Butterfly Kisses: Researching Female Pedophilia

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Re: Butterfly Kisses: Researching Female Pedophilia

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“The World is Bursting With Adults, so I'm Always Glad to See a Little Girl”: A Young Woman's Account of her Paedo-Erotic Interests
by Theo G.M. Sandfort


Sexual diversity among females seems to be less widespread than among males. The discussion in the literature of female sexual “deviancy” is mostly confined to prostitution and homosexuality.1 Men, on the other hand, are noted in almost every conceivable predilection.2 This applies to paedophilia and ephebophilia; paedophilia being the condition in which sexuo-erotic arousal and the facilitation or attainment of orgasm are dependent upon having a juvenile partner of prepubertal or peripubertal developmental status, and ephebophilia the same condition in which the partner is postpubertal and adolescent. However, for the purposes of this essay the term “paedophilia” will indicate a sexuo-erotic attraction to children younger than the Dutch age of consent of sixteen.

Most of the people who identify themselves as “paedophiles” are male. As far as their organized subculture shows, these desires are mainly directed by men towards boys.3 The fact that in the United States there is no heterosexual equivalent to NAMBLA (North American Man/Boy Love Association) might indicate the relative absence of girl—lovers, although another possible explanation is that, compared to male boylovers, girl-lovers experience less pressure to identify themselves as paedophiles. Sexual attraction towards girls seems to be a well—recognized phenomenon among male adults, even if acting out the attraction seems to be less accepted. Homosexual paedophiles, both male and female, discover that they neither belong to the category of “normal” heterosexuals, nor to the category of peer oriented homosexuals.

Whatever the reason for the supposed scarcity of male girl-lovers, female paedophiles, whether heterosexual or homosexual, seem to be totally missing in the psychological literature.4 The fact that they are rarely (or never) discussed does not, of course, imply that they do not exist.

That there might be some women who are sexually attracted to children and young adolescents is suggested by the fact that sexual involvement between female adults and children is a recurrent theme in pornography. In 1973, the Dutch pornographic magazine Chick published an illustrated interview with a woman in her early twenties who was involved in a sexual relationship with a twelve-year-old boy living in her neighborhood. Although the story may be true, one may assume that this and similar stories are included in pornographic magazines to please and excite the male readership. This is at least suggested by the interviewer's statement at the end of the interview: “I think that a lot of men would like to see themselves in the boy's place.”5 Certainly, from a male perspective, it is not difficult to consider what psychodynamic motives a man might have for sympathizing with the image of an older woman seducing a young boy, and that only underlines the plausibility of the interviewer's remark.

According to Bradley there is a feminine equivalent of “Greek love” in modern fiction, a term generally referring to pedagogical eros.6

The typical theme in these novels, some of them written for adolescents themselves, is that of the strong emotional attraction between a mature woman and her female student.7 These novels do not ordinarily deal with overt sex. “There are exceptions, but in general the pattern of Greek love between woman and girl is one of emotion rather than sensuality, involving heroine-worship, admiration, emulation. Frequently there is a strong maternal element in these attachments.”8 Bradley claims that these novels can be taken as a valid picture of Greek love relationships between women and girls. However, one must be careful about positing direct links between fiction and reality. There is the further problem with respect to definition. Bradley conceives woman-girl love in a broad sense, including pedagogical aspects. She presupposes the presence of a sexual aspect by stating that in the novels it is often deeply sublimated. The question is, however, whether this sexual aspect really is present, and further, whether or not it is the sexuo—erotic aspect itself which distinguishes paedophilia and ephebophilia from other forms of love of children.

Criminological literature, on the other hand, suggests the existence of female paedophiles. Groth reports that 50% of the incarcerated sex offenders whom he studied had been “sexually traumatized” during their formative years.9 In 27% of these 500 cases an adult female had been involved. The exact nature of these adult-child encounters is not specified. Finkelhor and Russell warn against misinterpretations of reported cases of “sexual abuse” in which females are involved, because the criteria for including women are often too broad.10 In some studies women were included even when they had not themselves engaged in sexual contacts with the child but were only aware of the “abuse” and had failed to stop it. In situations in which a male “perpetrator” had been involved, the female partner frequently participated under duress.

Finkelhor and Russell give national estimates for the United States indicating that in 14% of the cases involving boys, the adult is female. For women involved with girls the figure is 6%. However, because there are more girl victims than boy victims, this implies that women are more frequently sexually involved with girls than with boys. According to Finkelhor and Russell, retrospective studies based on self—reported incidents among more general populations also show that sexual contact between children and older women forms a distinct minority of child-adult contacts.11 Exceptions are studies based on special populations, such as the study mentioned above among incarcerated sex offenders, and Bell, Weinberg and Hammersmith's study of a homosexual sample.12 In the latter, 22% of the female homosexuals who had had a childhood sexual experience with a person over 16, reported this to have been with a woman.

Criminological studies, as well as studies based on reported cases and self-reported incidents, do not specify the kind of involvement women had on their sexual contacts with children. It is unclear to what extent these cases may be classified as paedophile, the criterion being the presence of feelings of sexual attraction towards children and young adolescents.13

By these introductory remarks I have attempted to show that little is known about female paedophilia. Given the scarcity of information, I welcomed the opportunity to get in touch with a young woman who had published a diary about her paedo—erotic desires.14 While studying children involved in paedophile relationships, I became interested in the part the adult played in these affairs.15 I wanted to present at least one case study of female paedophilia, in order to complement a study at the University of Utrecht of male paedophiles.16 In doing so I hoped to broaden the knowledge of female sexual diversity. In this study my main interest was not the origin of female paedophile desires or the psychodynamic motives behind these desires. Rather, I wanted to find out how these desires are experienced and acted upon.

I met Cindy, as she will be called here, through a mutual acquaintance. At that time (1987) she was twenty and had been involved in a relationship with a man her own age, Albert, for about four months. Even though she said she did not expect the relationship to last for a long time, it was playing an important, positive role in her life.

One of the reasons Cindy valued her friend so positively was that he gave her what she called “a crash course in social skills.” Up to the time of meeting him she had kept very much to herself and could be suddenly aggressive or sarcastic. He made her think about these things. Although Cindy was afraid of losing the possibility of living her own life, she said that Albert was important to her because he was the first person with whom she really could be herself “...even when you compare it with being with little girls.”
That sounds strange. But he invests a lot in the relationship. He doesn't want to lose me. With girls it's the other way around. I'm afraid to lose them so then I'm more indulgent. It pleases me to know I can have a relationship with a man my own age. I think he is a rather unique person. When I compare him with other men I had affairs with, he is totally different. Most of the time other men only take, but Albert also gives a lot. We're also interested in one another intellectually. When people are of like minds, it helps the physical part, I think. When this relationship is over, though, I don't think I'll start something new with another man.

Method

To structure the interview and to tap deeper layers of meaning, an adapted version of the so called Self-Confrontation Method was used.17 The objective of this method is to inventory various kinds of feeling that are important to an individual at a certain moment in her or his life. To assess the affective meaning of each of these affects, a person is asked to relate each aspect to a standard list of “affect terms,” which include such feelings as powerlessness, love, anxiety, joy, etc. (see Table I at end). Further insights into a person's experiences are gained by relating the resulting scores for feelings to each other and by then asking the person to explain these relationships.


The following is a description of Cindy's current experience world, especially as it relates to paedophilia. Statements from different parts of the interviews have been put together when they were clearly related to the same theme. Verbatim citations are included because, by their idiosyncratic formulation, they are more informative of her situation than a summary would be.

Content of Paedophile Desires

For Cindy, paedophilia meant a special feeling of attraction for certain little girls. This feeling of attraction included a physical aspect:
There is a difference between finding a girl very beautiful and having sexual feelings for her. It is not just sexual for me. I would like to do everything with girls. But that's impossible because they live quite a different life from mine. I think it would be ideal when, on some very ordinary day, a sweet little girl would stand on your door step without a roof over her head and with no parents. She would just move in with you, never get older and share in all the things you normally do everyday. That would be really wonderful. I want as much of that as possible, and the small things too: hobbies, hugging. Of course she would get her own room. Mostly you can only see little girls for a limited time, and, just because you don't see each other that often, the physical aspect is emphasized more than other activities, like taking long walks together.
She described the girls she felt attracted to in the following way:
They are about 9 or 10 years old and have long blond hair and blue eyes. Their character is something you only get to know afterwards. They have a certain kind of aura. I can't describe it. Maybe they have a kind of physical awareness, a precocity perhaps.
When asked what it was she wanted with children, whether sexual excitement or something more than the mere pleasure of physical intimacy, she replied:
Both. If the relationship is reciprocal, I want both of those things. If the girl herself wants them. People ask me sometimes where I draw the line between physical and sexual. I think that, especially for girls, this line is difficult to draw. These things knit so close together that, without knowing, you get from one thing into the other.
It is different with boy—lovers and little boys. I had some contact with little boys. Almost from the beginning these contacts are sexual. But having a little romp can also be exciting. I think that girls are better able to understand other feelings. Compared with boys, it isn't so easy with girls to draw a clear sexual line. I feel different myself when I'm with girls instead of boys. I think that is being caused by the boys. My physical feelings for girls are much more diffuse. They are not directed at one or two parts of the body. I want to hug the whole body. Boys are much less sensitive at a lot of other places.
Asked to compare herself with male paedophiles, Cindy remarked:
It is my experience that male paedophiles are more sexually directed. Sex seemed to have first priority. Other things were secondary. That is really the only difference I see. For the rest it's much like what I have experienced. But maybe I'm wrong.
She was asked whether it was easier for her, being a female paedophile.
In the beginning I thought it would be more accepted, because I was a female. But that isn't true. The men say it is easier for me, but I don't experience it as such. Maybe other women do. There will always be unpleasant parents who want to know what you are doing and where you're going. There will always be suspicion. You notice it when you visit people. My girlfriends' mothers want to know who you are and why their daughters want to spend time with you. And they'll interrogate you. That happens when the girls start to talk about you at home. And they invariably will ask you if you have a boyfriend and so on.

Maybe getting in touch with children is easier for a woman because you are allowed more range with strange kids. But when the relationship starts to develop there will be problems. There won't be any problems as long as you keep things superficial. But that's not what you want. It has to do with falling in love, you know.
About the origin of her paedophile feelings, Cindy remarked:
I used to think about that sometimes. How did it all come about? How did I happen to grow up this way? I can think of some causes. A sickly birth, the kind of education I had, my twin brother who dominated the whole atmosphere at home, my father who was drunk a lot, and so on. Maybe my home situation really screwed me up. It made me socially incompetent and hypersensitive, I think. Anyway I'm less spontaneous when I'm with peers or older people than I probably would be otherwise.

I don't think about this any more. It isn't important any longer to find a cause. I mean, I don't want to get rid of those feelings any longer. Maybe that's the difference. Now I think these paedophile feelings are wonderful. At least when people don't make such a fuss about them. I no longer need to know where they come from.

Affective Meaning of Children

What do children mean to Cindy? She clearly experienced positive feelings more intensely for children than for adults, especially: joy, love, and warmth. (Italicized terms in the text will appear in Table I at the end.) With respect to girls to whom she feels erotically attracted, these positive feelings were still more intense.

One would expect, therefore, that adults would elicit stronger negative feelings than children. However, it was not that simple. Some negative feelings were equally experienced towards children and adults (powerlessness, unhappiness). Some negative feelings occurred more frequently with respect to children in general or, specifically, towards little girls to whom she felt attracted (worry, anxiety). Feelings such as loneliness, inferiority, and anger were more strongly experienced towards adults.

In order to gain a better understanding of the meaning children had for Cindy, the differences in the intensity of the feelings elicited by the different affect value areas were discussed with her. In particular, Cindy was asked to elucidate why children elicited different feelings than adults did.
I don't know very many adults well. Some parents of kids, some teachers, that's almost all. People I meet in the supermarket don't mean a lot to me.

I think it is true that I feel more positive about children. Children are much more lively, compared with adults. They look happy, do the things they want to do. Children are more beautiful too. Adults are dull most of the time. Children accept me as I am more than most adults do. Adults make you do things, always have an opinion about you. When I am much older maybe I'll have to deal with adults differently. Except for dealing with the authorities, I haven't had much to do with adults till now.
Compared with adults, children gave Cindy a stronger sense of love and joy:
In general, children radiate life much more than adults. It is much more fin to see kids pass by than adults. Most of the time children are more beautiful. Children just have it. I think that's very important. Something you think is beautiful you value much more. When you see a fat man you think: “Well mister, some jogging won't do you any harm.” Maybe it is also because there are more adults than children. The world is bursting with adults. So I am always glad to see a little girl.
Children also gave her stronger feelings of enjoyment and solidarity:
That is probably because of the things I do with them. What do you do with adults? Some talking, hanging around in bars, lingering in front of the television. I'm a lot more creative with children. I'm doing different things with them. That creates a feeling of solidarity, and enjoyment too.
Compared to adults, children gave Cindy a stronger sense of freedom and self-esteem:
Children aren't inhibited. They don't have fixed manners like adults. That makes me feel free. Adults are always courteous, listen obediently to one mother. When I'm with children I don't have to prove myself so much. Adults always think they know best. In my experience, when I am with children, I can just be who I am. That is not to say that I'm worth more than the child. There is a basis of equality. There is always inequality with adults. You're always less.
How did she compare herself to people her own age, in her class at school?
Adults are all different. That makes me feel insecure. The school classes change a lot. Each term you meet new faces. There is also a rather competitive atmosphere. But maybe that's because I hardly know them.
What did adults have, and children lack, that made her feel lonely?
When I'm with children I don't have the problem that they don't understand me.

Important ideas, my ideals for example, I don't discuss easily with children. There are other people to discuss these with. But my experience with adults is that they understand very little of what I want to say or what I'm doing. I think they live in separate worlds. I especially feel that with my parents. There are exceptions of course, but now we're talking in general. But I do care about adults. You live with them, they live with you. Especially people like my parents, who are hard to ignore.
However, compared with children, adults gave her less intense feelings of trust and inner warmth:
The adults with whom I have associated often didn't give me the sense that I could trust them. I didn't have positive experiences with them. Up until now I've only been at odds with them. That doesn't give you a warm feeling. With children I clearly have good experiences. So that feels different. Maybe when you ask me these questions a few years from now things might have changed. They won't be big changes, but maybe adults will score more positively by that time. I hope so.
A negative feeling which she experienced more strongly with children than with adults is anxiety:
That's because there is more commitment. You are also more at risk. The risk of losing someone, of making a mistake, or of the outside world intervening, these kind of things. You don't have these with adults. Besides, children with whom you can build a relationship are few and far between. That special girl is even rarer. That creates anxiety. I'm lucky that I'm into girls rather than boys. That way I'm not bothered by other paedophiles. I don't have to be afraid that they will try to steal my girlfriend.
Differences between children in general, and especially those to whom Cindy feels erotically attracted, are not so clearly defined. These differences have mostly to do with the pleasure and the danger of a special bond with someone. When she was in a group of people, for example, she felt more stress when there was a special girl to whom she was attracted:
You don't know if you can get in touch or if it will click. With such a girl, there is more anxiety. Because you know it is not allowed. The outside world keeps an eye on you. I don't associate so easily with my neighbors. Sometimes there is also doubt:

Am I allowed to do this? Sometimes I feel rather ambivalent about it.

Of course, there is always the chance that you can get a special bond with such a girl. That is why they make me feel happier. I don't have that much to do with children in general. So lam looking for happiness with these special girls. Because you have these loving feelings, these girls also give you more energy. You also have to invest more in them than in girls who don't move you so much. Besides, some children whine a lot. I don't see them all as so fantastic.
She was asked what would happen when she felt erotically attracted to a whiny child:
That would be a negative point for them. Once I had a girl as savage as a wild cat. Well, there can be advantages and disadvantages to that.

Discovering Paedophile Desire

Cindy discovered her paedophile feelings when she was 13 or 14 years old:
By that time I already had boyfriends. Even a steady one, actually. It was very exceptional to be in love at that age. I was the only one. They treated me differently; some boys called me names.
I discovered that boys didn't move me a lot. Girls meant a lot more to me emotionally. At that time they were still the same age as me. Other girls didn't feel the same as me, I found out.

Until I was 15 I had been thinking that I was a lesbian. They called me that, although in the beginning I didn't know what it meant. I got in touch with some lesbians to sort things out. They introduced me to some lesbian peers. That was utterly wrong. It didn't click. They were rather militant dykes.

I had read a lot of books about homosexuality by that time. I found out that I was attracted to a special kind of girl: fragile, and small for her age. After several crushes I noticed that the girls I preferred to play with were younger. They called me a granny then. I met those girls in the Scouts.

