I.
Pepito, light to my pants, fire of my groin. My stain, my strain. He was Pep to his friends. To his family he was Roberto Jesus Gonzales. But in my lap he was always Pepito.
What led to my love of this juvenile boy? I would never have loved my dearest Pepito had I not first loved a boy-sprite in that frigid winter of my youth. For this sort of butchering, you can always count on a satirist.
II.
I was born of a most noble family. My father was a convict of unknown heritage. His living consisted of doing absolutely nothing at all and he was highly commended for it. My mother was a tramp of amazing proportions and it always amazed me that her outstanding body could fit into that tiny red dress.
My childhood was normal. I grew up in the reputable city of Dublin where there was always enough to eat and the skies were always as blue as the rivers.
When I was but a boy crawling in what now seem festering heaps of trash behind our house (but what my now deceased parents would claim was simply a small yard fenced in containing a few chickens and where I had played as a small boy making mud pies and other such delicacies), I happened upon a creature stained in the own matter of his demise, the likes of which I thought I would never glimpse again afterward.
Our hands brushed lightly, and the boy-like-creature smiled at me. His putrid breath made me swoon and he seemed equally enamored with my chaffed feet. We touched fleetingly and yet despairingly, conscious of the gasps which would alert passers-by to our plight, and I was just on the verge of fully possessing my love when without warning we were interrupted by a rat no less the size of a newborn babe. And so interrupted, stopped in the midst of our mutual pleasure, we were discovered; and so frightened, we ran away to our two very different destinies.
It was not a day, nay, not an hour before my love fell ill from the plague and died.
It was then that I decided to leave the green grass of my beautiful Dublin, which had become to me like the pits of hell, tainted with the memory of my sweet boy-lover's death. I would never again be able to see the beauty of my boyhood except in this one memory, now so horribly excruciating.
My sweet, thus ruined, died within the week. And I thought I would never experience the bliss of romance gallivanting through my heart on flat feet and singing a dissonating tune, when I perchance received, some years after this fateful incident, a plane ticket to the New Country. This, of course, was very generously thrown at my cranium by a passing pedestrian of whom I had graciously demanded money lest he be castrated. Soccer blue! My heart leapt with joy! At last I would be able to move on. I would be able to overcome the desperations of my heart and my love for that one.
And so I set off to my new destination. When I first glimpsed my new home, it was as though a beacon had lighted in my soul and was crying, "Here I am! Take me, your future!" But I then realized that it was merely the light of a police officer who then arrested me for pissing on the side walks.
I assure you, kind reader, that I am a criminal. I have no right to live and I fear that any attempt to fix my morbid fascination will backfire. I am solely to blame for my love of small boys. It is unnatural for one such as my self, nearly four times the man I was when I lost my first love, to desire small boys. I am surely not a product of my environment, and should be judged accordingly. A due.