My Dear Friends,
When witnessing the ebbing of life brings realisation of one's own
rapidly fading youth and inevitable mortality, one may be forgiven for
some philosophical musings. I hope you might forgive me, then.
Whilst driving back from hospital, I made a sudden decision [so
sudden, in fact, that if a constable had been at hand on the corner, I
should have received a traffic citation!] to forego my usual route
back from this melancholy routine and take a quieter route. It was a
peculiar decision, insomuch as the weather has been so typically and
dreadfully dreary as to preclude a sightseeing outing. Nevertheless I
turned to the right rather than left, away from the roar and clatter
of the glaring steel lined, soot smudged boulevard and down the
misting grey of tree-lined lanes.
On either side, through the monotonous click of the wipers, I peered
out at old homes of brick, slate and stone facade as they solemnly
passed by. They were modest homes, the type in which you might expect
your Aunt Edith residing ... stout, resolute against the chill of the
English drizzle, with a warm light peeking out from behind partially
drawn and slightly worn, yellowed curtains.
At once I found myself drawn to these unassuming, silent places as I
might be drawn to a steadfast and welcoming friend. They had a spirit
of comfortable congeniality, welcoming anyone who might come up for
tea or toddy or a chat. One particularly attractive place appeared
... that one with the yellowed draperies. I thought to myself, "Well,
if I could just be out of the flat. I should very much like that
place, the stoop of old stone comforted by draping ivy. I don't need
much ... this would be just perfect."
Oh! But to enjoy such refuge from the obscenity of the city! Such a
place, however diminutive, would cost a king's ransom here and I am
not within the means, I fear, even if it were up. So I started to
move off when, through those curtains, peeked the small face of a
young lad ... chestnut hair and brown eyes set off by a splash of
freckles about the nose. His expression absolutely melted my heart.
Certainly he had been in all day, and as if taking a last hopeful look
for a break in the weather, he parted the curtains. He gave the
drizzle a dejected scowl, then drew back from the window.
Poor boy. How desperately he must want out to play with his friends,
only to be imprisoned by the weather. And I thought so clearly as to
speak, "How I wish I ... yes ... I ... could be out playing and
frolicking with my dear school chums once more!"
I at that moment felt absolutely ancient, but seeing that dear,
wonderful boy's face nonetheless lifted my spirits.
For you see, I am a Boylover. I have always loved boys, I shall
always love boys. I love boys.
I have known many boys and they have almost without exception filled
my heart with joy. Why should not a man wish to be around the epitome
of enthusiastic, lively youth? Why, it is the most natural thing in
the entire world! To caress a lad, to hold him close, to feel his
breath on your cheek, to experience that thrill when he drapes his
arm around your neck in affection and whispers some frivolously
mischievous boyish thing by your ear ... such joy, such utter
fulfillment rushes over and you declare you would protect that boy
with your very life should anyone or anything ever threaten him harm.
Have I regrets? Certainly, for who that lives has not? As with many
of you, I have felt anger and outrage. I have felt rejection,
persecution and isolation. I have chafed under the seemingly
unrelenting virtrole spewing forth from a society that endorses
degraded love yet condemns the higher love. I have felt fear ...
actual terror at times that rendered me shaking and nauseous.
But nonetheless my heart is set aglow on a dark, overcast and drizzly
evening, upon seeing that boy frowning out from the curtained window
of his comfortable, congenial, ivy wreathed little home. And the
heart always speaks true.
So, given it all together, would I ever repudiate my love for boys?
No. Never. Never in my lifetime.
I wish you all peace, happiness and a comfortable, congenial, cozy
hearth of your own.
Victor
God Save Her Majesty the Queen.
God Preserve the Prince of Wales.
Rule Britannia!
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