- My heart has weakened and I can barely feel it when I press my hand against my chest. Instead I feel my grotestque breast which refuses to remain pre-pubescent as I finally learn how fast my heart beats. I regret, but for once it is not my fault.
For some time now I have been concerned about my fetish for girl-children, and lately my ****** likings have managed to prefer a younger categorisation of females. I am not concerned because I fear that this is a sick disorder of mine, nor do I fear that people will prejudice against me because of what I find attractive. It is rather that I fear for how much I yearn for not only my own lolita, but myself to be a beautiful, soft skinned, flat chested lolita.
Soft skinned, flat chested, beautiful lolitas. How they are the very image of perfection. It is not how innocent they are, it is not how vulnerable they are, it is not how naive they are that attracts me to them (as many people are mistaken); it is simply because they are so beautiful and tender. How I long to caress my own, sweet darling and stroke her perfect hair, cry at her perfect eyes and kiss her perfect lips. How I long to be a caressed sweet darling, to have my perfect hair stroked, to have my perfect eyes cried for, to have my sweet, perfect lips kissed.
What I cannot understand is how I can long and yearn for these two opposites.
I had recently borrowed Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov (recently being today). I was naturally drawn to the title, but making sure this wasn't some bullshit pretentious book I quickly flicked through the pages and chose a random page to read. It was terrible. I wanted to collapse and cry and wail. It was perfect. The words he used that I could understand of his precious lolita - this book was made for me.
Oh, those precious dull eyes, those precious dry lips, those precious thighs that I could never have. That no one would let me have. That nymphets would flaunt at me but only think of me as a piece of meat. And if I were male? If I were a beautiful, narcissistic, metrosexual male who dressed in New Romantic clothing? Would they then long for my good looks and charm? Would I even have the slightest chance then? Goodness, I could only wish, but I am no male. What are the chances of a pathetic, self-consumed, woeful fourteen year old being of any interest to a darling lolita?
The pale soft skin that I could forever cling to. Thin lips, Bambi eyes, long hair, sweet face. Neither fat nor thin, nor even chubby. Simply perfect.
I cannot read more than a paragraph at a time. It is too much. It is everything I could ever wish for. I doubt that I would ever regret going to jail for such a heaven.
Oh, and to be one. To be the very image of perfection. To have soft thighs, sweet ankles, tiny feet, small, dry lips, Bambi eyes, graceful yet clumsy ebony hair. To have everything. To be everything. Why can I not be one? Why was I never one? It is too late for me to be a nymphet. I am disgusting and filthy, ugly and fat, old and imperfect.
Perhaps I ask for too much, but there is so much I want. The impossible is what I yearn for and this- this is hell.
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Iv read that book, i coulda told you about it had you asked razz