I’m a monster, but not a pedophile

Obviously, this narration is a classical “ugly duckling” sales pitch, copiously used by media and movie industry to put the firm leg in the door throughout the political push to normalize homosexuality and, eventually, homosexual marriages, now, more or less, fait accompli.



Recently, while ingesting daily intake of mainstream media – something that is, unfortunately, needed to grow and run the analysis focused project – I stumbled upon one of those rare pieces of still unapparent puzzle which provides you with opportunity to anticipate how the whole thing will eventually fit together. This opportunity concerns social perspectives of pedophilia and, in my opinion, provides ground for some reasonable conjectures about the trends of it’s acceptability in the near future.

Namely, internet publication Salon published a lengthy confession of a pedophile titled “I’m a pedophile, but not a monster”, a sentimentality drenched narrative of the plight of apparently normal – even kindhearted – man, born (sic!) with the desire to stick a rather uncomfortable piece of his anatomy into bodily cavities and orifices of little toddlers. Of course, he doesn’t present himself in this light, i.e. he doesn’t go into corporeal aspects of his philia, sticking strategically to it’s emotional surface and narrating how his love for children made him a sort of willing exile in the midst of society: a celibate pedophile. In advance, we must note that, in the lines to follow, while I will refer to author as a lone individual going by the name of Todd Nickerson, who decided to do the coming out, his meticulous use of emotional blackmail, disguised in saccharine, fairy tale like, sentimentality, may very well point to consultations with perception management expert. If he really learned how to play all the right notes of public all by himself – despite being a self confessed recluse, shunning social contacts – then he’s really a case of rare talent. In any case, by the end of the article one is left with eerie feeling that he sure knows how to talk to kids.

Be that as it may, the very first sentence of this lengthy narrative sets the stage for (com)passion play:

”I was born without my right hand. As a child, this deformity quickly set me apart from my peers. In public I wore a prosthesis, an intimidating object to other youngsters because of its resemblance to a pirate’s hook.“

So, at the very outset we are led to contemplate few things: the author is impaired from birth and naturally set apart from society, he was shunned from the young age because he possessed a scary bodily feature, and we all know that children tend to meld morals and looks: wrinkled face of mother Theresa would probably make every infant cry at their first acquaintance. However, in the Nickerson’s case this eventuality is not caused by his looks per se, but by accessory he is forced to wear on his person, and it resembled something rather scary to children ignorant of the tortured but benevolent soul underneath. Yet little Todd coped with his predicament admirably:

„I was shy, uncoordinated and terrible at sports, all of which put me on the outs with other boys my age. But I was good at drawing and making up stories for my own entertainment, and I spent more and more time in my own head, being a space adventurer or monster wrangler or whatever character I could think up. These would ultimately prove to be useful skills, but for now they only served to further alienate me from other kids. On top of it all, I still struggled with bladder control—likely due to my heaping pile of insecurities, to which this problem only added more—well into my elementary school years.“

Being unaccepted made an artist out of him and provided him with means to earn a living, but at the time it also alienated him from his peer group, and this eventuality cruelly made his bladder going the way of all bladders long before it’s due time.

Obviously, this narration is a classical “ugly duckling” sales pitch, copiously used by media and movie industry to put the firm leg in the door throughout the political push to normalize homosexuality and, eventually, homosexual marriages, now, more or less, fait accompli. The message is that impairment makes you sensitive to plight of others, it allows you to develop special talents and in general makes you a self-conscious individual – a self-made individual, if you like – with ability of pristine perception of others. Those are all stereotypes commonly used to favorably portrait a homosexual and they are not accidental, as the leading planners of gay movement in the late eighties were all too happy to tell us. It is tailor made to push just the right buttons – a master switch – of society that unconsciously values an individual without any qualification and covers it’s own cruelty with saccharine compassion. Hence, Nickerson in all his feigned innocence and professed reclusiveness, knows quite well how the contemporary public responds to stimuli, something numerous well adapted people could – and would – never figure out. But let us not judge too harshly, because Nickerson was “stuck with the most unfortunate of sexual orientations, a preference for a group of people who are legally, morally and psychologically unable to reciprocate (his) feelings and desires.“ Of course, his free will had nothing to do with it and the right to an ability to fulfill his feelings and desires comes out as something unquestionable. And it is unquestionable. That’s why the future acceptance, promotion and legalization of pedophilia in the West will be unavoidable. There is no way in hell that rights of biological automaton called ‘man’ to legal fulfillment of it’s desires should be prevented. It is the common ground this saccharine injected predator shares with his fellow individuals of “mainstream orientation” and he obviously knows it very well. Here’s how he defines his “predicament”:

But isn’t that the definition of a pedophile, you may ask, someone who molests kids? Not really. Although “pedophile” and “child molester” have often been used interchangeably in the media, and there is some overlap, at base, a pedophile is someone who’s sexually attracted to children. That’s it. There’s no inherent reason he must act on those desires with real children. Some pedophiles certainly do, but many of us don’t. Because the powerful taboo keeps us in hiding, it’s impossible to know how many non-offending pedophiles are out there, but signs indicate there are a lot of us, and too often we suffer in silence. That’s why I decided to speak up.