About the same time I met Peter. He was a radio ham like me, and also a paedophile—right in the middle of it! There was a lot of strange talk on the radio about child molesters, about things they were doing to children. I was fifteen then, and had a girlfriend of twelve. I saw a lot of Peter, saw him almost every day. At first radio hacking was my excuse. I had to meet him on the sly because of my parents. But I didn't know what I was looking for with Peter. Maybe it was unconscious.
Peter was mentioned by Cindy as an important aspect of her life. She described him as a very good friend “who stimulated me emotionally.”
I came across the word “paedophilia” for the first time in a magazine. I thought it related to men who go for boys—that is the stereotype—and also men, maybe not so many, who are attracted to girls. At that time I knew about as much about paedophilia as my parents did. Peter gave me some articles to read. I recognized a lot in them that related to me, though none of them were about women. I couldn't imagine that paedophilia was applicable to women. So I didn't know whether what I was reading was applicable to me. It took a long time before I dared to pose this question. But I had the very same feelings I saw described for the girls I played with. In a way I felt comfortable with this label. I didn't know all the terrible things associated with paedophilia.

The moment at which I clearly recognized that what I felt were paedophile feelings was during a scouting weekend. My little twelve year old girlfriend was cuddling with me in my sleeping bag. When I awoke I felt very happy. It made me think of my other crushes. It became clear to me that this must be paedophilia.
She was then asked what paedophilia, at that time, meant to her.
Actually nothing. I had been having these feelings for sometime. But I was glad that I didn't have to think about being lesbian, and what went with that. I knew boys didn't mean a thing to me the way they did to other girls my age. I didn't really belong to the lesbian world. When I discovered that what I felt was paedophilia, it made me feel good. You want to be part of something at that age. In the beginning there were no negative feelings; they came later, because of the outside world.

First Experiences, First Conflicts

Because of her friendships with very young girls, Cindy was expelled from the Scouts. Her parents reacted with great hostility. They told her, among other things, that she was no longer their daughter. She ran away from home but returned after a while and had to conduct her friendships with little girls secretively. She could not keep this up, ran away again, and started to live on her own in another city. She was, by then, eighteen.

Her first new contacts with young girls were at a hobby club, and made her rather nervous. She hardly dared to look at them. Cindy said that the rejection she had endured from her parents and the Scouts made her refrain from starting new relationships. She also felt that these rejections made her come out as one of the few self-acknowledged female paedophiles. In response to the question why there were so few known female paedophiles, she answered:
I've been thinking about that for some time. I think they are there, paedophile women. But I don't know why they don't come out in the open. Maybe they can cover it up, creep into a profession where a lot is possible.

I think that I came out so openly because right from the beginning the issue gave me a lot of problems with people around me. If my parents and the Scouts hadn't reacted so vehemently then I wouldn't have experienced myself so consciously as a paedophile. Before all those people started to ask questions, I didn't see those experiences as strange. Other people felt differently, but I was okay, my way.

If you're in a nice atmosphere in which people think of you, “ah, motherly feelings,” then you don't have to come out so openly. But I'm sure they are there, paedophile women.

Affective Meaning of Paedophile Feelings

Paedophile desires were for Cindy a part of her character:
A lot of my daily experience is influenced by my paedophile feelings. At the same time there are a lot of other things which have nothing to do with it. First of all I'm just Cindy and then second, or third, or even fourth, I also have paedophile desires. I don't put them in first place.
Paedophile feelings gave Cindy almost as many positive as negative feelings. The most intensely experienced positive feelings were joy, love, warmth, and enjoyment. The most frequent negative feelings were: powerlessness, stress, and loneliness. Cindy attributed the differing occurrence of these feelings to the way the outside world viewed her feelings:
The situation makes me feel tense. I'm not so negative about the paedophile feelings themselves. I don't want to get rid of them. The outside world makes a mess of it. They tell me that my feelings are no good. And sometimes I'm stupid enough to believe it too! The moment I don't accept my feelings is when I have a lot to do with the outside world, which doesn't accept them. Then I even start to wonder whether maybe children really are harmed and all that bullshit. Usually I know that my relationships won't be harmful, because I know howl interact with children. But it is the outside world which makes you doubt. It gives you all those negative feelings.
During the interview, when Cindy reflected on her position in society, she stressed that she did not understand society's rejection of paedophilia. This societal attitude caused her problems by making her feel rejected. Her opinion of society predominantly stemmed from the negative reactions she had experienced regarding her first paedophile friendships.
This is important to me, because I don't get why people are so rejecting. I just don't see the problem. But that may be because it is me who has these feelings. Nothing is the matter until people get to know that you have paedophile desires. That is difficult to accept. Things become totally different for them. In their eyes you suddenly become a totally different person.

Maybe I could accept the rejection if I could understand why people react this way. If. for instance, the girls I have been in touch with suddenly turned neurotic and ended up in an asylum, then you could say the people are right. I still could have these proclivities and act upon them or not, but at least their reactions would be understandable.
She found it hard to accept that the outside world could determine the things she might or might not do.
I've seen that they are able to ruin your life in such a way that you hesitate to start new relationships.
These negative reactions formed something Cindy could oppose, which could explain why the societal rejection also gave her such positive feelings as self-esteem and energy.


Future

With respect to the future, Cindy hoped that she would once again come across a little girl with whom she could start a relationship:
If she is 7 when we start a relationship, then it will last for some years. I'm really longing for that. i've been talking with my friend, Albert, about what will happen when a little girlfriend joins in. He said that he will accept it as long as it doesn't jeopardize our relationship. But where to draw the line? When it happens I think I'll choose in favor of the girl. I think he is aware of that. But I'm not going to keep him dangling. That's not my style. Children would be able to do so. And I think I'll really put up with that, when a girl does it. I'm sure there will be a girlfriend once again.

Theo Sandfort is vice-president of the Gay and Lesbian Studies Department at the University of Utrecht, where he directs the Social Scientific AIDS Research Program. He has made several studies in the field of child sexuality, paedophilia, and sexual abuse. Among his publications is Boys on their Contacts with Men, an account of a study of 25 boys in on-going sexual relationships with men. His doctoral thesis was a study of young adults in which he assessed the effect of early sexual experiences on later sexual functioning.


Notes
1. See: J. James, N.J. Davis, P. Vitaliano, “Female Sexual Deviance: a Theoretical and Empirical Analysis,” Deviant Behavior, 3:2, 1982, pp. 175-195; and K. Rosenblum, “Female Deviancy and the Female Sex Role: a Preliminary Investigation,” British Journal of Sociology, nr. 25,1975, PP. 169-185.
2. John Money, Lovemaps (New York: Irvington, 1986).
3. G.D. Wilson and D.N. Cox, The Child-Lovers. A Study of Paedophiles in Society (London: Peter Owen, 1983).
4. K. Freund, “Pedophilia and Heterosexuality versus Homosexuality” (Publisher and place not available, 1984).
5. J. Wenderhold, “Pedofernie; een visie van Jan Wenderhold,” Chick, 5:31, l973,p. 11.
6. M.Z. Bradley, “Feminine Equivalents of Greek Love in Modem Fiction,” International Journal of Greek Love, 1:1, pp. 48-58. (no date). For a discussion ofpedagogical eros, see: Tb. G.M. Sandfort, E. Brongersrna, and A.X. van Naerssen, “Man-Boy Relationships: Diflèrent Concepts for a Diversity of Phenomena,” Journal of Homosexuality, 20:1/2, 1991. pp. 5-12.
7. Ibid, p. 57. For a discussion of women-girl “Greek love,” see the following novels: Colette, Claudine at School (New York: Farrar, Straw, 1957); Margaret Ferguson, Sign of Ram (Philadelphia: Blakiston, 1945); Pamela Moore, Chocolates for Breakfast (New York: Rinehart, 1956); Christa Winsloe, The Child Manuela (NewYork: Farrar, 1933).
8. Bradley, op cit. p. 48.
9. A.N. Groth, Men Who Rape (New York: Plenum, 1979).
10. D. Finkelhor and D. Russell, “Women as Perpetrators: Review of the Evidence,” in D. Finkelhor (ed.), Child Sexual Abuse: New Theory and Research (New York: Free Press, 1984), pp 171-185.
11. Ibid.
12. A.P. Bell, M.S. Weinberg, and S.K. Hammersmith, Sexual Preference. Its Development in Men and Women (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1981).
13. Th. G.M. Sandfort and W.T.A.M. Everaerd, (1990). “Male juvenile partners in pedophilia,” in M. Perry (ed.), Handbook. of Sexology, vol. 7: Childhood and Adolescent Sexology (Amsterdam: Elsevier, 1990) pp. 361-380.
14. D. Vandenbosch (pseud.), Dour sta jt' dan... . alleen! (Eindhoven: JEP, 1984).
15. See: Th. G.M. Sandfort, The Sexual Aspect of Paedophile Relations (Amsterdam: Pan/Spartacus, 1982); Th. G.M. Sandfort, “Sex in Paedophiliac Rela tionships: an empirical investigation among a nonrepresentative group of boys,” Journal of Sex Research, 20:2, 1984, pp.. 123-142.; and Tb. G.M. Sandfort, Boys on Their Contacts with Men, (Elmhurst NY: Global Academic Publishers, 1987).
16. Th. Lap, De binnen- en buitenkatzt van kinderen. Wat pedofielen aantrekkelUk vinden in kin deren (Utrecht: privately published, 1987).
17. One of the ways to study “meaning” is with the so called Self-Confrontation Method. This method was developed in the Netherlands by Hermans, on the basis of the so-called “valuation theory.” (See H.J M Her-mans, Value areas and their development: theory and method of self-confrontation (Amsterdam: Swets & Zeitlinger, 1976); HIM. Herrnans, (1987). “Self as an Organized System ofValuations: Toward a Dialogue with the Person,” Journal of Counseling Psychology, 34:1, 1987, pp. 10-19; and H.J.M. Hermans, R. Fiddelaets, R. De Groot, and J.F. Nauta, “Self-Confrontation as a Method for Assessment and Intervention in Counseling,” Journal of Counseling and Development, 69:2, 1990, pp. 156-162.)

The aim of the method is to find the central aspects that are important to a person at a certain moment in his or her life, the “valuations,” and the affective meaning of these valuations. In the first session, the valuations are elicited by a series of open-ended questions, covering several dimensions of human life. The valuations are then listed and the individual relates each of these to a standard list of affect terms and also says to what extent he or she is experiencing that affect in relationship to a particular valuation. A value ranging from 1 (not at all) to 5 (very much) is chosen by the subject. The scores which result from this procedure are used to calculate several indices, and these are used to study the interrelations between the valuations. After tabulation, the results of the first session are discussed with the person in a second session.

The method can be used in diagnostic, evaluative, or therapeutic ways. When used therapeutically, the outcomes from the first two sessions form the “input” for a process of validation and invalidation of the structure of valuations. The results can be applied to farther sessions.

The standard method was slightly adapted with Cindy to meet the special purposes of a single case-study. To supplement the standard valuation categories, Cindy was also asked to assign values to certain supplemental categories regarding paedophilia. To get a picture of the part paedophilia played in her life, she was asked to include as a valuation in her self-survey: “My paedophile desires.” She was also asked to include three other valuations. It was assumed that, because of her attraction, children would have a special meaning to her. Her attraction could concern children as a class as well as a special kind of child. Therefore, she was asked to include the valuations: “Children in general” and “Children to whom I feel erotically attracted.” To put the resulting data in relief, she was also asked to include as a valuation “Adults in general.”

In Table I the scores for the affect terms are correlated against the valuations. By using an adapted version of the Self-Confrontation Method, it was expected to tap deeper layers of meaning than by posing such simple questions as: “What do children mean to you?” This might easily have resulted in superficial, unauthentic stories which were only partly related to the way she experienced her world.

In the second session, the valuations were compared with the findings from the first session. The subject was asked to associate on the possible “causes” for the affects she often experienced in relation to her paedophile desires. With the remaining three valuations, the scores belonging to the same affect label had been compared with one another. When the difference between two scores was large, the subject was asked to give an explanation for this. This was done with questions such as: “What kind of features do children have that they give you this special feeling more often than adults do?” or “What is the difference between children you feel erotically attracted to, compared to children in general, that the former make you feel safer?”
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RoosterDance
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Re: Butterfly Kisses: Researching Female Pedophilia

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Daar sta je dan... alleen!
by Danielle Vandenbosch


"Daar sta je dan... alleen!" (1984), is a diary of a sixteen year old girl, describing her discovery of her special feelings for and relations with young girls. As can be expected, large parts of the book are about the reaction of her parents, but it also tells about her feelings for the girls. She wants to tell her parents, but decides to wait with that till after her scouting camp. Meanwhile her mother starts teasing her about her interest in younger children. During the camp she spreads stickers with texts like "Doesn't have a child the right to have sex?", "Child, you're so sweet" among the younger girls. Her parents hear about it, and are furious. They hardly allow her around children any more. Finally the bomb bursts when they see her talking to some of her former young friends a few months later. She runs away from home, and that's where the booklet ends.


Introduction

After I had contacted the 'Stichting JEP' and they had heared my story, I was asked to release this diary for publication. The institution was of the opinion that this diary could shed another light on the consequences of the behaviour of parents, who "for her own good" are not willing and able to give their child the space to discover and develop her own feelings and live with them at her own discretion. Because I hope that this diary can contribute to saving other youths from this experience, I have consented to publication. If this diary can also contribute to a more healthy image of pedophiles and their feelings, this publication has certainly been useful.


Excerpts From "Daar sta je dan... alleen!"

And now this. I was posting a letter for Greenpeace and on the way back I meet some children from the neighborhood. Whether I liked to join them playing. Hide-and-seek.

As I did not have much mind to do my homework, I joined in for a while. Until half past seven. Now mother is very angry. She thinks I did it to provoke her or something. But there were also a few older girls there!


Wednesday 1 July

21.45. Just back from "Radio flierefluiter1", a sixth grade musical in two acts. Marieke2 had asked me to come and watch. What do you think of Marieke as Soft Sarah? In a purple satin-velvet dress with boa and make-up? (but with make-up I already knew her, as little witch3). She can really sing extremely well! And play too (only once did she need help from the prompter, who prompted so loud that the whole audience could hear it!) In short, I have laughed rather much. And -strangely- felt a bit proud when she waved at me. (She is not a type that falls upon a person's neck spontaneously or something like that. Also not one to lay an arm around her shoulders yourself. But when she laughs at me... and she has extremely beautiful dark eyes.)

This afternoon she was in the shopping centre. So was I. Immediately I went through all shops with her. In the post office we met Johan4. He was with a couple of kids as well, so I did not greet him. Both of us were busy, after all.


Friday 17 July

The fighting will stay. Now I still have myself as an opponent. I am fighting myself. But later, will I have to fight society then? I am (will become) a woman, and because of that I am allowed more. That's what I cling to now. I am busily collecting pictures of children. That is, I already had them, but now I am also hanging them to the wall.

Bought "De Tijd"5. It had an article about Johan. Especially the fragments of his diary6 hurt me. That he went through all of that. And many with him. And I will have to count with that, despite being a woman. Although it will be a lot easier for me. But still I am rather much in disorder from the inside, on the moment. Marieke is not at home. On holiday? I pray on bended knee that she'll send me a postcard. Loves me a bit. Loves me!


Monday 27 July

Still it's strange how long such a small incident can hang around. Like yesterday at Johan's. Natalie7 hangs with her head on my shoulder (nice feeling, just like in the Enterprise8. "I think you're sweet!"9 she claims seriously. I look at her, smile a bit, but am touched from inside: "Pooh, now I turn shy!" She knows me. She knows I think she's "sweet" too. Sometimes I would wish that time stood still. On moments like in the Enterprise, for example. Then I would still be sitting on that bench, she pressed against me, very close. Two arms around her, because otherwise there was no room to sit. And on the frightful moments (there are some moments in that swing-thing that one really gets a bit frightened. But even being frightened is nicer with a child against one) with my face past her hairs for a moment. "Do you like it?" And she just laughing all the time. And then I feel lucky, warm, and hope she enjoys it too.

Children are honest in that respect: when they don't like it, they say it. When she smiles to me she thus feels just as good as I. Time should stand still, but the machine already goes more slowly and we get out. That is funfair. Two minutes pure happiness, then on to the next attraction. On every hand a girl. I am a bit frightened that I'll come across someone I know, but on the same time I hope I'll meet them. I want to show them that I can be happy as well. Although they can drag my happiness through the mud afterwards. That's my fear.

Children are spontaneous, open and honest. I know how once, already for the fourth time that day, I was standing at Marieke's front door and asked: "Aren't you getting bored of me?". Her answer was: "Yes, in fact10 I am!" And that was fair. But still I got the address of her school immediately. I had come to ask it because she would be playing in a musical that evening. And she was really happy when I was there to look.

There are no 'innocent children'. They talk more and more often about sex than adults do. That is: children mention everything by its name. Adults just make allusions to it.

