I’m gonna miss handshakes, ya know? The honest comfort of flesh and blood. This flesh and blood, it’s honest, isn’t it? It tells the truth, doesn’t it? The wind in your hair, rain on your face, sun-warmth between your shoulder-blades–perception’s straight up. Kissing. Stretching. Blowing off. Forget René: the senses don’t lie, not about the big things, not about what it’s like to be here.
[Lucifer] Paedophilia’s what I call a flexible gain investment. It yields profit in umpteen different ways. Most obviously there’s the immediate suffering of the children, followed by the shame, the guilt, the self-disgust, the not being believed, the hatred. Not least the now loudly ticking clock of their own desire, all those dream-rich hours and days before the early damaged gestates and they start fiddling with youngsters themselves. Then there are the perpetrators. Again the shame, again the self-loathing, again the useless guilt. Useless to God, I mean. Guilt’s only useful to God as a prologue to penitence and a change of ways. But based on guilt no Paedophile’s ever going to change in ways. The desire for nippers is too strong. Guilt’s simply no match for it. It goes: desire-gratification-guilt-desire-gratification-guilt-desire-gratification-guilt and so on. It’s a mechanism, interrupted if they get caught by the cops and banged up by a judge, but otherwise unstoppable except via hard psychic or professional graft which neither his perp nor his world is remotely interested in investing in. Then there’s the suffering of the parents (in cases where it’s not actually the parents wots dunnit, I mean). The horror of being afraid of their own sullied child. The shame of having suspected and done nothing. The shame of having known and done nothing. But best of all, by far the best of all, is the opportunity it gives the self-righteous mob.
Look closely the next time a Paedophile comes via he media to the attention of his peers, look closely at the faces of the outraged mob. That’s where you’ll find me. Those pixilated tabloid stills of good mums and dads transformed by righteousness into grimacing beasts, bellowing for blood, teaching their children to hate first and ask questions later (or better still never), buoyed and inflated by the gobbled-up lie that they’re doing God’s work. This is Paedophilia’s quality yield: the indignant mob bloodthirsty with decency, obscenely relieved of the burden of thought and the yoke of argument.