So, pedophile is an individual who only desires to penetrate children and that’s it. A powerful taboo, a.k.a. superstition, keeps him from legitimately being himself. What transcends taboo – some would say common sense – and makes it OK, however, is the resolve of his, apparently inexistent, free will not to stick his dick into some virgin meat or to jerk it off while watching someone else doing it. Truly, it is hard to believe that “there’s no inherent reason he must act on those desires with real children” when whole of his identity is built around his sexual desire. Well, if someone can buy this line of reasoning he or she fully deserves the future his or hers children will get. Namely, the individual whose identity is built around the sexual desires he is supposedly stuck with from no will of his own – never mind they are perverted – expects the reader to believe that he’ll employ free will to bridle them. Of course, he muses about nature vs. nurture causes of his “sexual orientation”, quick to fuse his case with more successful collegial group (“Many gays begin to recognize their sexual preferences sometime around puberty, if not before. For me it was the same.“). This is how he describes his own awakening, when 12 years old:

„Soon the little girl walked into the dining room and stood at the archway entrance to the living room, watching me draw. I can still see her today in my mind’s eye: dressed in blue jeans and a nearly matching denim jacket, with pristine blue eyes and a halo of wispy blond curls framing her face. She seemed somehow larger than life and almost ancient in the way she stood so perfectly still. Then, just like that, she was gone; she and her father left. That singular moment, though it could scarcely have lasted more than a few minutes, has become seared into my memory.“

So our young Hyperion has met a Nymph. This passage is simply unbelievable display of justifying and normalizing the perversion by dressing it in the form of fairy tale … “pristine blue eyes” … “halo of wispy blond curls” … “larger than life”… “almost ancient”. The whole article from the very introduction (“Who am I? Nice to meet you. My name is Todd Nickerson, and I’m a pedophile. Does that surprise you?)“ has a disturbing quality of child’s tale. The straightforward, yet melancholic, phraseology of someone so worn out by his predicament, so fatalistically prepared to be misunderstood, doing his last ditch effort to be accepted, in a way stripped to a naked “nice to meet you”, evokes the image of a child clinging loosely to it’s teddy bear, telling you “hug me”, because, now when all is said and done, there’s nothing more to be said. He doesn’t even have any more stamina to add “please”. Judging by the reader’s comments, Salon consumers in apt numbers fell for it. But let’s not be judgmental just yet, because our friend Todd really did a work on them. Why, imagine something like this happened to you – apologies for necessarily lengthy quote:

“So how had this happened? Well, I have a pretty good idea. When I was seven years old, I was fondled in the front yard of my grandparents’ home by a man I barely knew. It was a one-time event in my life and not a particularly traumatic one. A man I’ll call Hans, a German who was acquainted with my uncle and aunt from when they lived in Nuremberg, had come to visit America. He spent a day and a night at their place, and they lived next door to my family along with my grandparents, who shared their two-story brick house (…) Grammy’s solution was to send Hans outside with one of the grandkids. As I happened to be in the room at the time, I was assigned the task. “Take him out and show him Papa’s garden,” she told me. “Tell him the names of the vegetables. He’d probably enjoy that.” I agreed. Besides, even though I knew not a whit of German, I was very much at ease in Hans’s presence. He was painfully thin, with a messy mop of hair and large glasses. I should point out that the men in my life, including my father, were gruff blue-collar types who could intimidate me. Hans was different: gentle, soft-spoken and appealingly awkward—a lot like me! I took the man’s right hand with my left (my good hand) and led him out into the garden, which took up most of the front lawn at my grandparents’ place. I escorted my new friend down the rows of veggies, calling out each one as we passed it, and Hans would gleefully parrot the names. This went on until we made our way through the entire garden. I was proud to find myself educating an adult rather than the other way around. When the English lesson was over, Hans plopped himself down on a patch of earth near the garden and patted the spot next to him, indicating he wanted me to sit there. I did. I couldn’t believe this peculiar man I barely knew was so eager to connect with me, the weird little kid nobody liked. It felt good.