Children really do want physical as well as "mental" love. Why else would they come and hang around my neck? Not just because they think I look nice? They know, instinctively that with me (and with Johan, Wil11, all those others) they can get the love they want as well. Mother love is something completely different from love (with capitals: LOVE). That's what Agnes7 comes lying with me in the evenings during camps. And the others in the tent. Do you think they would do the same with one of my fellow leaders? No! Fodder for psychologists12? For disapproval? For the police? For misunder- standings certainly.


Wednesday 29 July

This night I lay awoke much. I am a bit frightened. Well, a bit! The nerves are screeching through my throat and stomach13! My parents suspect much, but I don't know how much. In any case enough and so much in the wrong direction that I will have to inform them, I'm afraid.

Jesus, it seems so easy: "I have to tell you something. I think I'm a pedophile. In point of fact, I am certain! And that's also my only reason for my visits to Johan. He has pedophilic feelings too and also is contact person for a study group about pedophilia14."

One of these days things will get to it. I want to get rid of it, basically. All this secrecy is not my thing. It really bothers me. But I also fear their reaction. The simplest would be if they would quietly sit down and ask: "What is it all in fact, pedophilia?" I also fear that I will start crying or such. Or that at the time it has to be said ("Johan is a pedophile!"), I do not dare to continue with: "and so am I!" Crawling away again. No, it has to be done now. O God, keep your fingers crossed for me!


Sunday 1 August

Mothers, keep your children inside! I am thinking out luring methods. Oh well!15

Across16 lives a girl of about seven years old, named Moniek. Beautiful blue eyes and half-long hair. We used to play together, but that's several years ago already. I do watch out of my window when she is playing often. Tonight she was playing outside with a cousin17 and I was cleaning my guinea pig's cage. And what's a better bait than such a hairy cuddly toy animal? So I picked up Whitey18 and walked into the passage behind our house, ostensibly to pick dandelions. From the corners of my eyes I saw the two children walking in. We talked a bit and they stroked Whitey. Then I had to watch Moniek's rabbit. Whitey was allowed to walk in the grass, because then the children kept coming back to watch the innocent animal.

I think Moniek's a sweet girl, very beautiful, a bit shy, but certainly one that belongs in my fanclub.

She looks a bit like the girl on my poster. She's just a bit older. And I'll try to have more contact with her. Nice, fun! She's really sweet, but maybe she's heared too many strange stories about me. That will come round. Yes, mothers, keep your children inside! Hurray! (I'm a bit exuberant tonight. No problem, is allowed every now and again) but eeh... let's not be too premature.

Friday 7 August

By the way: yesterday Moniek was walking around half-naked. She was only wearing her blouse (which wasn't necessary on its turn). She saw me looking out of my window, but was not at all in a hurry to add any piece of clothing. Nice girl.


Wednesday 12 August

Mother has now arrived in the stage of ridiculizing my behaviour. "Doesn't she call you mummy yet?" she asked, after Moniek had asked whether I would like to play with her again tonight. "No," I said, "if she called me mummy, she wouldn't ask whether I would 'like to play with her again'!" Mother had nothing to reply to that. I happened to have thought that out last night, while I was thinking about my 'position' with those children. I do not want to be a second mother or a rich aunt. And that's indeed not what I am, I believe. The children see me more as an equal, as one of their kind. Moniek may see me as an equal where she can get something more yet. A bit of love or something like that.

If only I would dare to tell my parents. And if only they would understand it then! Sometimes I feel so completely alone in this house. Especially that attitude of mom's "Doesn't she call you mummy yet?" Especially her tone does it.

Pedophilia is loving children. Your daughter, mom, loves children. Little, innocent girls, which she entices away. With love, and not, dear mom, with candies and cooked-up stories. And what's more, mom, those sweet little girls come to her themselves! Sometimes I would like to cry and be comforted very long. But there is noone to comfort me, so I keep quiet and hide it away. With the rest of my loneliness, with the suppressed feelings, with the fear, with the uncertainty.

God, why can't my parents understand me!


Monday 24 August (after the scouting camp)

THEY SAY IT IS AN ILLNESS! You're not like that, you're not insane, they say.

They know! The scoutmaster has phoned them. They do not want to read the booklet that I gave them. They know as much about it as I did, a year and a half ago. They didn't even know it also exists in women!

All children that are involved in it, get frustrated or mad, they say.

For months one has been thinking about what to say to one's parents, how to tell them. One thinks one has taken all possible reactions that they can make into account. And then this!

The last thing I would have thought! My parents don't even believe me! Dad looks at me like... like a rare species. And mom is crying all the time.

This isn't "my parents don't understand me" anymore. This is blank incomprehension. They don't know it, and they don't want to know it. I have to choose: Go to school or work. Dad likes me to go working. Going into lodgings perhaps. And no reason to say he's wrong. I can simply go to school. No contact with Johan any more, adapt, be a good girl. Suppress myself for one year. Be quiet and learn. Until after the final examination.

How long will the situation stay as it is now? Watch, cry, ask: do you still think the same way about it as you did yesterday? But surely you don't want sex with children? You only like them? And: which book have you read this time? No book at all, dear parents! I hate it for them. What if it was your daughter. Ill, ill, ill. I'm not ill, they are not ill. I think nobody's abnormal. Not my parents, nobody. I'm just in a completely different pigeonhole. When I leave them alone, wouldn't they be happier? Without a daughter they have to watch over all the time. Without having to see and to think: that's my daughter she's ill! Or is it just that she has too broad a phantasy? Because that her feeling is real, is impossible.

And yet it is true! I think they'd better be rid of me. I'm sixteen now. Not an adult, but old enough to know that it is true. And so lonely.

I love my parents, maybe I have to go because of that. Or do not. Or do. At half past six the children come to pick me up. I'm not going. Moniek, Natasja, Jolanda, just go on.

My own parents abhor me. I feel like I'm rotting on the inside. Ill? No, not ill, That's how people talked about gays ten, fifteen years ago as well. They have accepted those too now. And I have not done anything bad to a child? Never!

Wait until the evening. Then I have to talk with them again, hear the new rules. Hopeless. Standing alone. Being afraid. I am trembling from nervousness, all day. Yesterday too. So cold. When I go, it will be the last time. I don't want to go talking. How long will this last? How long this looking, asking, searching for things that are not there? Or that are completely different. When will they understand? Or when will I have to adapt?

It's half past six now. I could make a letter. Dear parents, you would better be rid of me.

They are completely mad themselves as well. Are fighting, although not seriously, about nothing. Owing to me. I don't belong here any more.


Monday 14 September

They can expect much from me: Be good, make my exam, well-adapted behaviour, but not that. I would want that mom finally stopped those remarks like "Later when you're married... When your husband..." A bit of consideration with me is not forbidden. And she can't blame me for... Is she even trying to learn more about it? No, of course not. And do they really think that I will manage on my own?


Monday 28 September

Still there are bright spots. Today even many of them: received a smile from an unknown Indian19 girl, spoken a little bit on the street with the girl of the guinea pig and waved to Johan. A few times I have been at the point of calling him.


Thursday 15 October

My mother thinks she is so funny! She says: "(...) but youth librarian is of course nothing for you. You have never managed to go along with children very well after all!" Small joke! Mom has probably forgotten that she once told me that I should play with children my own age. I played too much with the (little) children of the neighbours across16. That wasn't proper. But well, that's long ago. And, oh yeah, mom, babies and toddlers, that's something completely different than children! Really!


Sunday 22 November

Yesterday morning, arrival of St. Nicholas19 in the shopping centre. I was just coming back home from the pharmacy. Had to pick up the recepy after twelve o'clock. Wanted to go to the shopping centre first. That was okay with them. I stayed there for about two hours. It was extremely busy, very many children. I saw Moniek with her mother. When I went to the pharmacy at half past twelve, I met Natasja and that girl of the guinea pig. I have been talking with them extensively.

Until I saw my parents. And they saw me! Dad and Mom, on the bicycle doing shoppings. I was frightened to death. Still I called 'Hai' (as enthoustically as possible). No answer. They cycled on like I did not exist. With that well-known look on their face, that meant trouble.

Very much trouble in fact. I was so completely upset that I went to Johan immediately, to tell him that today would be the day. If I wouldn't be thrown out of the house, I would go myself. I said.

They didn't talk at first, at home. So I started it myself. But after five minutes dad started threatening with a piece of wood if I would not "get the hell out of here". Mom still wanted to talk. God, what's talking?

The same story as ever. Was I still behind it? Didn't I see that Johan and all those others were deranged? That those poor innocent children got severely deranged? etc.

I was clear for the first time. Yes, I "was still behind it"; no, they were not deranged, and mostly: yes, I did love children. Yes, dad, yes, mom, sexually too. Bad, but true!

After half an hour trying to persuade me, talk me under the carpet, make me capitulate, they saw the senselessness of it all. A large shock to them.


A daughter, just turned 17, always good, accommodating, sweet, always said yes. Yes, I will keep my hands of those children, yes, yes, yes!

And now suddenly NO! And I said nothing any more. Let them talk, let them threaten. I had to go to a psychiatrist, doctor, boarding school, institution. I could get lost. "Don't you want to go to the psychiatrist? I'll come and drag you from your school." (dad)

I definitely decided when that evening at the pivo's21 I went through the experiences of that day again. I did not want to go on like that.

My parents had been clear, after all: "If you go on with this, you can leave. Then we don't want to have anything to do with you!" So I left!


Translated from Dutch by 'Desire'.


Notes
  1. According to the dictionary 'good-for-nothing, irresponsible person', but I think the Dutch word is more positive, also having a feeling of 'free, careless person'
  2. An 11 yo girl she had met and spend a day with one week earlier.
  3. She had met Marieke during a "Medieval day" at school, in which they both were dressed as witches. She and her friends had made up Marieke.
  4. A pedophile she knows through her 27 mc radio (is that the English term? [CB radio?] )
  5. The name means "The Time"
  6. Which were just being published at the time
  7. A younger girl from scouting. The writer has quite a number of young friends at scouting, calling them her 'fanclub' - although she also uses that term to denote ALL her girl-friends.
  8. A funfair attraction. She had been there with Natalie and a niece of Natalie's just before. Natalie sat against her, and had to be held.
  9. Is this the correct word to use here?
  10. In Dutch it said 'eigenlijk', I could not find any good translation. The dictionary gives 'properly speaking, really, basically, in point of fact'.
  11. Another female pedophile, they called on the phone while the writer was at Johan's place, two days before.
  12. A Dutch expression, I don't know its English counterpart
  13. Also a Dutch expression, but the 'and stomach' part seems to have been made up by the writer herself.
  14. Literally 'that occupies itself with pedophilia'. I assume the working group mentioned is the 'werkgroep pedofilie' of the NVSH.
  15. This is the translation the dictionary gave for 'nou ja'. I don't think it really gives the meaning, but couldn't find anything better either.
  16. I.e.: In the house opposite ours
  17. male
  18. I translated the animal's real name 'Witje'.
  19. This does not mean 'native American', but 'south Asian', and as we're in the Netherlands, that will be 'Indonesian'.
  20. The Dutch version of Santa Claus
  21. Her new scouting group, where she could join a few weeks after having been thrown out of her old group for what happened during the camp. There were no younger girls on this group.
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RoosterDance
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Re: Butterfly Kisses: Researching Female Pedophilia

Post by RoosterDance »

Lesbians are to Scouting as Sunshine is to Summer...
An Interview with Nancy Manahan
by Andrea L.T. Peterson


Suffice it to say, "without lesbians" there would probably still be a Girl Scouts of America, but without lesbians, "GSA probably would not be the vibrant organization it is today, nor would it be inspiring so many girls and women to high ideals of character and community," says author Nancy Manahan. Manahan, whose first book Lesbian Nuns: Breaking Silence (co-authored with Rosemary Keefe Curb), sent shockwaves through the lesbian and the religious communities, is again broaching a subject universally understood to be taboo: lesbians in scouting—young lesbian scouts, lesbian volunteers, and lesbians in administrative positions within local councils and the national organization.

But, Manahan clarifies, she is not so much attracted to taboo subjects as she is to subjects in which she has "a personal stake." A self-described "bridge builder" who "likes to bring people together to make a difference and improve a situation," Manahan wants to make it clear that she has "no interest in controversial topics, per se." She is a lesbian who just happens to have been "both a nun and a girl scout," so both anthologies—Lesbian Nuns and her new book, On My Honor: Lesbians Reflect on Their Scouting Experience—"are intensely personal."

Lesbian Nuns was a book Manahan had to do for her own healing. On My Honor, on the other hand, she took on "primarily because it was a part of our lesbian history and culture crying out for documentation. I was astonished that it hadn’t been done," she says. "I had no pain connected with Girl Scouting, no healing to be done. Doing this book," she says, "was fun."

Manahan’s scouting experience was "empowering." Through it she came face to face with "a whole world of nature, nontraditional skills, and a global vision that had been denied [to her] because of stereotyping and social conditioning." There she found "wonderful role models," and the opportunity to be "in nature." That, she says, "was very important. I never would have camped, built fires, learned to identify trees." Through the introduction to and immersion in nature, Manahan came to feel not only at home in, but ecstatic in nature.

She can’t emphasize enough how important that is, especially "for people like me who live in urban areas. Any organization that can encourage a respectful, peaceful, at-homeness with nature contributes," she says, "not only to rejuvenating and healing [of individuals], but to the improvement and healing of the world."

The overall impression left by Manahan’s own telling and the stories of most contributors to the book is that scouting is just plain fun. In scouting girls are able to have fun with other girls. Scouting, she elaborates, "teaches cooperation [with other girls] which is "invaluable," she says, "considering females are taught to compete with each other for men and male attention. Petty competitiveness based on sexism can disappear in an all-female environment like Girl Scout camp."

"Independence," she agrees, is "a wonderful strength, [that many scouts take away from their scouting experiences]," but rather than being a strength taught through scouting, she maintains "independence is modeled, embodied in" scouting.

The lessons learned in scouting are so profound, says Manahan, that they are reflected in the adult lives of many former scouts: in "career choices, commitment to service, and," she adds, "in their numbers in leadership positions."

Of course, not all lesbians in scouting have had stellar experiences. There are those who have been disappointed, disillusioned, and denied by scouting [see section III of On My Honor]. But, says Manahan of her own experience: "I never had a negative experience in scouting, so I don’t share the feelings of disillusionment [with those whose stories comprise section III]." And since she was "never out" when she was a scout—even to herself—she really had no chance to assess how accepting scouting as an organization was.

For some, no doubt, contributing to On My Honor was a healing experience. Manahan hopes that the book can be a catalyst for healing, a catalyst for change within the world of scouting. But for Manahan, On My Honor began an opportunity for "lesbian girl scouts to tell their stories in print for the first time." But as she got into the project and heard "stories of homophobia, and became informed about the Girl Scout policy and practice on sexual orientation, another motive emerged: to help this wonderful, progressive, idealistic, dedicated and influential organization—the largest organization of girls and women in the world!—take it’s role in the most important civil rights struggle of our time: gay, lesbian, bisexual equality."

Manahan believes that if "everyone who is at all connected with girl scouting (some 50 million Americans have been Girl Scouts) encourage the organization to live up to its laws and promises regarding diversity (including sexual orientation), it could make a tremendous difference in the lives of girls and women worldwide."

She realizes that may sound "trite," but it is incredible to think what could happen if such "a huge organization took a leadership role and adopted a no-tolerance-for-discrimination stance." What a catalyst for activism....with profound ripple effects."

While the impact might not be visible at a national level for some time, On My Honor: Lesbians Reflect on Their Scouting Experiences has already produced its own ripple effects. On My Honor is being distributed within and discussed among scouting councils. A number of councils have sought, with some success, to include sexual orientation in their nondiscrimination policies, and one council has decided to "sponsor a resolution at the organization’s next national meeting."

Positive organization responses to her book have to be heartening, but equally gratifying are the personal responses to On My Honor—from friends and family, from others (lesbian and straight) who have been scouts or who are involved in scouting, and from those who have never been scouts and who have never had a lesbian experience.

"My nephew’s wife, Kate Manahan, a librarian in Maine," offers Manahan by way of example, "read the book and wrote me a four page letter telling me exactly what she liked about the book ... section by section." She liked "the continuity Lynne Tuft’s artwork established" in the book, and she "appreciated the recurrent image of women splitting wood," which reinforces the notion that women DO have "the right to wield an ax and the power."

Kate was able to see, through the innocence "with which Maike Haaland and Roberta Garr entered into a relationship" how easily two women could fall in love. "You’re human first," she realized, and lesbian second (or tenth)." As a heterosexual who has never been a scout and has no connection with the organization except through her aunt, the author of this book, she is confident that "people who are not lesbians or scouts would like the book."

"I was so touched that she [not a lesbian, never a girl scout] took the time to write a letter like that." At the school where (Nancy) Manahan currently teaches, a number of people told her they were "enjoying" the book. While that pleased her, nothing moved her quite like the efforts of her nephew’s wife.

