Yes, I can rightfully be called a hypocrite, but I’ll take it.
But, is there another level of hypocrisy in being a sex writer, but having limits? I guess maybe in looking from the outside in, but sex writers like any other writer are going to have their beliefs, limits, and disagreements.
I’m not writing this to point fingers at anybody, and it’s not specifically spurned on by anybody in particular as it is something I’ve considered adding as part of my About Me page on Pressing Flesh.
One of the reasons I am writing this, if not specifically the reason, is that I am having an internal conflict with a story I wrote. Now this is a story about a high school boy having sex for the first time with his teacher. I have written such a story before, but the distinction is the point of view; the person in which it is written.
The first story I wrote is from a first person perspective and is essentially a take off of my fantasies as a teenager about a teacher of mine. The problem with the other story is that I wrote it in third person, and though it is essentially a take-off of the same fantasy, it just, to me, changes it when the representation is of a teenager having sex with an adult rather than a reflection of a personal fantasy.
Yes, I can change the story and make the boy 18 in his senior year of school, but really, isn’t this just trying to dress something up and call it by a new name when we all know what it really is?
Some of you reading this may disagree, and may even be right; but this is my internal conflict, and one thing about an internal conflict is that it is an inner voice, a caution, that we are doing something that we perceive as questionable, and maybe just simply wrong, and that even if we justify it in our minds there is still going to be a conflict that we may even have turned into a regret, a deeply seated regret.
I’ve already written on deep seated memories and overcoming the stress brought on by those, but this is proactive when we take steps to prevent something, and maybe this may not be an issue for somebody else, but it is nagging at me, and I have learned to listen to that inner voice and when I need to heed it’s warning, and in this case I am heeding its warning and I am not going to be publishing the story.
Why do I feel this way?
That would be a legitimate question as I am a man pushing fifty and have no kids, so where do I get a conscience about teenage fantasies when, in the past, I’ve had them myself (and any man over the age of 18 who denies ever having had a teenage fantasy is not very honest or asexual).
Several years ago I met a teenage girl. She was and is beautiful, and she certainly caught the eye of every boy and man whose path she crossed, including mine. I spent a lot of time around her, due to situations as they were, and became close with her and her family.
As we became closer, a transformation was happening, and more than being a beautiful girl filled with that wonderful spirit of youth to me, I also saw someone whose light within her could be diminished by others who just thought of their own desires without considering that her innocence, that light within her, is more important than any desire they could possibly have. Yes, I became like a mentor to her, and she like a daughter to me.
More so than any other point in my life I looked upon not only a very special young girl to me, but youth in general as something not to darken but to allow to flourish unhindered. Whether a 14, 15, 16 year old has what anybody would look upon as an adult body, they are still a child who does not need someone else’s corrupting influence pushed on them.
Anymore the thought of a teenage fantasy is repulsive to me. That’s me, and my decision to scrap my story is simply me taking some responsibility, as I see it, in my writing. Some may see it as just stories, but culture, society, and religion are influenced by and even built upon stories, and as yesterday’s stories were, today’s stories are tomorrow’s allusions, witticisms, quotes, as well excuses and justifications.
The light of youth is precious…let no one darken it.