man who would become my first lover.

Why was this necessary? What would have been the harm to myself or society if I’d met my first man at age 14? Why was it preferable that I spend my youth thrashing about in blind agony, gleaning whatever stray tidbits of misinformation I could about what it meant to be Gay, to be sexual, to be male? My parents and two older brothers were little help. The Sex Education curriculum was worse. In 8th Grade Health class, we were subjected to a film detailing the relationship between a teenage boy and an adult man. The adult ended up in prison, the boy in reform school. I’ve fantasized since about going back in time with what I know now, to ask the question I didn’t dare ask then: Why were these two lovers punished? I’m asking that question now.

(Aside to Law Enforcement Officials: As you may have noticed looking at the subject matter of my artwork, I have no sexual interest in youth, underage or otherwise.)

© 2004 Flaming Artist

 
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