Initially Manahan didn’t feel that there was anything she would have liked to include in On My Honor, but overlooked. On second thought, she remembered one of the young people on line (indgoGS is the on line site for discussing lesbians in girl scouting) who "told a wonderful story about the impact of Girl Scouting in her life." Manahan realized that there is an untapped resource in the stories of young people as well as in those of lesbians in their sixties, seventies, and eighties who have yet to share their scouting experiences.

Through her continued efforts to "bring people together to make a difference and improve a situation," Manahan hopes that "girl scouting will be more committed to creating an atmosphere of safety and respect for all lesbian young people and adults. On My Honor: Lesbians Reflect on Their Scouting Experiences is, unquestionably, a giant first step in the right direction.
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RoosterDance
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Re: Butterfly Kisses: Researching Female Pedophilia

Post by RoosterDance »

Feminism, Pedophilia, and Children's Rights
by Pat Califia


In 1980 I published a two-part article in The Advocate, critiquing American age-of-consent laws. While extremely controversial, the articles did hit print and spur discussion about the sexuality of young people, intimate relationships between men and boys, and the dangerous implications of banning all erotic images of minors. Eleven years later, I am writing this piece. It will be translated into Dutch and published abroad in a special issue of Paidika on women and pedophilia. I support Paidika and enjoy working with the editors of this special issue. I also know I probably could not get anything on this topic published today in the American gay and lesbian press.

Doc and Fluff my recent science-fiction novel, has been banned by some women's bookstores because it supposedly depicts a cross-generational lesbian relationship, and I've been attacked as “an advocate of child molestation” in the feminist press. This happened despite the fact that I made it clear that the younger character, Fluff, had reached the legal age of consent. She initiates all the sexual activity. If I had made Fluff eleven or even sixteen, instead of eighteen, the book probably would not have been published at all.

The American government's campaign against the sexual rights of young people has been so successful that most gay men, lesbians, and feminists are convinced that the movement to repeal age-of-consent laws was nothing more than an attempt to guarantee rapacious adults the right to vulnerable child victims. The North American Man/Boy Love Association (NAMBLA) has been banned from so many annual gay pride marches that people are astonished when the organization does appear.

The adult gay community here has cut off its next generation. We are afraid to reach out to young men and women who are coming out. A teenager who has suffered abuse from parents, peers, and teachers for being homosexual often finds that adult gay men and lesbians will not offer her or him sanctuary from homophobia. We do not because we dare not. We have been terrorized and made ashamed.

And yet I know very few lesbians, and even fewer gay men, who waited until they were eighteen to come out. Most of us were aware well before puberty that we wanted to be close to or sexual with members of our own sex. I've heard countless stories from women about their attempts to seduce their high school gym teachers or camp counselors. Not all of these attempts were unsuccessful. Our real-life experiences do not jibe with our politics on this issue. In this case, at least, the personal does not seem to be political.

It's impossible to sum up thirty years of American politics in a short article. But a sketchy chronicle of this background is important for anyone who wants to understand the suspicion and hatred that most American gay-rights activists and lesbian-feminists display toward pedophilia.

During the '60s, the military draft which sent young men to war in Vietnam proved to be the impetus for the formation of several popular radical movements. Because the draft was age-linked, the campaign against it used age as a rallying point, protesting the government's “sending young men to fight an old men's war.” Movements for the liberation of blacks, women, and homosexuals emerged. And there was a nascent movement for the liberation of young people. High school students fought for the right to publish underground newspapers, wear their hair long, and join in antiwar protests by wearing armbands and other political symbols to school. They contested searches and seizure of their property conducted by school officials.

In the early days of the women's movement, feminists criticized all the institutions of male-dominated society. The traditional family was under siege. It was common to talk about how young women were oppressed by the public schools and received an inferior, feminized education. There was agitation for reproductive rights for all women, including teenagers.

The antiwar movement collapsed when the draft was repealed, and the war in Vietnam ended. Few of the movement's members had developed a comprehensive or sophisticated critique of the American state. The feminist movement was deflated by the Supreme Court decision Roe v. Wade, which granted American women the right to abortion in 1973. Ironically, because of this major victory, American feminism lost its intense, radical focus. It was also divided by bitter struggles over the presence of lesbians in the women's movement and their eventual departure from it. Mainstream feminism became bogged down in a doomed campaign to pass the Equal Rights Amendment. Litigation against sex discrimination in the areas of employment and education made significant gains for women, but it was difficult to use this issue as a rallying point for a mass movement.


The Antiporn Movement

Feminism did not regain its fervor until the antiporn movement emerged in the late '70s. This campaign almost immediately won a large number of adherents. Antiporn activists were successful in attracting both lesbian and heterosexual feminists. All women could unite against misogynist violence. Because the antiporn movement quashed discussion of private sexual practices that might conflict with its critique of sexually diverse imagery, it became much easier for women with differing sexual orientations to work together. Their leaders were excellent public speakers who allowed followers to be titillated by pornography without giving up their righteous indignation about it.

This social-purity movement promised to do away with discrimination and violence against women by simply eliminating porn. It also made street action and protests viable once more, instead of focusing on boring legal cases. Closing adult bookstores is much easier than changing the power relations between the sexes. And it allowed women to take action within the private sphere, politicizing something we were already accustomed to doing—regulating other people's sexual conduct.

The feminist antiporn movement routinely trashed its feminist critics by attacking them as perverts and advocates of rape, battery, and child abuse. Members of the antiporn movement have been so successful that most people—including the press—today assume that they represent the only feminist position on issues of sexuality, censorship, pornography, violence against women, and the sex industry.

The feminist antiporn movement mirrored a growing conservatism in American society about all sexual matters. As economic conditions here got worse, people began to look toward “traditional values” to provide a feeling of security and safety. It became much harder for women to survive economically outside the nuclear family or to criticize it. Plenty of evidence exists to show that the traditional family is not a particularly nice place to grow up. Sexual abuse is a common experience for girls (and not so uncommon for boys) in the family. Federal law-enforcement figures indicate that five children per day (mostly infants and young children) are murdered by their parents in the United States. Yet the nostalgia for this ideal, safe, loving, nurturing, patriarchal family persists.

The panic over child pornography and pedophilia that has racked American society since the '70s is an inseparable part of our society's denial of the shortcomings and failures of the family. Moral crusades have also been used to attack both feminism and gay rights, and neither of these progressive movements has been very successful at defending itself against such attacks or at presenting a complete analysis of them.


Child Pornography

Child pornography has been a special category in American law since 1977. This was the year that Anita Bryant began her campaign against gay rights legislation in Dade County, Florida, and Congressional hearings were held on the sexual exploitation of children. The most flamboyant agitators against kiddy porn included Judianne Densen-Gerber, manager of a chain of drug rehabilitation centers, and Los Angeles cop Lloyd Martin, who had received city funding to head the Sexually Exploited Child Unit. Since the hearings concluded, Densen-Gerber's Odyssey House drug-rehabilitation centers were the subject of a two-year investigation conducted by then New York State Attorney General Robert Abrams. The investigation found that federal, state, and city grants had been diverted to pay for her private expenses. Densen-Gerber had to agree to repay the money, and Odyssey House was placed on probation to avoid criminal charges. Lloyd Martin was eventually transferred out of the Sexually Exploited Children Unit to a less visible and less powerful position. Activists speculated that this transfer was the result of remarks Martin had made alleging that the Big Brother program and the Boy Scouts of America did not screen their volunteers carefully enough and were full of pedophiles. After this transfer was announced, Martin went on “psychiatric sick leave” and finally resigned from the police department.

Witnesses' claims that the child-porn industry grossed billions of dollars and involved the abuse of millions of children were never substantiated. In fact, even in its heyday, child porn was not a popular genre of sexually explicit material. One expert has estimated that no more than five thousand to ten thousand copies of each magazine were sold worldwide.

In 1978 a federal law took effect that made it a felony to photograph anyone under the age of sixteen in the nude, engaged in sexual activity with another person, or masturbating. By that time, most distributors and bookstores had stopped handling the controversial material. The only child pornography left was produced by amateurs, usually for private use. Since 1978 the law has been amended to make penalties more severe, and the definition of a minor now includes any person under the age of eighteen. Subsequent court decisions have determined that material depicting minors does not have to meet the same strict criteria that adult material has to meet to be defined as obscene and therefore proscribed. If a boy-lover has a nude photograph of his seventeen-year-old boyfriend in his wallet, that photograph—even though it is not commercially distributed and does not depict sex—is child pornography. It is illegal to transport it across state lines, and in many states it is even illegal to possess it.

In 1990 the Supreme Court upheld an Ohio state law which criminalized the possession and viewing of child pornography. Many other states then passed similar legislation. In the U.S. it is illegal to be in the business of producing or distributing obscene matter, but it is not illegal for a private citizen to possess obscene material to view in her or his own home—unless it depicts minors.

Despite the fact that child pornography is no longer commercially available, law-enforcement efforts against it have escalated. Special task forces to combat it have been set up by U.S. Customs, the FBI, the Justice Department, and state and local police. In order to justify their swollen budgets and manpower rosters, the cops have created a series of expensive entrapment schemes. Ironically, the only kiddy porn now produced in the U.S. is paid for by taxpayers' dollars and hawked by the guardians of our legal system.

Between 1978 and 1984, only sixty-seven defendants were indicted for federal child-porn crimes. But since May 1984, about six hundred defendants have been indicted as a result of sting operations conducted by U.S. government agencies.

This is how it works: The Post Office targets people who are unlucky enough to have landed on mailing lists compiled by U.S. Customs. These lists come from many sources. When adult-porn businesses are raided, the authorities also confiscate their mailing lists, even if their customers have committed no crimes. The Post Office and Customs keep track of people who order sexually explicit material through the mail. Police have even confiscated the membership list of a gay computer bulletin board that was shut down because its operator was accused of violating age-of-consent laws. The Post Office then conducts direct-mail campaigns soliciting orders for child porn. Some of the government brochures are vaguely worded and do not make it clear that the customer is ordering contraband. Law enforcement officials sometimes become pen pals, pretending to be pedophiles or sexually active children, and solicit their correspondents to send or receive child porn through the mail. If targeted individuals seize the bait, they are arrested, and the odds are overwhelmingly in favor of conviction even if they have never ordered this type of material before. One such operation, Project Looking Glass, conducted in 1986, involved more than two hundred U.S. Customs inspectors and state and local cops. The government paid millions of dollars to obtain a mere one hundred indictments.

Strict child-porn laws have created a chilling effect upon any discussion of child sexuality. After the passage of the 1978 law criminalizing nude photographs of minors, the excellent sex education book, Show Me! , was withdrawn by its publisher, St. Martin's Press. Art photographers like Robert Mapplethorpe and Jock Sturges who display nonerotic, nude portraits of children have been threatened with prosecution. Since film developers are required to notify police any time they see negatives that feature nude minors, parents have been charged with and even convicted of child-porn offenses for taking nude pictures of their own children at play or in the bathtub. There have been so many wrongful accusations regarding pornography and sexual and physical child abuse that wrongfully accused child care workers and parents formed Victims of Child Abuse Laws (VOCAL).

The government has also tried to use child-porn laws against adult material. American magazines that publish nude photographs are required to keep files on their models, showing proof of each model's age and legal name. These files have to be kept available for inspection by law-enforcement personnel.

When most people think of child pornography, they imagine full-color movies and magazines that show adults raping prepubescent children. In fact, most of the material consisted of black and white photo magazines. The bulk of the imagery was of nude children or teens. A minority of images showed young people being sexual with each other, and a very tiny proportion of it showed adults engaged in sexual conduct with minors. Since the pictures were so hard to obtain, they were usually pirated by rival magazines and reprinted.

It's certainly true that some of the young people who appeared in this material were coerced into modeling and were damaged by that experience. But it would be a mistake to characterize all child porn as “a record of child abuse.” Sometimes it was a record of children's exhibitionism and free erotic play with one another. Sometimes it was a record of adolescent vanity, pride, and budding sexuality. Sometimes it preserved a moment of exceptional trust and pleasure between partners whose ages would normally have kept them apart.

To simply speak this truth is very dangerous today. But we do not serve ourselves—or children—very well when we interpret all sexual experiences in the most negative terms possible. Sex is not simply a matter of violence or danger. And issues of consent, autonomy, and power are never simple to sort out, especially in the realm of the senses. Adult panic or disgust about young people's seeking pleasure for themselves is responsible for much of the trauma that minors experience when they are caught behaving “inappropriately” for their ages, even in a consensual context.


Missing Children

The campaign against child pornography was fueled by related moral hysteria over missing children. During the early '80s, the American media was full of melodramatic accounts of the “millions” of children who were kidnapped and then sexually abused by strangers. A representative article appeared in the women's magazine Family Circle in 1986, headlined, “Every Mother's Fear: Abduction,” with the subhead, “An estimated 1.8 million children will be reported missing this year. What can you do to protect your child?” Photos of missing children who were supposedly in grave danger appeared everywhere—on grocery bags, milk cartons, billboards, and flyers. Public fear about missing children grew to such a pitch that in 1984 the Justice Department awarded a $3.3 million grant to set up the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children.

It took a while for the facts to emerge, still longer for the panic to fade. An alarming 1983 U.S. Department of Health and Human Services statistic that there were 1.5 million missing children reported each year was widely quoted. But this huge number was hardly ever broken down into appropriate categories. About 95 percent of those children were runaways, most of whom returned voluntarily within days; throwaways (children abandoned by their parents); or children who had been kidnapped by parents or guardians involved in custody battles. Jay Howell, executive director of the Justice Department-funded center, often told the press that he estimated that 4,000 to 20,000 children were kidnapped by strangers each year. But other child advocates such as Bill Treanor, executive director of the American Youth Work Center, put the figure closer to one hundred, and the F.B.I. logged only 67 stranger-abduction reports annually.

Even after the scare about missing children had begun to abate and its credibility to wane, it continued to color public policy. The U.S. Justice Department's Office of Juvenile Justice and Delinquency Prevention released a report entitled America's Missing and Exploited Children: Their Safety and Their Future in March of 1986. While acknowledging that many so-called missing children were actually abandoned by their parents, had run away “to flee from intolerable conditions of emotional or physical abuse at home,” or were “victims of family abduction,” the report still called up the specter of:

paedophiles, serial murderers, or those who want to sell abducted children on the black market...They photograph children engaged in sordid, explicit sexual activity and sell the photos on the international market that is available for the exchange of such pictures.

Rather than analyze why young people might prefer precarious lives on the street to the dangers of remaining in their homes, the advisory board recommended giving police the authority to detain anyone under the age of eighteen. The report says primly that minors “do not have a right to freedom from custody.” Both runaway and throwaway children should be returned to their parents as soon as possible. The report blames “violent and sexually explicit facets of the popular culture such as art, rock music lyrics, and video games” and “preadolescent peer culture” for young people's desire to escape from the family, and asks

Would children be less vulnerable to running away, to sexual exploitation, to sex rings, and destructive cults if they were more sheltered from lurid, everyday depictions of perversion?

In other words, teenagers who voluntarily leave home or who are thrown out have been tainted by sexual deviance.

In fact, the sexuality of young people often provokes violence within the family—whether it's a child's demand for birth control or sex education; a need for treatment of a venereal disease; pregnancy; coming out as bisexual or homosexual; or a parent's discovery of a minor's sexual activity. But the Justice Department report does not suggest that adults need to accept the reality of youth sexuality and give young people the information they need to cope with it, including access to birth control and abortion. No mention is made of alleviating poverty, providing better health care or mental health services, or making it easier for families to deal with substance-abuse problems. It's much easier to jail the young man whose father beats him up for being a fag and then buy him a bus ticket home. It's much tidier to ship the pregnant high school junior back to the hometown where her mother does not want her to be seen in public.


The Attack on Feminism

In the late '80s, a series of scandals about child abuse which supposedly occurred in day care centers represented a major assault on feminism and the increasing numbers of American women with children who worked outside their homes. These scandals also created the myth that organized rings of Satanists were preying on America's youth.

What one author has called “the ritual sex abuse hoax” began in 1983, when Judy Johnson noticed that her two-year-old son's bottom was red. Her son attended the McMartin preschool in Los Angeles. She told police her son had indicated a man at the center, named Ray, but it wasn't clear what Ray had done. In the next few weeks, Johnson's accusations grew more complex and colorful. Eventually she accused Raymond Buckey, whose family owned the school, of making her son ride naked on a horse, of wearing a Santa Claus suit while abusing him, of jabbing scissors into his eyes, and of putting staples in his ears. She accused Peggy Buckey, Ray's mother, of killing a baby and making her son drink the blood. She also said that an AWOL marine and three models in a health club had raped her son, and that her family's dog had been sodomized. Johnson was eventually diagnosed as psychotic, and defense attorneys would claim her son had been abused by his own father. But her wild stories set in motion the most expensive criminal case in U.S. history.