For long minutes we simply enjoyed each other’s company. Then, out of the blue, Hans slipped a hand into my shorts, even though we were only about 30 feet from the poorly paved country road that meandered through this stretch of country. This went on for several minutes. I was confused but not frightened or troubled. The only thing I could think to say while this was happening was “Peepee,” continuing the English lesson with my pet name for my genitalia even in the midst of my own abuse. Hans chortled and repeated the word: “Peepee.” Eventually this came to an end, and Hans, having gotten what he wanted, shooed me away. I can’t imagine why it didn’t occur to him that I would immediately rat him out; maybe he knew and just didn’t care. Anyway, he could hardly ask me not to, could he? I raced back to Grammy and promptly informed her of what had happened. She deliberated over what to do, in the end asking me to keep it a secret from everyone, including my parents, and ordering me to stay away from Hans. No authorities were called, and life went on as usual. Hans stayed that evening with my uncle and aunt and left the next day. I never saw him again.”

So what have we got here?

It’s simple. A little lonely boy got acquainted with intellectual looking German who was lonely too, because he knew no English and he was different then boy’s daddy because while former was gruff blue-collar type, the later was gentle, soft-spoken and appealingly awkward – a lot like the boy himself. And the kid couldn’t believe this peculiar man wants to connect with him, weird little kid nobody liked. It felt good. It felt so good that honest Hans started to friendly abuse him. The kid was confused but not frightened or troubled and all he could say was “Peepee” and Hans chortled and repeated the word: “Peepee.” Hans was so into it that he didn’t mind the kid will report him to grownups. No wonder, because they decided to do nothing.

Well, there’s an alternative reading to this:

It’s simple. A pedophile, an imaginative one at that, is normalizing the deviousness by, first, juxtaposing the stereotype sensitive intellectual foreigner and rough and tough animal of a local man – his father, no less – Indicating henceforth that children need the companionship of the former because the later is insensitive brute. And the pedophile is explaining to us that kids need the companionship of bespectacled predators, especially if they are emotionally unstable and borderline antisocial, because pedophiles themselves are like children. So the abuse moniker would fall off by itself if we let the pedophiles jerk off on kids while grabbing their genitalia and squealing “peepee” with them.

As far as I’m concerned, I’m thankful to Todd Nickerson for his “coming out”, because it encourages, nay: compels, me to share an intimate detail with the reader. Namely, ever since early adolescence I’ve been having fantasies about watching the wolf dressing up in sheep clothing. Don’t judge me, I never actually hurt no sheep nor tried to dress up a real wolf in any kind of clothing. I am wolfinasheepclothingophile, but I’m not a monster. It’s only that just now, for the first time in my life, I can really vividly see how it really looks like when proverbial wolf does his masquerading act.

Irony aside, this downright diabolic piece of media manipulation has few more things packed in, which we must not skip in our analysis. After pedophile goes on to draw few possible explanations of his condition (nature, nurture and such) we come to the following passage:

“I recall an event from when I was 11, sitting in the family jeep with my dad and his friend Andy when a news piece on the radio reported the sexual abuse of a girl, to which my dad said to his friend something like, “They should take people like that and place weights on top of their genitals until they smash.” Pretty horrific imagery for an 11-year-old to process, and I couldn’t help but sympathize with the abuser. After all, I could recall my own molestation perfectly, and I hardly felt it warranted that kind of response.

This is where amateur perception manager lost it a bit, because as we know from the previous passage, the budding little pedophile had already reported his own abuse to his family member who did nothing, and expects the reader to believe that good granny and little kid kept the omerta.  Well, be that as it may, rough and tough blue collar dad narrates “they should take people like that and place weights on top of their genitals until they smash”.  The narrative logic may have broke there for a moment, being pretty unconvincing, but it doesn’t matter as long as the message has been implanted into “minds” of gullible idiots. The point is that this “horrific imagery” brought 11-year old to “sympathize with the abuser”, because he knew that his own abuse “hardly felt it warranted that kind of response”. This is pure and simple attempt at normalization of molestation. It implies that punishment of pedophilia amounts to sanctioning the peculiar, but sincere, act of tenderness. Well, I must interpolate here that crushing the testicles slowly is, to be honest, pretty impractical. However, chemical castration would surely do the trick, although it would be well to make it public in order to send the message to other predators. But it’s a wishful thinking, of course, because very possibility of articles like this one appearing in public and inciting discussion about virtuous vs. abusive pedophiles indicates to a fact that the society is already too far gone. For those who consider this interpolation some kind of right wing ruthlessness, I will, for the sake of clarity, provide an explanation, although with note that I don’t need political labels to justify my own ruthlessness, which is fairly apolitical and flies well even without wings, left or right. Namely, from eyewitness account, I know about the girl who, when 12 years old, suffered attempted abuse. Afterwards she was sent abroad to foster parents iand, when year or two later she came on vacation in her former hometown, she couldn’t understand the word of her native language. This was, I repeat, attempted abuse at twice the age Salon’s resident pedophile claims he suffered abuse “and hardly felt it warranted” castration of perpetrator.

Indeed, a fairy tale.

In conclusion, we can summarize that this piece could just be an icebreaker for a new initiative: a normalization of pedophile “lifestyle”. After all, if you ponder about it, Nickerson left you with not much choice. