Near perfection

I've had almost 24 hours to think about this now, during which time I've gone through a number of phases of 'shall I, shan't I?', mostly around the self-censorship I'm all too often guilty of. But, sometimes, reality has to win out, the truth has to be enunciated. Regular readers here might have noticed that I haven't written much about boys of late, in spite of my regular assertions that talking about being a boylover, and the implications of that fact, is the principal raison d'être for my having a blog at all. So, last night, around about this time. He appeared, with his parents, in my most regular haunt. The family, to judge by the conversation I could hear, were Eastern European, which flavour, exactly, I'm not linguistically gifted enough to say. But whatever his birth nationality, the boy was simply a delight. Happy, obviously intelligent, with the most infectious laugh I've come across in many a long day. And, of course, attractive to me in spades. So why do I say he was only 'near perfection'? Because, to be perfect in my eyes, a boy should be on the absolute cusp of puberty. And yesterday's boy was at least a year, maybe two, short of that point. In other words, he was prepubescent. And attraction to prepubescents, even using the 'proper' definition I wish the world would adopt, is paedophilia. I don't, even if I only looked and imagined, feel very good about myself at the moment.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B