Police sent about two hundred letters to families whose children attended the McMartin preschool, asking if their children had been molested. The letter suggested that families take their children to Children's Institute International (CII), an abuse therapy clinic, for therapy. There, children were questioned by social workers plying anatomically correct puppets. The therapists at CII assumed that children who denied being abused must be lying and encouraged them to prove they weren't “stupid” by telling “the yucky secret.” The children began to tell stories about being assaulted in hot-air balloons and on the shoulders of busy freeways, and about being used in Satanic rituals in tunnels beneath the school. Teachers supposedly mutilated and killed animals in front of the children to persuade them to keep silent about the abuse. Eventually, several members of the Buckey family, including a seventyseven-year-old, wheelchair-bound grandmother and three female teachers, were accused of committing hundreds of acts of sex abuse against children.

The case wasn't resolved until 1990. None of the defendants were convicted, mostly because it became apparent that the child witnesses had been coached, and there was a lack of hard, physical evidence to support their claims. For example, no tunnels were ever found below the school. But many people caught up in ritual-abuse cases have not been that lucky.

From 1984 to 1989, some one hundred people nationwide were charged with ritual abuse crimes against children. About half of them were tried and half of those convicted, usually with no evidence except testimony from children, parents, experts who testified the children seemed traumatized, and doctors who were willing to make definitive diagnoses of sexual abuse even though this is very difficult to detect in any victim, regardless of age. These convictions were made possible in part by many state laws enacted around 1986, which were intended to make it easier for child victims to win justice. In some states, it wasn't necessary for the children even to be in court—parents could testify as hearsay witnesses, or the children could appear on videotape or closed-circuit TV. Of course, this also makes it more difficult to confront one's accusers and present a defense.

FBI agent Kenneth Lanning, who initially believed allegations of Satanic abuse, today says, “If the cults were real, they would constitute the greatest conspiracy in history.” Yet law-enforcement personnel continue to receive government funding to attend conferences where experts tell them how to detect Satanic child-pornography and prostitution rings, and government-funded publications warning parents about the phenomenon have been published in several states.

These cases have been used, not very subtly, to make parents who need day care feel guilty for leaving their children in other people's hands. For the first time, women are being labeled as pedophiles. This increases the public's paranoia. If children aren't safe with female caretakers, there must not be any safe place for them except home with Mommy.

This moral panic conveniently locates the source of child abuse outside of the home. It also precludes demands for increased government subsidization of child care and more frequent state safety inspections, since neither measure can prevail against child-hating witches who can kill babies without leaving bodies around for the cops to find, and covens that skewer toddlers' private parts with swords, film the ritual for sale on the international pedophile market, and leave no telltale negatives or wounds behind. People can wax indignant about the “selfishness” of mothers who endanger their children by placing them in day care and ignore the economic reality that most mothers have to work if their children are going to have shelter and food.


Cross-Generational Relationships

American society has become rabidly phobic about any sexual contact between adults and minors. In this social climate, very few lesbians will admit to having cross-generational relationships or defend even the abstract idea of them. Within the lesbian community, other forces exist that prevent girl-lovers and underage lesbians from telling their own stories. We encourage incest survivors to break the silence and tell family secrets about violence and sexual abuse. But this sisterly support turns to outrage and cries for silence if a woman wants to talk about being a sexually active child or even a teenager who was not traumatized by the experience. Lesbian-feminism supposedly empowers women, but we are reluctant to see young women's sexual experiences as anything but victimization.

Lesbians work constantly to undo their racism, classism, able-bodyism, looksism, coupleism. and all other forms of prejudice. We give lip service to confronting ageism, but we do not really include underage lesbian and bisexual women in our community. The simple truth is that we are afraid to. We are afraid the state will come down on us, brand us as child molesters, and put us in jail.

Why should a woman have to wait until she turns eighteen or twenty-one to be sexually active with other women? You may argue that adolescent dykes should experiment sexually and romantically with each other. But when they are trapped in schools, neighborhoods, churches, and families where being called queer targets them for harassment and assault, how many young lesbians can afford to come out or seek out others like themselves? The adult lesbian community is much easier to find than gay peers. True, not all younger dykes are interested in older women. But if a woman is interested in having a cross-generational lover, I cannot think of one good reason—apart from the threat of persecution—why she should deny herself such a relationship. Each generation of lesbians winds up to some extent recreating the wheel—rediscovering the possibilities of women's sexuality, relationships, and culture. We could save each other so much time and pain if we were not so deeply divided.

Opposing the state is a fearful thing. Nobody wants to go to jail, be blacklisted, or experience the violation of a tapped telephone and mail opened by strangers. But sometimes the injustice is too huge to ignore. I cannot blot out the memory of my own adolescent struggle to become a lesbian, how hard it was to persuade adult dykes to move over just a few inches and let me stand with them at the bar, how few of them were willing to talk to me, much less sleep with me. I cannot forget how freakish and alone I felt because other deviants were afraid to acknowledge me, how guilty I felt because I seemed to threaten them and make their marginal lives even more perilous. I understand now why those gray-haired women and the younger women in their twenties turned their heads away from me, but it was wrong. Self-hatred and cowardice often conceal themselves as self-preservation. I wish I could believe that fewer adult dykes would make those mistakes today.

Our government is happy to spend millions of dollars to put pedophiles in jail and keep the bogeyman of kiddy porn before the public eye to justify inflated law-enforcement budgets and increasingly draconian enforcement of obscenity laws. But the government is not willing to make sure people have enough money to support their children or to create safe and affordable day care. Funds for education still take a back seat to defense. The state is not willing to take the radical action that would be necessary to protect child victims of abusive adults. That would mean challenging parents' ownership of their children. It would mean providing viable alternatives to the family. Minors who are given the power to say “no” to being sexually used by an abusive parent or relative are also going to assume the right to say “yes” to other young people and adults whom they desire. You can't liberate children and adolescents without disrupting the entire hierarchy of adult power and coercion and challenging the hegemony of antisex fundamentalist religious values.


Editor's note: In Pat Califia's 2nd Edition of Public Sex: The Culture of Radical Sex, she expresses a sad change in stance. As of 2000, she no longer accepts prepubescent children's and many young teenager's possibility to consent to erotic or sexual contacts with adults. She has become much more cynical about adults and their ability to listen to children, and now as a parent she thinks more in terms of making the child's welfare a priority than of consent.
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RoosterDance
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Re: Butterfly Kisses: Researching Female Pedophilia

Post by RoosterDance »

Age Is Just A Number... But for Some, It is a Crime
by Melisa S. Morgenstein


Being gay in a world filled with ignorance and hate is difficult. For some it is more difficult than others. Everyone who embraces his gay identity goes experiences the struggle of gaining the acceptance of others. Sometimes acceptance is received; many times it is not. As a teenager, I face the typical worries of my peers, such as grades, family issues and college. However, I am also faced with condemnation, ostracism and isolation. Why? Because I am a lesbian.

It’s a hard road. It takes a lot of courage and self-exploration to “come out” to yourself and ultimately, to others. The challenges of coming out as a teenager today are different from those of our parents’ generation. Homosexuality has become more of an open topic; we are less afraid to fight for what is right and to show pride in who we are.

However, young people are still faced with incredible hurdles. Besides the challenge of coming out to friends and relatives, we must develop relationships with people who can understand us and support us. For most teens, the people to turn to for that support and understanding are our wizened, respectful gay elders.

I lived in a very homophobic city during the time I was first coming out. I discovered the internet as a welcome means of “meeting” other gays and lesbians. The reaction I received from those I contacted was not what I expected. Older lesbians in their twenties and thirties would respond to my calls for help and understanding with “How do you know you’re a lesbian if you haven’t had sex with a woman? You can’t be a lesbian if you are still a virgin.”

I was shocked at the blunt ignorance of these women. I responded angrily, “You of all people should know that it doesn’t take the physical act of sex to know who or what you are attracted to! I don’t need to have sex with a woman to know I am gay. Nor do I need to have sex with a man to know that I am straight.” It was infuriating that even my “own kind” was blind to the truths, even their own truths of sexuality.

It is not uncommon for gay youth to grow up way too fast. I am sure I am not alone in saying that I already feel ancient. My own therapist says I think and feel on the level of someone in their mid-thirties. I don’t relate to my peers at all. I have few friends; I am always alone. The people I feel closest to are older, generally out of their teens.

This brings up another issue: relationships. I will meet a fascinating woman online or in a coffee shop. However, when she learns that I am only sixteen, she turns away, frightened of being labeled a pedophile. My question is: How does being friends with someone under eighteen make you a pedophile?

Age is just a number? It’s more than that: it’s a barrier that comes between the generations. We are the future. Why condemn us to isolation? Why turn your backs on your own children? We wait for someone to reach out and give us permission to enter our own community. We want so desperately to belong. We want to learn from your wisdom. We want the responsibility of helping to make our world a better place for your own sake, for our sake, and for our children’s sake.

* * *

Melissa Morgenstein is a senior at the Dreyfoos High of the Arts in West Palm Beach where she majors in vocal music. She is currently working to start a Gay Straight Alliance at her school. You may reach Melissa by contacting the Gay, Lesbian, and Straight Education Network at the addresses below.

Youth Pride is coordinated by The Gay, Lesbian and Straight Education Network and is dedicated to gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgendered young people. Each month, local writers share their experiences, plans, opinions and perspectives. Most selected writers are of high school and college age. However, GLSEN considers other writers who have something to share with our youth. If you would like to write an article for Youth Pride, please contact us at GLSEN Greater Fort Lauderdale, PO Box 7264, Ft. Lauderdale, FL 33338. Phone (954) 566-2236; internet glsenftld@aol.com
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RoosterDance
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Re: Butterfly Kisses: Researching Female Pedophilia

Post by RoosterDance »

Amy, 16, Texas
by Amy

From: One Teenager In 10, Writings By Gay And Lesbian Youth
Edited by Ann Heron
Alyson Publications, Inc.
Boston, 1983


I am a sixteen-year-old lesbian. I have been a lesbian since I was twelve. I had known my dance teacher for three years before she brought me out. I was very attracted to her when I first saw her, and from then on, I grew to be more and more in love with her. When I was ten, I had a crush on a friend of my older sister, and some time after that another crush on a cousin of mine. But these didn't last long.

I always wanted to be near my teacher, dance well for her, and have her touch me! Often while falling asleep at night I would think about her holding me in her arms while I'd go to sleep or about her kissing me. I didn't know anything about lesbians then, so I didn't associate my feelings with anything but my love for her.

We became lovers the weekend I was asked to give a special dance presentation in another city. My dance instructor chose me and accompanied me there. She was 23.

After the performance, we returned to our room. She was elated with my reception, and hugged me and told me how good I was. I felt so good being held by her, being so close to her; secure in the arms of a woman I had admired and loved for three years. Her eyes were so alive, so exciting; her smile so sensuous. When she said, "Let me help you take this off," I could only hope something might happen. I let my arms hang loose as she slipped the leotards over my shoulders, then I cooperated with her so my arms could be freed, leaving the costume hanging at the waist, with my breasts bare.

"You are so pretty," she said, placing her hands on my neck and then running them down my chest, over my breasts and then cupping them in her hands. I loved what she was doing, especially when she licked her index finger and began rubbing my left nipple, making it hard. She did the same with the right one, and I held her tightly around the waist.

"Does this feel good?" she asked.

"Yes, don't stop."

Then she took a nipple in each hand and rolled them between her fingers. At the same time she moved closer to me. From the waist down we were touching; from the waist up, separated enough for her to get her hands on my breasts. Somehow our lips met, tentative at first and then we kissed passionately with her tongue edging its way into my mouth. I began sucking her tongue, and for the first time I felt tingly all over. My next sensation was our deep breathing, then I felt her hands move from my front to my back, and she pressed tighter to me. Then she moved her hands down to my butt, massaging, and pushing my pelvis into hers. When I felt some thrusts of her pelvis against mine, my eyes opened wide. She responded by saying, "You really turn me on... do you like this?"

"Oh, yes."

She said "Let's take this off," referring to the costume still covering my bottom. Down it came, and I stepped out of it. She held me at arms length, saying, "I want to look at you." Her hands moved from my neck, to my shoulders, down over my nipples to my waist; one hand on each side. Then she told me I was sexy and moved her right hand down my stomach and lower. I knew what she was going to do, hoping those sensations I had felt before would be even better. They were, as she concentrated on my clitoris with a circular motion, slipping her middle finger between my lips and occasionally into me.

"I want to make love to you. Let's go to bed."

I didn't want her to stop, but I went anyway. She postioned me on the bed, with my head on a pillow and my legs spread as wide as she could get them. She kicked off her shoes, and leaned over, kissing me on the mouth. Then she moved down to suck on my nipple. Next she encouraged me to relax and told me that she was going to make me feel very good. She got on the bed, kneeling between my spread legs. Before long she was getting her face closer to me and kissing me; using her mouth and tongue on my clitoris, giving me a feeling I had never felt before. I felt the rush, and hit a climax like I have rarely felt since. It was full of electricity and excitement! Such passion.

We continued that night, all weekend and for almost three years until I had to move with my family. I became a lesbian and a woman that weekend!

My teacher was the first person I can recall who ever used the word lesbian to me. After she brought me out, and I started going over to her house, I noticed books about lesbianism out in the open. I picked one up, and looked through it. She began telling me about lesbianism and people's attitudes towards homosexuals. Until that time, I can't recall ever thinking that what we were doing was unacceptable. For one thing, I always thought that what boys and girls did to each other was bad. Besides that, I thought what we had was special, and since some of the other girls had a crush on my teacher, I wanted her all to myself. So I thought the secrecy and privacy was for that reason; not because others would think it was bad.

I think that finding out that people think homosexuality is bad made me more firm in my desire to stay a lesbian regardless of what would happen to me.

My parents do not know or suspect that I am a lesbian. We are very conservative Baptists, and they would not stand for my being a lesbian at all. My older sister got pregnant when she was seventeen and they went wild! Who knows what they would do with me if they know.

The only person in my family who knows is my older sister, and she has been wonderful about it. She first suspected about me when I was with my teacher, but I didn't tell her until after we had moved. (She has been very helpful. My teacher swore she would never send a letter to my house for my parents to accidentally find, so my sister receives my mail for me at her address.) I would never tell my parents — at least not before I graduate from college — because they are so religious.... There's no telling what they might do to me. I date guys occasionly, so they will not suspect anything. They don't want me to date much anyway, especially with what happened to my sister, so that keeps the pressure off.

Some of the other girls who were in lessons knew that I was attracted to my dance teacher. I think a couple of them were also attracted to her. After we became lovers, none of my friends knew what was going on. They were a little jealous that I was the teacher's pet, but they thought that was because I was a good dancer. The time we spent together was explained to them, and to my parents, as additional lessons. Dancing lessons, not love lessons!

Since I moved, my teacher and I talk occasionally on the phone, and we write each other. We are not lovers anymore; she has a lover she lives with now. But if we were together, and alone, I know I would want to go to bed with her. We are still very close, though not as close as we were before she moved in with her present lover.

Since my teacher, I have had three lovers including my present lover. The other two relationships occurred just before I was sixteen, and both lasted just a short time. My present lover and I have been together for almost a year. She is the daughter of a family that my parents are close to in church. She is fifteen and will be in ninth grade next year.

Both of the other relationships were with older women. I enjoyed the relaionships, but the other women didn't. I really liked them and thought they were very sexy and attractive. But both of them called me a "baby dyke," and couldn't handle having a relationship with me. I think they felt guilty, and felt they were making me do something I didn't want to do — which isn't true. My teacher never called me a baby dyke and never hesitated about me being her lover, even though I was very young.

I guess the feelings I have about being a young lesbian come from being rejected by those two women. But I have also met adult lesbians who are not even interested in being a friend to me. Maybe they are afraid they'll be attracted to me and try to seduce me. Or that I will try to seduce them. Young women have enough problems trying to sort out their sexual feelings, and dealing with their parents and other people who don't like their being a lesbian without adult lesbians giving them hassles about being underage. I am disapppointed in lesbians for not caring for us young lesbians. My lover and I are very happy, but we really would like to associate with older lesbians.
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RoosterDance
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Re: Butterfly Kisses: Researching Female Pedophilia

Post by RoosterDance »

Sister Flo
by Sara Buchard


First, understand that I was raised in a loving family. We lived in Baltimore, Maryland. My father was a steelworker in a large mill and had worked his way up from loading freight cars to shift foreman in the rolling yards. He was also a shop steward for the American Steel Workers. While he did work hard, and put in a lot of overtime and off shifts, he was a loving father and devoted family man. My mother was, for most of my time as a youngster, a homemaker. However, when I was in High School, she started working as a substitute teacher at the Catholic Elementary School which I had attended. I am number 4of 5 children.

