Now, just to make myself clear, I am a not a pedophile. I like adult females. This is plain to see from my criminal record. But let me tell you this: if I were a pedophile (and once again, I assure you I’m not), today I would have encountered the hottest girl I’d ever seen.
It was about four o’clock in the afternoon. I was sitting on a park bench, reading my newspaper and there she was - a rosy-faced blonde girl, no more than five years old, having a picnic with her parents. Since I have perfectly normal sexual preferences, I thought she was a cute little girl but thought little more of her.
If I were a pedophile, though, I would have paid her much more attention. I would have only pretended to be reading my newspaper while I constantly tried to catch glimpses of her. I would have appreciated the subtle signs of beauty that few other observers would catch. For instance, she had many missing teeth. Most people (myself included) would consider it an endearing mark of childhood, but nothing more. But if I were a pedophile, my head would swim with dirty thoughts about how her mouth would feel. Or her eyes. Anyone would find them pretty, but as a pedophile, they would have appeared to me as having a smoky, unmistakably slutty look. But in spite of that, she seemed quite shy. While shyness is appealing in any girl, it is especially so when I want to avoid her being too chatty about her experiences, or being prone to screaming.
After half an hour of engrossed reading that would have been torturous acting had I really been a pedophile, the girl got up and hopped on a swing all by herself. Had I not caught it by chance out of the corner of my eye, I would not have noticed her. But if I were a pedophile, I would have been fixated by her every move. I would have been hypnotized by her back and forth swinging movements, and fantasized that her widely parted legs meant she was presenting herself to me. Her broad smile would seem to my lustful mind to be a means of beckoning me.
I often have trouble plucking up the courage to talk to a girl, especially if there are a lot of people close by. They make me uncomfortable. As a pedophile, I would be no different, especially when those people are her parents. But knowing I could not let this opportunity pass me by, I would have taken a deep breath and approached the girl. I would feel a sudden surge of confidence as I did so, allowing me to effortlessly proceed to seduce her with my wit, charm and chloroform. She would fall into my arms, evidently so enamored with me that she could not wait for our immense passion to be consummated. I would duly oblige, whisking her away to a secret, secluded spot of mine. There, under the warm glow of the fluorescent lights, we would make sweet, bloody love.
Of course, I did none of that. In reality, once I had finished reading the newspaper, I went for a brisk walk, took in the sunshine and sympathized with the parents of the now-missing girl like everyone else did.
So why, do you ask, did I bother regaling you with this purely hypothetical recounting? Well, I am passionate that beauty must be cherished wherever it may arise. And if that beauty comes in a form best appreciated by a fictional alter-ego, I will assume that guise. And if that alter-ego must diverge into extended fantasises that the prudish may find repugnant, I will not repent. To criticize me for this is to criticize beauty itself.