The right place, or wrong?

This post has, in the last eight hours or so, already had an on/off history. It began life as my framing in my mind a response to a comment left on my post of yesterday, which soon seemed to be developing sufficient substance to warrant a post of its own. I was at work this morning, though, so I didn't have the opportunity to write down my thoughts straight away, and, by the time I was making my way back from work a couple of hours ago, I was beginning to wonder whether to bother with it, whether it would be a waste of time and effort, more words spilled in a vain effort to engage with a world that has already, for the most part, made up its mind about me and those like me. What has finally convinced me to go ahead and write, though, was the fact that the comment, and the question it contained, was the closest since I created my 'An invitation to a discussion' page last summer to the kind of discussion I had in mind. So, in that spirit, here goes.
The comment I received referred to the encounter I had with the boy on the bus yesterday afternoon, and whether I thought what had happened was appropriate. To address that point, I'll describe what happened, and how it came about, in rather more detail. The day had consisted, as many of my days off do, of my roaming around London, mostly by bus, just watching the world go by, and giving me something to do that doesn't involve me sitting in the small room where I currently am. I knew that I needed to get back to 'domicile-ville' reasonably early, having to be up so early this morning, so I planned a route from where I was at around 2:30 yesterday to take me to the station I referred to in the previous post, or, rather, the pub outside, where I'd decided to have a couple of drinks before heading back. The easiest way of doing that was a shortish train journey, just four stops, then onto a bus route which I'd rarely used before, and never, as far as I could remember, used in that (southbound) direction, but which took me straight to where I wanted to go. By the time I boarded the bus, it was around 3:15, heading towards the end of the school day, when there is often a goodly amount of 'eye candy', in my terms, in evidence, but I had no idea whether this particular route was good or bad in that context. I'd already been on what was a busy bus, probably nearly three-quarters full, for around twenty minutes when it arrived at a stop where numerous homebound senior school pupils, male and female, were waiting. I saw the group of boys, six of them altogether, waiting, and given that no-one was sitting next to me at that point, I did have hopes that one of them might end up on the spare seat to my right - one, in particular, reminded me more than a little of R, the boy from my own schooldays who I fell in love with when I was 17, but, in the event, it was another of the group who sat next to me. Two of the others managed to acquire the double seat behind me, and my seat-mate spent most of the next twenty minutes turned to his right, and with his back to me, more or less, talking to his friends (And, as an aside, the sentence in the comment along the lines of 'he's just a child', while undoubtedly correct in a legalistic sense, brought a little wry smile to my lips, because some of the conversation the boys were having, which I couldn't help but overhear, given that I was sitting right in the middle of it, as it were, suggested that they weren't exactly wide-eyed innocents, not that I would behave any differently towards them as a result). And that was where the inadvertent body contact came in. I didn't initiate it, did nothing to accentuate it, and, as far as I can see, could have nothing to mitigate it, other than actually getting off of the bus several miles short of my destination, because I had the window seat, and had already shifted my ample frame as far to my left as the structure of the vehicle allowed. Having said that the situation wasn't of my choosing or contrivance, though, because it wasn't, that's not to say that I didn't enjoy it. I've made no secret of the fact that I'm sexually attracted to pubescent boys, so to have one so close, albeit accidentally, was something I found exciting. As far as 'action', or maybe better, reaction, goes, though, it was all in my head. I simply sat there and made the most of it.
Which leads me onto a more general point that sprung to mind this morning when I was considering my response to the comment. I've often quoted Nineteen Eighty-Four in various contexts, and another line from Orwell's book came to me earlier - 'Nothing was your own except the few cubic centimetres inside your skull'. Because if my private, passive enjoyment of what happened on that bus yesterday is seen as inappropriate, it seems to me that the spectre of 'thoughcrime' is in the air again. 'Paedophiles' are the softest of soft targets, a group vilified by virtually everyone, 'fair game' for every politician wanting to win a cheap vote or bar-room loudmouth wanting to prove his 'red-blooded' credentials, a group of whom no-one dares even to say anything less than the utterly condemnatory 'party line' for fear of being tarred with the same brush - I read a report some while ago (although I can't seem to find it at the moment, so perhaps it should be taken with a pinch of salt) that doctors and others proposing to attend a conference to discuss 'solutions' to paedophilia were targeted with hate mail, even death threats - so if anything resembling the Orwellian definition of 'thoughtcrime' is ever enacted, those attracted to the young are likely to be one of the first targets. And quite right, too, many would doubtless say. Except that once the precedent is set that the government, any government, can define what people can and cannot think, where does that process end? Freedoms, political, intellectual, even sexual - how many jurisdictions still outlaw homosexuality, and how many more would, given half a chance? - are hard to win, and easy to lose, and just as easy to lose by complacency as revolution.
None of what I've written here is intended as a 'justification' for who I am and what I want. I don't feel the need to justify myself in that way, because I didn't choose to be the way I am - as I've said before, I'm not especially proud of it, but nor am I especially ashamed. It just is. What does matter, though, is what I do, which is a choice under my conscious control. And, in that regard, for the overwhelming majority of my life, my conscience is clear.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B