My parents were good Catholics for a while, but the "sin" of birth control came about after I was born. My mom was very honest with my elder sister and I about the whole thing. My little brother was a final gift from God one night when the diaphragm stayed in the dresser drawer. He really is a gift too. Six years younger than I, we all loved (and still love) him dearly. He's a wonderful guy, currently in the Engineering school and the University of Maryland. All in all, I had an ideal family when I was growing up. We weren't rich, but had a nice home. Today, my father has retired from the mill (early retirement brought about by the mill closing) and works as department manager in a Walmart. My mother volunteers a lot in her local church. They have moved to a more rural part of the state, but Maryland is small, so I see them often. I have never told them about my sexual orientation, but they have stopped asking about my love life. Occasionally, some silly aunt will make a comment about how I should be married. We all laugh (nervously) and I explain that I'm picky and just haven't met the right person yet. Honestly, my parents know about me, but they still love me and always welcome me into their lives. They may be a little sad and disappointed, but my love life just doesn't enter into our relationship.

When I was going to school, the Catholic grade schools ran into the eighth grade. Until this point, they were co-ed, not until High School were the boy sand girls separated. This meant that I was in class with boys until I was 14. Of course, there was some informal dating going on. In the fifth grade, you began to hear about couples "going together." One poor girl in my class got pregnant in the seventh grade. She was homeschooled until her baby was a year old, and then went to the public schools, where there is a program for young mothers.

All the time when I was growing up, I never liked the boys. They seemed silly and sometimes just plain mean. I guess I got along normally with my brothers, but they are my brothers. It was when I was in the fifth grade that I realized that I was different. The other girls had started talking a lot about boys, but the whole thing just left me cold. I remember when a girl at lunch made the comment that one of the seminarians working with the father at the school had a cute butt. The other girls giggled. I looked up and saw a well-developed eighth grader walking across the lunchroom. With a little shock, I realized that I thought she had a cute butt.

It was when I was in the fourth grade that a new sister came to our school to teach music. All the teacher seem old when you're ten, later I realized that she had to be just out of school. She had taken Holy Orders, she was not a novice. We immediately took a liking to each other. I have a bit of a talent for music, and I became one of her star pupils. At that time I played the violin, later I moved to the cello. She taught me a lot about music (and other things). I started taking individual lessons from her after school.

When I was in the fifth grade, the school arranged a trip to Europe. I don't know where my parents came up with the money to send me, but they did. As I said earlier, they were loving, devoted parents. We spent a week in Rome and three days in Paris. I attended mass at St. Peter's and received the Holy Father's blessing. The trip was great. I loved the museums and the sights—it was a real adventure for an eleven-year-old.

While in Rome, we girls stayed in a convent outside the city (the boys stayed in the Holy City). Most of the sisters there did not speak much English. The building was ancient, over 500 years old. The rooms were small; two of us were assigned to each. I spent most of my time during the trip with sister Flo, she had arranged for me to be in her group. I really had come to love being with her, and she always treated me special.

The third night at the convent, I wasn't feeling well, probably not used to the food. I crept out of my room and down two doors to Flo's room. I knocked very quietly and listened at the door. The convent was very quiet; the only light came from a single lamp at the end of the hallway near the bathroom. I heard through the door what I thought was Sister Flo crying. This upset me a little, and I slowly raised the latch and pushed the door open. You can't imagine my shock at seeing Flo and one of the Italian sisters making love. They were both naked. Flo was lying on her back, propped up on her elbows. The other sister, also naked, was going down on her. I watched in amazement for what must have been half a minute before Flo saw me. She jumped up and pulled me into the room, closing the door behind me. The other nun had a shocked look on her face, she was terrified.

We talked in desperate whispers. The other girl started to cry. After a few minutes, I realized how much trouble they were in if I told anyone what I had seen. Flo would be sent away by the Mother Superior, and the other sister said she would be kicked out of the convent (I guess she was still a novice). She said, in broken English, that she could never go home to her parents, they would not have her back. I did not sleep much that night, I didn't know whether Sister Flo was mad at me or what. I was really nervous the next morning, but at breakfast, Flo came up to me and gave me a big hug. It was then that I knew that everything would be ok.

When we returned to the US, things went normally in school. I still had lessons two afternoons a week with Sister Flo, and occasionally I would see her on Sundays. But, what I had seen had really made a change in my life. It had never occurred to me that two women could have sex, not really. Now I knew differently. I had occasionally masturbated before this, but I really didn't understand what I was doing. Now I had an image in my mind, and I always thought of girls.

I am a thorough believer in the idea that homosexuals are born and not made. My story is not different from every other homosexual that I know. I just knew, from an early age, that I was different. I always found women attractive, it was Sister Flo who gave meaning to my feelings.

After a couple of months, it was spring, I asked Flo about what had happened. She smiled and told me that an eleven-year-old girl shouldn't worry about such things. When she said this, I began to cry. She came over to me and hugged me, rocking me in the folds of her habit. I told her that I was different from the other girls and didn't understand why. I told her that I loved her. I told her that I did "dirty" things in the bathtub and was afraid I would go to Hell for it. I couldn't bring myself to confess to the father, I couldn't be forgiven. I sinned alone, and I really sinned when I took communion. Sister Flo told me that it was all right, Christ knew and loved me and understood. Then she told me that she loved me. I felt very much better riding the bus home that evening.

At my next session, I felt wonderful. Everything was going right. School was going great, and I played the cello beautifully. Between pieces, I asked Flo what it was like. I just blurted it out without thinking. Flo got very serious. She told me that lovemaking was wonderful. She told me that it fulfilled the feeling and excitement of being in love. "But, I love you." I said.

Flo could have dismissed me with a laugh or some sort of platitude. Society would say that this was the right thing to do. Really, she held my ego in her hands—she could have crushed it right there. Instead, she treated me like I mattered, like my feelings mattered. I was in college before I realized how tenderly she had treated me.

She came over to me, kneeling in front of me in my chair. She hugged me, and then she kissed me. Not a little peck on the cheek, but a passionate, loving, lover's kiss. I melted. I stayed late that evening. Atone point, she called my mother and told her we were working on a special piece of music, and she would drive me home later. We made love for two hours. I had never been so close to a woman's body before. I was fascinated by her breasts. I was a different person when I got home that evening. I was a whole person when I got home that evening. Flo and I were lovers for three years. It wasn't until I was in High School that we drifted apart. I started seeing other women (and even a few guys). Flo understood that I needed to fully grow up and learn. She also grew and, realizing her calling, has moved to South America where she works in the slums of a city there. We exchange-mails now. She will always be very special to me.

I remember the whole time as wonderful. I was loved and in love. I know that Flo was 22 at the time, but I have never felt that I was in any way taken advantage of or abused. I only remember the joy of being in love and, for the first time, feeling that love was right. The recent problems in the Catholic Church in the US have really distressed me. Maybe it's different for men and boys, but for me, the experience of being a young person, learning to love from an adult, was a very positive thing. If force or coercion is used, that's different, but I really think that these guys moaning about how they were "abused" ought to lighten up. Many teenagers and pre-teens get involved in gay or lesbian relationship, only to realize after a while that it's not for them. That's fine, what matters is that we learn to be who we are. Flo allowed me to discover things about myself through love. Later, I would struggle with other issues, but because of her love, I have had the self-esteem and self-respect to face many questions about myself.

My story is a long one, and I have finished about a third of it. I am finding that writing it is a good experience, and I hope that I'm not boring you too much. The word processor says that I have written more than 2,000 words, and it is late. I will break my story up and send more along later, if you want it.
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RoosterDance
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Re: Butterfly Kisses: Researching Female Pedophilia

Post by RoosterDance »

First Love
by Karla Jay


I suppose my parents tried to raise me just like other little girls, but it was soon apparent that I was different. Even at two, when the other little girls in Flatbush, Brooklyn, posed in pink lace crinoline dresses and white patent leather shoes, I stood ready for the reflex lens Kodak in my black cowboy hat, boots, floral Western shirt, and holster complete with shiny metal gun. I threw my dolls into the corner of the room and played only with a teddy bear I'd named Corey because he was the color of an apple core that had sat on the table for a long time. I put Corey in the doll carriage my mother had purchased for me, while my brother made off with the dolls and performed major surgery on them. They returned, if at all, as amputees, their heads literally on backwards or their hands gone. Occasionally, a blue eye drooped disgustingly out of a bashed-in porcelain face. Meanwhile, Corey and I paraded up and down St. Paul's Place with the doll carriage. When I got tired, I pushed Corey to one side and crawled into the carriage with him. Still in a crib at home, I was good at sleeping in tight places.

My mother wanted a clean, pink, passive child, one who adored her sterilized apartment and pretty clothes, but I adored chocolate, which made lots of lovely splotches on anything pink. My mother tried hard to keep the world pale velour and crinoline for me, but I was always brown as ice cream and dirt and red as cut knees and elbows. She soon gave up trying to keep me pink; instead, she created a totally pink room for me, with pink French Provincial furniture, hand-made pink beds with posters and canopies, and a pink high-gloss toy cabinet built by one of the carpenters who worked with my father.

The beds came at the same time as our housekeeper Nene, when I was four. Nene was brown like me, but a lot darker. Even though she tried to toilet train me and teach me to sleep in a bed—which my mother had not bothered to do—I loved her dearly. I was a failure at both and wound up black and blue: every night I rolled out of bed as I tried to curl against the crib bars I dreamed were still there.

Summer was my favorite time, when I could play unencumbered by snowsuits, mittens, and, worst of all, hats. And summer was when Nene and I took the BMT to Ebbetts Field to see the Brooklyn Dodgers play. Her passion for the team was undiminished by their losses but ultimately destroyed by their treacherous abandonment of the East Coast for Los Angeles. We never forgave them.

My daily trips to Ebbetts Field ended when I was five. My mother needed intestinal surgery, so my parents sent me to Camp Swatonah. It was there that I had my first love affair.

The camp was in Pennsylvania, just across the border from Calicoon, New York. The bus snaked up Route 17, the so-called "Quick Way," but the trip was long and miserable because the kids my age kept throwing candy and gum at me, or vomiting up their lunch, while the older girls sang a bunch of songs I had never heard before:

"R-A-T-T-L-E-S-N-A-K-E spells rattlesnake" I couldn't spell, but if this was what camp held in store, I didn't like the sound of the whole thing. I held onto Corey and told myself that we were going to be brave in the woods. I prayed someone would be in the woods to tie my shoes for me.

The ride seemed to take days. I was the only one in the Junior group not crying, throwing up, or both, maybe because I didn't know I was supposed to be sad. We finally reached the camp and I rushed out ot the gum-bedecked bus.

Camp Swatonah lay in a valley between two hills. in the very center was small lake, supposedly formed when the mythical Indian Princess Summer-Spring-Winter-Fall sacrificed herself for her people, who were threatened by neighboring tribes, probably the Cohens and the Levites. But, thank God, the bunk—made of crude wooden logs sealed with mud, cement, and straw—wasn't pink. The bathrooms were primitive but working, and there was one shower for all fourteen of us.

Mick greeted us at the door. She had a short d.a. ("duck's ass") haircut, slicked to a perfect point in the back. She was lean, with sharp features; a slow smile lurked on one side of her mouth. She wasn't like my mother, Nene, my grandmother, or my mother's friends. She spoke in a deep, soft, lilting voice, and when she lifted my duffel bag, hauled it over to my locker, and gave me a long hug, I was instantly in love.

Mick loved me too, or so she soon said, because I was just like her. I wondered what she meant. From the moment I arrived in camp I was always having accidents; maybe she was a clod, too. The first week, I slipped on the swimming crib stairs and skinned half my leg. No one understood how I'd done that in the "safety crib," and Mick said she wouldn't mention it in the weekly letter she wrote home for me since I couldn't write at all myself. The second week, I got a huge splinter under a fingernail when I was playing jacks. The doctor had to remove the nail to get it out, and he asked me why I didn't cry.

"Little girls are allowed to cry," he said.

"I'm not really a little girl," I replied.

He picked out the remaining splinters and gave me a candy bar for my bravery.

Maybe Mick had always been in trouble, too, as I always was. I had a talent for catching frogs and toads, and when I couldn't find a place to keep them, I placed them in someone else's bed. I also kept a good supply of crickets and salamanders ready to launch at any older girl who threatened me with force. Though I hated to start a fight, I didn't hesitate once someone else threw a punch. Somehow, I usually wound up tangling with the older girls. They had long arms and would grab my hands, but I butted them with my head until they let go. Mick nicknamed me "Billy the Goat," a name everyone at camp called me for years, without the goat part, of course.

Maybe Mick and I were alike, I reasoned, because we were both unafraid. Mick was the only person who didn't scream when I appeared armed with frogs or snakes. She laughted when I led a fawn into the bunk one night and fed it peanut butter sandwhiches, which it ate with gusto, smacking its lips when they got stuck on the gooey concoction. The only girl in the junior group who rode horses instead of ponies, I would gallop after Mick into town, about two miles away, buy Cokes for a nickel each, and then head back.

I was also the only one unafraid of the water: I followed Mick into the crib, hesitating at first only because the water seemed oddly nonsaline to someone like me, who had spent the first two summers of her life playing in the Atlantic Ocean. I would have followed her anywhere. She taught me how to swim, holding me in her strong, well-muscled arms. I became nothing; I floated without weight. The liquid of the crib joined us; I was no longer sure where I left off and she began. With such a teacher, how could I be afraid?

It was bad enough when I got into fights with the older girls, but when I started butting around my peers, the camp owners got worried. The one we called "Uncle Eddie," a kindly, lean man with a stubbly face, took me aside and gave me a long lecture on being nice to small kids. Since I was one of the youngest campers, it was hard to take him seriously. It was hard to take adults seriously. Despite my immediate positive response to anyone who was affectionate, I felt I couldn't let myself be bullied by an adult. As the toughest kid in the junior group, I had my reputation to protect. I continued fighting until Mick made me "hold boots" to punish me. Standing in the middle of the bunk, I held out her riding boots, stretching out my arms until I felt they would drop off from the searing pain and fatigue. Worse than this was the thought that Mick was punishing me, that she would no longer love me because I was such a monster.

One day, while Uncle Eddie was busy reprimanding another kid at the waterfront for swimming without her "strong buddy," I pushed him into the lake, clothes and all. He pretended to he terrified of coming back onto the shore. He swam out to the raft and tossed his waterlogged shoes onto it before hauling his dripping body out of the water. He made faces at me from afar. He made my reputation.

Finally, he came back to shore and gave me a soggy hug. Then he realized everyone was laughing, and knew that we had set a had precedent for the camp. I was sorry that I had made him wet, he stood there like a drenched hen as he decided what to do with me. After a moment he announced, "I'm going to hang you!"

My execution was set for dinner the next night. Mick told him not to go ahead with it, but the kids in my bunk pleaded against a stay of execution, reminding him that he had to keep his word. I was that popular.

Somehow, I wasn't worried: I tended not to take things seriously. Death itself was unreal to me: the only time I had seen someone die was in Bambi. When Bambi's mother was destroyed in the forest fire, Nene had to take me from the theater. I'd had no idea mothers could die. And my mother was clearly unwell.

That night, however, my main thought when I walked into the dining room was whether the meal would be any good. It was usually chewy meat, overcooked vegetables, and the most disgusting thing of all—milk. I hadn't seen other movies besides Bambi, and the only television I had watched was Howdy Doody and Captain Kangaroo. I had no idea that I was supposed to relish my last meal or make a request.

When the meal ended, Uncle Eddie called me up to the front of the dining room. He read off my offenses and my sentence. Everyone cheered, and I began to feel a bit queasy. I think Uncle Eddie did, too; we had both gone too far. He slowly finished his reading and then swung a rope over one of the huge rafters. Finally, he put the noose around my neck. This was going to be a hard one for either of us to get out of gracefully. Fortunately or unfortunately, at that moment my mother chose to make her one visit of the summer—maybe (it's hard to remember) her only visit during all the years I was at camp.

"It's all a joke," Uncle Eddie said to my mother.

Mother was not amused. She carried on so much that the camp instituted regular assigned visiting days, limiting them to only twice a summer. Despite my mother's threat to bring a lawsuit, I somehow managed to stay at camp that summer. I was more willing to risk my neck than my relationship with Mick, and I felt that had my mother failed to appear (and who knew she would?), Mick would have saved me. I pictured her riding up on Sunshine or one of her other favorite horses and whisking me, noose and all, off the table and into the saddle, even though horses weren't allowed in the dining room. I was a tough kid, but my fantasies were all femme.

Next summer, I returned to Camp Swatonah. As the bus pulled up the red clay road, and parked in the hillside lot overlooking the camp, I felt as if the winter had just been some hazy and prolonged dreams which filled the gap between last summer and this one.

