The one awesome thing about being a pedophile, in the literal sense of the word, (not the societal abuse of the term), is just how intense and persistent an emotion we can experience. As a youth, I became sexually oriented in my early teen years. Then, for the next fifty years, my daily life centered on my appreciation, my obsession, my spiritual craving, for what my mind defined as “The Way to Worship”. Normal adult males spend most of their lives working or scheming to support their families and, comparatively, little time enjoying the pleasures of intimacy. Yet, for me, my world stops instantly so I can focus exclusively on any suggestion of exposure to heaven. Often. How many seventy year old men can attempt to, (or given the opportunity to actually) procreate once or twice a day? Relatively few people can stare at a picture for hours at a time and just revel in the serotonin, dopamine, and testosterone cocktail circulating in the container of their minds. I don’t have to lust after little girls; I WANT to. Of course, I have learned that you can’t just jump off a cliff and belly flop into the waters of sexual society. And, because I am old and ugly now, I’ll never get the chance to step anywhere beyond the magic that a camera can offer me. But, for me, the sunset of my years is quite enjoyable because of those cameras. My eyes can explore imagery that legally can evoke a replay of those intense memories I have gathered over the years. Perhaps, just maybe, my current healthy longevity is the result of an ongoing biological program of procreation, (successful or not), that tricks the body into extending the various systems of life. Yes, occasionally my body has needed some error correction, (such as the recent adventure involving cancer), but I still am breathing regularly. I’m still on the best side of the cemetery’s grass. Miraculously, I have paused this morning and managed to craft a short essay that you are now reading. In a moment, I will return to continue my staring at a simple, clothed young girl’s image that I’ve been staring at for the past four hours. No, I’m not lusting after Her. I’m enjoying the pleasure of just looking at Her image, a coordinated mix of reds, greens, and blues that my computer monitor is creating and I perceive as a beautiful image. I hope to die, (many years from now), with Her image, or an image of someone like Her, in my mind. What a way to go, eh?