But okay, under heading of "Shit I couldn't tell anyone".
I was in my 30's when it hit me how much I enjoyed observing boys. I already knew I wasn't interested in women of any age. But the amazing beauty of boys had not yet fully dawned.
It was the end of winter. Everybody had been wearing cold-weather clothes for months, so basically people's anatomies had been invisible, covered by long pants and long sleeves and bulky parkas. The first day of warm sunshine hit. Ka-Ching! I was sitting on the balcony of my apartment. A boy that was just a little kid last time I checked, he was walking across the parking lot. He wore shorts and a long-sleeve hoodie. His graceful legs went up into those shorts. And what else was inside those shorts where the legs converged? I longed to find out but knew I never would. Was it still the precious little immature apparatus of unchanged pre-pubertal masculinity? I hoped so. I didn't want him to grow up. I admired him for what he was at that very minute. Halfway between winter and spring, at the divide between child and teen, part of him in shorts and part of him in a hoodie, trembling at the verge of adolescence but absolutely perfect in his boyhood.
It was then that I knew. Those pale legs of Winter disappearing up into Spring's shorts did it. Later in the year I would worship him from my balcony while he and an amazing crop of others who had blossomed during the winter dove and swam and sunned at the pool.
All I have ever done is admire them, and I do that from a safe distance.
Anonymous
Calm down you're just telling an imaginary event. No harm done.
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