Of course, Mick was there. She was no longer my couselor, since she had been promoted to group leader of the entire Junior contingent. This meant that I would have to share her attentions with a larger group of girls, but it also meant that she had more power.

Unfortunately, authority didn't sit well on Mick. Everything she planned turned out wrong, starting with the first cookout of the season. Cookouts were held every Thursday night so the kitchen staff could have a night off. We trudged up to a cleared field on which were scattered lots of open stone pits covered with grills. Hamburgers were cooked on top and ears of corn were tossed, husks and all, into the ashes.

The dinner bugle sounded. Bugles rang out for every conceivable occasion—reveille in the morning, flag-raising before breakfast, the beginning and end of all group activities, and then taps at night. By the end of the summer, the bugler was blue in the face. She was replaced every year by a fresher, younger mouth, until finally a phonograph record banished those strained notes once and for all. When the cookout bugle call rang out, the older girls bolted up the hill. Since they had longer legs and could run faster, they always got the best pits at the best locations in the middle of the hayfield. We younger girls were stuck on the periphery, where, if you took one wrong step, you were attacked simultaneously by wild raspberry bushes and the poison ivy lurking under them. It was a camp axiom that the younger you were, the itchier you were.

Mick always grumbled when we got the worst pit in the field, but she never made nasty comments about our unbearably short legs or deserted us on the path to run ahead and claim squatter's rights to a better pit. For one thing, she had been the counselor to some of the older girls during their first years at camp. She simply pretended that even though we were farthest from the place where the truck dropped off the food, we really had the best pit and could eat as well as the others.

Of course, her version was never true. We always got the last box of food. Although the older girls had left our corn untouched—they were either on diets or had braces on their teeth—they had already swiped half of our hamburgers.

Since Mick was the group leader, she had to cook our food. Mick was no Julia Child. She could never get the hamburgers to stay on the grill: they either slid into the ashes when she wasn't looking or flew into the poison ivy when she tried to flip them. All twenty-four girls in the group screaming "Rare! Medium! Well-done!" didn't help her concentration much, either. She would threaten us with her spatula and try to coax the mutilated hamburgers into their buns. The corn refused to come out of the ashes when it was done, and by the time she got the ears out, the kernels looked like blacked-out teeth. She didn't have a good sense of which way the wind was going to blow either: The smoke always got into her face so that at the end of dinner she looked like a leftover hamburger.

One Thursday, Mick was given frozen veal cutlets by mistake. Instead of returning them to the kitchen, she assumed they were breaded hamburgers and tried to cook them. Barbecued veal cutlets were not very popular that night, and neither was Mick.

If Mick's cooking had been the only thing that went wrong, the rest of the group might have forgiven her. Unluckily, everything else she touched went wrong, too. One day she planned a boating trip down the Delaware River. She arranged weeks in advance for the rowboats to be trucked to a spot she had chosen for its gentle currents and scenic beauty. She hand-picked the best counselors to row and, auspiciously, a day on which the sun shone brilliantly. There was, however, something she hadn't counted on: drought. When we arrived at the Delaware, the river was bone dry, and the only way to get a rowboat across the river was to carry it across the stony bottom, now occupied by a group of contented rattlesnakes sunning themselves.

Mick was not discouraged. Instead of a rowing expedition, she proposed a long nature hike which would end in a campout on top of a nearby mountain. She chose a sheltered spot and instructed the truck drivers to deliver our sleeping bags and food (precertified as veal free).

After a long trek, we arrived at the campsite. We were all nearly starving, so we urged Mick to make dinner as soon as possible. She went over to a pile of cinder blocks left over from last year's campouts, but the blocks were filled with hornets' nests. Mick was less afraid of hornets than of twenty-four screaming, hungry girls, so she heroically took several rolls of toilet paper, draped them over the nests, and lit them. Naturally, Mick had misplanned the assault. We were upwind from the smoke but downwind from the hornets, who flew at us in a rage. We stampeded down the hill, but not in time. We were all bitten, and Janet, who was allergic to insect bites, had to be rushed to the infirmary.

Finally, we crawled back to the campsite. Mick was standing there covered with hornet bites, making hamburgers with her ususual lack of grace. We were so hungry that as soon as the meat hit our mouths we forgave her. Less forgivable was her burning the S'mores—a magical concoction of Hershey's chocolate, marshmallows, and graham crackers. Mick somehow got herself covered with the melted marshmallows, and her body looked as if she had been attacked by web-weaving spiders.

After dinner, we looked for the outhouse. When we found there was none, we were not amused. Mick directed us to the trees. "Over there, girls. And, uh, I used the toilet paper for the hornets. Use some leaves, and make sure they ain't poison ivy." We shrieked and protested about lurking bears and snakes, but Mick and Jean, another counselor, accompanied us. Afterwards, we were all too glad to crawl into our sleeping bags and go to sleep.

I awoke in the middle of the night, feeling very cold. I had been told there were a million stars in the sky, but I was too near-sighted to see any of them, and anyway they clearly weren't much good at keeping people warm. Finally, I decided I was blue enough to arouse sympathy, so I got out of my sleeping bag and crawled over to where Mick was lying. She wasn't asleep. Maybe she was counting stars or sheep. Maybe she was secretly afraid that bears would come to eat us all in the middle of the night.

"I'm cold!" I whispered desperately and shivered to give emphasis to my statement.

"Go back to your sleeping bag and you'll warm up," Mick growled.

"That's where it's really cold."

Mick unzipped her sleeping bag and gestured for me to climb in. I tucked my head between her two small, hard breasts and breathed in the musky smell of her body and dead smoke from the campfire. I put one arm around her neck and, as I moved up to try to kiss her, I fell asleep.

I was ready to take my first swimming test. The best swimmer in the crib, I wanted to swim in the lake. To be allowed to do this, you had to swim to the raft and back without any help.

Brenda, though she wasn't as good a swimmer as I was, was also ready to take her test and insisted on going first. She jumped in the water after Mick, who went along as a "strong buddy" to guard us. Brenda swam really fast for about a hundred yards and then announced, "I'm tired!" She clutched Mick around the neck and started to sink, taking Mick with her. Mick came up choking and spitting water, but quickly loosened Brenda's grip and pulled Brenda, one hand cupped under her chin, to shore. Another counselor plucked poor Brenda, now sobbing hysterically, out of the water. When Mick got out of the winter, Brenda collapsed in her arms. Mick held her and tried to cumfort her.

I was furious. Couldn't Mick see that Brenda was a jerk and just wanted Mick to hold her? If Mick didn't like "scardey cats," she sure wasn't acting like it.

I told Brenda to hurry up and stop crying—I wanted to take my test. Brenda sobbed even more loudly, but eventually Mick turned her over to another counselor and climbed back into the water.

I climbed in after her. The water felt much colder than the crib, especially when I put my feet down. I couldn't see the bottom, except for some vague, mossy shadows that looked like rocks. I was afraid the fish would bite my toes when I swam, but I was determined to do better than Brenda.

I swam slowly. Mick was a few feet in front of me. With her there, I could have swum the ocean! I made it easily to the raft and swam back almost as easily.

Shivering, I strutted up the ladder and onto the deck. All the counselors congratulated me, and Mick hugged me and crowed, "You're another Esther Williams!"

"Who's Esther Williams?" I asked.

Mick laughed and pinned a small gold star on my swimsuit.

"I guarantee it will work, Billy," Andi assured me. Believe me, it's foolproof."

She had to be right. After all, Andi wasn't in the older group for nothing: she had to know by now all the tricks which were best for total revenge. Besides, I was mad enough now at Mick to try anything. After all, Mick had been showing Beth an awful lot of favor lately. She had even let Beth fold the flag when it was our group's turn. I would teach her a lesson.

I did just what Andi said. I got up before the bugle one morning and checked to make sure that Mick was sound asleep. Then I went into the bathroom and got some cold water, which I heated up with some matches I swiped from another counselor. When it was body temperature, I took it to Mick's bed and poured it into her outstretched palm. This was supposed to make her pee in her bed, but something went wrong. Mick woke up.

"What the hell, Billy!" she screamed, shaking her hand.

I tried to look innocent. "Your hand was dirty. I decided to wash it.

"Like hell you were. I know the trick. Why did you do it? You've turned on me.

More like you turned on me—letting Beth fold the flag."

"So that's it!" Mick smiled. "You can't do everything, you know. There are twenty-four girls in the Junior group, and you ain't them. Next time, maybe Teny or Randy will fold the flag. You've got to learn to share things with them. You know I love you best. I'm not sharing that.

This was Andi's fault. I, who never cried, was about to burst into tears, but Mick wasn't going to let me wet her shoulder, too.

"Hey, I get enough tears from Brenda every day. Cut that stuff and shine my shoes for what you done."

I polished Mick's saddle shoes with joy, trying not to get black polish on the white parts. It was challenging—like a coloring book; I liked to work on things that I could look at very closely. Yes, I felt better, and I knew that I would feel even better once I had stuffed some green apples down Andi's lying throat. I contemplated the idea and waved the shoe brush menacingly.

"What are you planning now?" asked Mick.

"Oh, nothing. Just admiring this brush."

"Sure."

When I had graduated to the last bunk in the Junior group, we were allowed to go with the Middies to a social at the boys' camp. Without my bunk, there would be too few girls. The ratio of boys to girls, it seemed, had to be equal.

"What's a social?" I asked Mick.

"Well," said Mick, blushing and drawling, "it's a party where you'll get to meet the boys from the other side of the lake, and you'll get to dance with them."

I was suspicious. "Dance with them? Who wants to dance with them? Who wants to dance, period? Why can't we challenge them to a game of newcomb, instead?"

"Uncle Eddie thinks that a dance will be fun for a change."

She wasn't convincing. Square dancing couldn't be much fun if we had to take baths first.

Cleaned up and miserable, we were all dressed in stiffly starched skirts or shirts and then marched around the lake to the boys' camp.

We were put into squares and assigned partners. I got stuck with Tim, a little boy with a blond buzz cut. He said that he hated all this dosie-do stuff (he was an older Middie and had been to one social already) and that he'd give me a piece of gum if I'd sneak out with him. He knew a place where they'd never find us.

I liked Tim immediately. At last I knew that some boys could think as well as I could. I told him to wait until old eagle-eyed Jean went for a glass of punch and then we could sneak out. We pretended to dance, while the counselors stood by, explaining the calls on the scratchy square-dance records. It was going to be hard to get out of there: one counselor was watching every square of eight kids. But the hope of escaping kept me doing all those silly motions.

Intermission came, and while Jean was getting some punch and Mick was talking to Tad—another female counselor who was always hanging around when Mick wasn't on duty—Tim and I headed out the door. We stuck close to the walls and scampered over his bunk—the last place, he said, that his counselor would look for him.

He showed me the bunk, which was exactly like ours, except that the boys already had indoor plumbing—bathrooms as well as running water. Then he showed me his cubby. He took out two pairs of white socks and stuck them under his tee shirt. He said that that was what his sister looked like, adding "And you're going to look like that too in a few years."

I knew that he was lying—Mick was older than his sister, and she didn't look like she had two socks stuck under her shirt, and neither did my mother—so I punched him. Tim said, "I never hit girls," so I punched him again. Then I knew that Tim was a down-and-out liar, because he punched me back.

"I thought you don't hit girls," I said, wiping blood from my nose.

"You're an exception."

"Good. In that case, we can be friends."

We shook hands, and I wiped the rest of the blood onto my shorts.

Mick spotted us as we came back into the social hall. "Where were y'all?"

"Oh, we were just out on the porch getting some fresh air." I hoped my nose had stopped bleeding.

"Well you must have tripped down the stairs then, 'cause your pants are covered with blood," she laughed, and then added, "I can see you've had a good time at your first social."

I had. If this was what socials were about, I could hardly wait for the next one.

Tad didn't like me because Mick was so fond of me. One day when Mick wasn't around, she told me that Mick was dead. I shook my head in disbelief: though Bambi had shown me that mothers could die, I refused to believe that cousnselors, too, were mortal.

I ran wildly around the camp looking for Mick. I asked several counselors where she was, but they didn't know. I was in despair. I moped in the bunk, saying I was too sick to go to group activities. I refused to go to the infirmary.

I sat in the bunk until it was time for dinner, and I sat there while the rest of the bunk went off to eat. It was rare for me to miss anything involving food. Corey tried to comfort me, to no avail.

Suddenly, Mick walked in. By this time, I really believed that she was dead, so I screamed, "It's a ghost!" and ran like hell out of the bunk. Mick saw how white with fear I was, but she thought I might be up to another one of my pranks, so she laughed and gave chase.

Finally, she caught up to me and grabbed me by the arm. "What the heck is going down here?"

"You're dead. Let me go!"

"Why do you think I'm dead?"

"You're a ghost! Don't haunt me! Tad said you're dead. She even showed me the rock they're going to bury you under." Despite my frantic explanations, I was beginning to calm down.

"Now who are ya going to believe, her or me? I say that I'm alive and that Tad is a doggoned liar. Now ya got to believe me. Y'hear?"

I saw for myself that Mick was alive and unchanged. She was in the dark blue denims she wore on her day off so she must have been in town while I ran all over the camp looking for her. I grew quiet.

"Then why'd she say that?"

"She was just joshin' you. But it was mean, and I'm going to tell her so."

"Are you going to beat her up?"

"No."

Mick didn't beat Tad up, but I noticed that Tad didn't hang around Mick so much anymore, and I was glad.

The last day of camp, we all had a skinny dip—a tradition supposedly due to the fact that our bathing suits were already packed, along with everything else that was going home, in the trunk. Some wise girl in the Inter group, however, suggested that the skinny dip tradition had originated in Uncle Eddie's dirty mind. That story was followed by another suggesting that our entire skinny dip was being observed by telescopes strategically placed in the boys' camp. I countered that no boy could see that far, no matter what he was looking through, and even if they could see, I, for one, was not going to be deprived of a last swim.

My reasoning made sense to the juniors, who unanimously threw off their shorts and T-shirts and jumped into the water. The seniors were not so sure, or maybe they just had more to hide, so they sat miserably on the shore while we swam around in the buff. The counselors also had their clothes on and had to be rowed out to the rafts. Several juniors pretended they were drowning so that counselors would have to jump into the water and get their clothes wet, but the counselors weren't having any of it. "Go ahead and drown," said Jean. "It will be one less trunk to pack." We stuck out our tongues at her and went to annoy another counselor.

Mick stood on the shore with a safety pole. She was in shorts like the other counselors, and I remembered that last summer, too, she had refused to go skinny-dipping. I dog-paddled over and tried to taunt her into getting undressed.

"How come you ain't skinny-dipping like the rest of us? Are you chicken?"

"Nope. Don't feel like it."

"Come on. Admit it. You're scared like the seniors."

"Nope."

Mick was getting monosyllabic, and that was a sure sign that she was pissed off.

"Spoil sport!" I called and swam off before she could reply.

The night before we left, the harvest moon was shining bright and orange in my window, and that brought home to me the contrast between camp and the life I would be returning to. I was sad and hugged Corey closer. He was never sad. I held him tight and fell asleep.

The next day we ate a quick breakfast and were packed into the waiting buses. Mick rode back to the city in my bus, and she said that in the city she had to get on another bus which would take her home to Virginia. I asked her why she came so far every summer, and she said that she didn't like the ways of the South, even though she lived and went to school there.

The ride home always seemed faster than the ride up to camp, maybe because I never wanted to go home to the gray city. The others, too, were less boisterous than on the trip up to camp, even though they still sang color war songs and other camp ditties.

Soon we arrived in New York City. I saw Nene and my father in the crowd ready to pick me up; as usual, my mother wasn't there. Mick and I were the last ones to get off the bus. She took my hand and helped me down. Then she leaned over and kissed me gently on the forehead.

"So long, sport," she said, and then she disappeared into the crowd.

____________________

Karla Jay has written, edited, and translated ten books, the most recent of which is Tales of the Lavender Menace: A Memoir of Liberation. Her anthology, Dyke Life, won the 1996 Lambda Literary Award in the category of Lesbian Studies. She is editor of NYU Press's series, “The Cutting Edge: Lesbian Life and Literature.” She has written for many publications, including Ms. magazine, the New York Times Book Review, the Village Voice, Lambda Book Report, and the Haward Gay and Lesbian Review. She is a professor of English and Director of Women's and Gender Studies at Pace University in New York City.
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Re: Butterfly Kisses: Researching Female Pedophilia

Post by RoosterDance »

Interview: Heidi
Heidi is an attractive Danish woman of 24, a mixture of shyness and tomboyish behavior; slim, blond, with an intense interest in the world. The interview took place in her house in Copenhagen, in the fall of 1990.


Heidi: When I was thirteen I wasn't particularly interested in school, just going there like everybody else. I was a bit fast, a tomboy. I liked to party and have fun.

One day our teacher was sick and we got a new substitute teacher. She was cute and very charming; rather young too, at least in my mind. I think she was 28. She had a strong personality. The whole class talked about her; the boys were madly in love with her, and I fell in love with her too.

After substituting for us she was given another class, of retarded children with learning problems. Every morning I'd arrive an hour and a half before school started just to see her walk into the school yard, and say hello to her. I tried to be wherever I thought she would be. I knew I had to do something, so I made a plan. I became good friends with one of the retarded children in her class. We got along so well that the school asked me if I could help him with his homework. That was a good opportunity for me to get close to her, because I could go to the class when she was teaching them. We started taking the children to the park for their exercise.

I remember, sitting there as usual before school, waiting for her to come. She knew I was sitting there and waiting. She came through the gate and there was this big flagpole in the middle of the school yard. I was waving and saying “Hi!” She turned and looked at me and waved and kept looking at me while she was walking on. And so she walked right into the flagpole. And broke her glasses! It was funny, but it was also important to me because it was a sign; it made me realize that something was going on also for her.

I had an hour off in the middle of the day and that is when, almost every day, I went to the park with her class. I would put my arm in her arm, or we would hold hands. Then one day in the park, when the kids were playing soccer, I don't know how it happened, we started to hug. That was wonderful, I felt very good about it.

I made sure we saw each other as much as possible. What I did, for example, was tell my history teacher that I had an awful headache and asked if I could go for a walk. Then I would go to the class where she was substituting and she would tell the children that I had been bad in my own class and she would let me sit an extra hour there. We would flirt a bit. She'd walk over to where I was sitting, stand behind me and put her hands on my shoulders looking at my work. She would say “No, that is not the right way; you can do it better like this.” It was a way for her to show me that she liked me. It was exciting, because nobody else knew and we shared a secret. Teachers in Denmark are not allowed to have relationships or anything like it with the pupils outside school, so we met in the school building or in the park. Not just in the classroom though. There was a school recreation room where there was a ping-pong table, and billiards. We met and talked together in a corner, even holding hands.

Sometimes I bumped into her during the day. For instance, I would go upstairs to the bathroom and then by accident she would come upstairs too. I was the chairwoman of the student council and I made sure I always had something to do in the teachers' room. I'd stand around while they were drinking coffee and she'd come up to me and talk to me a bit and touch my arm or my shoulder. Not much, just a little. I could feel that she also wanted to be with me, which was a wonderful feeling.

By final exam time I couldn't concentrate at all. I was dreaming about her. I saw her everywhere; I couldn't think of anything else. During the math exam I took a compass and scratched the first letter of her name in my hand. It's still there, you can see it when it's cold. I was so in love with this woman! I told everybody I was in love with a teacher and all the other students tried to figure out who it was, all the men's names that started with “E”, but they couldn't find out. She knew, of course.

One day when I had gone to the park again with her and her class, we started hugging and kissing. I think she started it but I didn't say no. I had kissed boys, but I was never in love with them. This was totally different. I was in love with her, so it felt much more intense, more exciting, because it was so secretive. We were in a public park and somebody might see us. The kids might come running over any moment. We were hiding behind a tree, kissing. It was exciting, but also a little scary. I had this strange feeling in my stomach I didn't understand or know what to do with. But it was wonderful to be so close to her, to feel her body and her warmth. To hug and be hugged, and be touched by her. It was all physically exciting. I wanted to be close to her. But I never thought about having sex with her or anything like that. That was not what was going though my mind.

The hugging and kissing also meant that we had moved to another stage in our relationship. The kids in her class knew about the hugging; we would hug them and each other, that was all right. But to kiss was something else. We became more careful, because we were afraid the kids would find out and scream, “They are kissing each other!” It went on for a couple of months. We wouldn't kiss all the time, but when we couldn't stand it any more we d hide in the bushes and kiss while the kids ran ahead.

During this whole period I felt a lot of excitement. I was so attracted to her, I had to see her, speak to her. But I also felt good about school in general; got to love it. Even when I was sick I'd go to school in order to see her. I couldn't get her out of my mind.


Trust and Separation

I had a lot of problems at home at that time. She paid a lot of attention to me and took me seriously.

As I look back on it, I think that it was the fact that I could trust her and that she treated me like an adult, that made me fall in love with her. I needed someone to trust, somebody who did not treat me as a child. It's easy to fall in love with someone who gives you that. She was also willing to take a big risk because of me. I was a minor, a girl, a student. It was all forbidden. Her taking a risk for me also made me trust her. It made her special. She thought I was important enough to take such a big risk. We were very close, we were in it together and that gave me a strong feeling. The contact we had was special, really because there was so much trust. She told me about her life and she wanted to hear everything about mine. I told her about my problems, about everything. That's how she helped me.

Of course I knew I was doing something “wrong.” Not because I was underage, but because it was a woman I was in love with. That made it more complicated. It was why I felt I couldn't tell anybody. But I never felt guilty about it, even though I knew it was “wrong.”

One day, all of a sudden she told me she couldn't do it anymore. She was afraid the school would find out and she would be fired; that it probably was best for us to stop. I asked her why and she said it was too dangerous, she couldn't be with a student the way we were.

I was very, very sad; my world fell apart. I had been dreaming that she was also in love with me, and then suddenly she stopped it. I tried to get in contact with her, but she pulled away. So that was that. It was the biggest fiasco of my life. I thought to myself that it must have been only a flirtation for her. It hadn't meant enough to her for her to continue. But now, looking back, I realize that maybe it was not just a flirtation for her, the way I thought it was then. Maybe we had become too close and she didn't know anymore how to handle it. Maybe it had grown into something bigger and she wanted more, which was impossible with a student under 15. I don't know, we never talked about it again.

I continued seeing her in school and in a way I was grateful that I could still see her, look at her, know that she hadn't gone away or been fired. I did try to talk to her, when she had to correct my homework at home, I would write her notes.

But she never answered, she kept her distance. It was the fact that she broke it off so abruptly and completely that hurt me so much. She had been the light of my life and by losing her I had to go back to everyday reality.

It had been a wonderful summer and a very important episode in my life. I had always had feelings for women, but through her I realized that I might be gay. I had had such strong feelings, I hadn't slept or eaten. It was so clear to me that I was in love, which meant to me that I must be gay. After the fiasco with her, for about four years I had boyfriends. What was left if I couldn't get her? 1 didn't want to get hurt again. Then, when I was about 18, I made a clear choice for women.


Looking Back

Looking back, I think I would have liked to have had sex with her. At that time it was not the most important thing for me. I don't know how much I knew about sex at the age of thirteen. I think I would have been afraid—afraid, that is, of not knowing how to do it or how to do it right. I had read about sex and heard about it on TV. But to actually do it? On the other hand, she was so gorgeous, it would have been wonderful if we could have been close, to feel her without her clothes. She meant everything to me. I really regret that we didn't do it.

I did masturbate, while imagining being with her. I would build up stories in my head when I masturbated. Before I met her it had been fantasies about anonymous women, somebody without a head. After we met I would think about her; my anonymous person had a face. I felt closer to her.

The other side is that maybe it was better that sex didn't happen because of the mess it might have caused. I already had enough problems with my parents and if they had found out we were having sex, it would have made things more difficult with them; for me and for her. She might be fired.

I wanted to take the risk, and in fact I did take some risks, like kissing in the park, and hugging. But nothing more. I was too frightened to go further. I didn't know whether I was gay or not. I tried to talk to my mother a bit about being in love with a teacher without telling her whether it was a man or a woman. She was nice about it. She said it was normal for kids at that age to have feelings for a teacher and she told me that she had been in love with one of her teachers, a woman. And that it would pass. She never knew though that it was a woman I was in love with until just a short time ago. I told her now, because we were having the interview. She was surprised I had had these feelings for women at such an early age. She had always thought that I had become gay when I was 18 even though 1 had told her that it had started much earlier. She never wanted to hear that, and I think mothers in general don't want to hear that kind of thing. She had the idea that something had to happen to become gay, like being seduced by another woman; that I had had a weak moment and a woman had come by and seduced me. She couldn't think of me as the seducer.

It is amazing how much this teacher meant to me and how strong the memories still are. I saw her again about six years later. I went back to school one day to say hello to my old teachers and I saw her. I just saw her; we didn't talk at all. I thought, is this the woman 1 had been so much in love with? Was this the woman I had all these fantasies about, was this my dream—princess? I still think of her sometimes, still have loving sexual memories of her. If I met her again today, and we talked, I don't know, maybe I would try to come on to her; to get to know her sexually, since I am still very curious. We would talk and get to know each other, talk about what had happened and, well, who knows? Today it wouldn't be forbidden; I'm older and out of the closet.

I have also been asking myself whether the teacher seduced me, but she didn't. She didn't have to say much to encourage me to come on to her, and she certainly didn't have to do much to get me to hug her and kiss her. I would have loved to have walked hand-in-hand with her in the streets and have our arms around each other, to show the whole world that I loved her and that somebody loved me.
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Re: Butterfly Kisses: Researching Female Pedophilia

Post by RoosterDance »

To Miss With Love — Four Lesbians Recall Their Own Schoolgirl Loves
Interviews by Fiona Sandler
September 21st 1993.


Interview 1

When I first saw Sandy, I was completely overwhelmed by her. I was 14 and she walked into the classroom smoking a cigarette and wrote "Fuck" on the blackboard. She was American and that didn't happen at our school. It was an ex-private boys' school and we were only the second intake of girls. They had to ship in female teachers — and it was considered churlish not to have at least five boyfriends.

My crush started off slowly and got bigger and bigger. I would write her poems in my essays. One time I'd written a poem all about where she lived — I'd found out and looked in the window. She read out the whole poem to the class. At the end I'd written: "I worship you so much, I have you on a pedestal." She said: "The only reason you've got me on a pedestal is to look up my skirt" and threw it at me. I was mortified. She suffered it for a long time, about two years. After one school disco I rang her up, said I had a problem and that she had to come and pick me up. She did; it was about 2am and she took me to Safeway's car park. I told her I was in love with her and that I didn't care, I just wanted to kiss her — and I made her snog me in the back of her maroon Mini. I told her that I knew I was always going to feel like this about her, I didn't fancy anyone else and I couldn't get her off my mind. She said: "Look, nothing's permanent", drove me back to my mum and dad's, gave me two Polo mints, said, "You'd better suck these" and that was that.

We used to hang out a bit together but it was all in my head. She knew about it but kept me at arms length. In the meantime, I had become friendly with my French teacher and her husband, who also taught at the school. She was 25 and had just made the transition from student to teacher. I really fancied her and we became closer. For about a month her husband turned a blind eye — but then he went back to Paris.

One day I was at my house with my French teacher when my mum unexpectedly came home and opened the door. Her hair literally stood on end. I was naked, changing a record, with my French teacher lying on the bed — the last time they'd seen each other was at a parent and teacher night. I thought it was hilarious — 15 and my whole world was shattered. My mum ran next door to get our neighbours, who were police, to arrest us, she wouldn't let us leave the house until my dad got home. When he arrived, he threw her out and told me that either I changed or left; he didn't want my little brother turning into a Poof. I knew I couldn't change, so I went and lived with my teacher.

At the time, I was adamant that I wasn't gay. I didn't think I was until I was about 19, even though I had slept with loads of women. I thought I was bisexual.


Interview 2

In my second year, when I was 12 or 13, a new teacher came along, Miss Rogers. She was just gorgeous and when she asked me to play for the hockey team, I immediately said yes. It meant playing three or four times a week and getting up really early on a Saturday. I hated the game but she WAS the coach, so I knew she would be there. I'Il never forget the one time when our school won, I'd scored both goals, and at the end she came up and gave me a big hug. She was so happy and I was on cloud nine for days and days.

All this constant hockey playing kept on until my fourth year, when she asked me if I would try out for the Edinburgh Young Ladies' hockey team. The situation was totally out of hand. I was playing hockey all the time to impress her, but I never enjoyed the game. It was just to be where she would be. I said yes, of course, because she was going to coach me personally. The try-outs were between three and four months away, and it meant a lot of time with her.

I was constantly attempting to get her attention. I dyed my fringe red so she would notice me. The hockey uniform was long green socks and I would wear one long green sock and one long white sock just because I thought there might be the remotest possibility that she would one day come up and asked me why my socks didn't match.

She was always so nice to me. She was a big Gerry Rafferty fan, so I went out and bought all his albums. I remember constantly listening to Baker Street and it still always reminds me of coming home from hockey practice.

A week before the try-outs, I went for a coffee with her after practice. I asked her if she was with anyone and she said yes, and that she and her boyfriend were building a house together. I couldn't believe it. She had to repeat it again and then she told me they were engaged and planning to get married. That moment was the end of my hockey career. I never tried out — I gave it up completely.

I was 15 and heartbroken but I'm pleased I went through it. It was my first serious thing for a woman and it did make me know I was a dyke — I went out with my first girlfriend a couple of months later.


Interview 3

I went to a big comprehensive school in the north of England and stood out in some ways for being popular and quite bright. Getting towards 16, I had the usual traumas of being different — I knew what lesbians were, but I certainly wasn't into the idea of being one. I assumed that none of my peers knew what was going on but one teacher did and she kept me behind one day. I was nervous, thinking I had done something wrong. She said she had noticed I'd changed — I wasn't laughing as much — and that she was concerned. Was anything wrong I said no, she accused me of lying and I flounced off. This was reported and I was told to apologise for being rude. I went along and she confronted me: "Maybe I should put it to you like this — you're not like the other girls, are you?"

This hit the nail on the head for me. I just sat there and went to pieces in front of her, I couldn't string a sentence together. She thought I needed to talk to someone about it, so she set up us meeting under the guise of extra exam tuition. I went to her house after school once a week and she would literally talk at me for an hour. My parents thought it was brilliant that she was taking an interest.

After the third time, she said to me: "Maybe I ought to tell you that I find you very attractive." I had mixed feelings about it — I felt very honoured but I didn't have the emotional capacity to deal with it. I did have a crush on her, which is probably what brought me to her attention, and if it had been left to run its course. That's all it would have been. As it happened, we did have a relationship but I was a nervous wreck at school. Her O level was the only one I failed. We saw each other for about 10 months and not a soul new, which was very stressful. I had to lie to my parents and my friends, and everyone wanted know who the mystery man was.

The relationship ended when she said that I had to choose — live with her or go. She didn't want anyone to know, she just wanted me to come and live in her house. At 16 I was too young to cope with it: she was 12 years older. I thought: "I just can't live like that." Basically I was scared. If I asked her what would happen if we were found out, she'd say: "Nobody will find out if you keep your mouth shut." The power she had was amazing.

Looking back now, I view the relationship as a good thing. It made me realise there were other people out there like me. It enabled me to know that I could make the choice but it also confused me in some ways. It was too much too soon. I was so young and inexperienced I had moments, though, when I thought: "This is love."


Interview 4

The teacher I fell in love with seemed really young — she was 26 — had huge tits I and was there when, at 14, I was feeling very vulnerable, just after my father had died. I collected things she threw at me to shut me up, little bits of chalk; she threw a keychain once. I kept them in a little box in the attic. I had about 50 notes she'd written. I kept asking to go to the toilet to get them. I would trace her handwriting and smell the paper. I raked in her drawers at break time and memorised pieces of information about her. I knew all her registration numbers and the names and addresses of all the places where she had taught. I would watch her play hockey — she was an international player. I was the only person standing and cheering in the rain. Once her clogs were stolen on a school outing and I lent her my trainers. I lied and said I only lived around the corner, and walked home in my socks just so she would have her feet in my training shoes for three whole hours.

When I told her I was in love with her, she said: "I'm very flattered but I'm not a homosexual. There's nothing wrong with being one, though. when you leave school, you'll meet more people like that but right now there aren't any."

I wrote massive passionate letters to her which I used to get her to read out loud to me at break time. She never got a break: I would always go up to the staff room to give her an- other letter: "I love you, I want you, I really fancy you. If I don't spend my life with you, I will die. I need to have sex with you." She'd then keep the letter saying she was afraid of it falling into the wrong hands.

Summer holidays were the worst I didn't get to see her for six weeks, but I'd phone her four times a day. I would cycle to school to stare into the biology lab where she taught during termtime. I used to try to smell her in class and if I smelt her up close — she smelt of Rive Gauche perfume and tobacco — I'd want to faint, I was so in love with her. I failed all my examinations because I loved her. Whenever she left the exam hall after supervising a test, I would leave as well, even if it was only 10 minutes into the exam, and follow her along the hall just to have three minutes alone with her.

We still meet up sometimes. She says it was the notes she couldn't handle because she thought they would ruin her teaching career. She could cope when I was 13 or 14 but when I got to 16 and more mature, she couldn't. We both went through such a lot together that we share a special place in each other's hearts. Being in love with her made me feel that being gay meant never being able to get who I wanted, any woman at all. It would always mean unrequited love, me in the background staring at some woman who was untouchable. I thought my whole life would be like that.
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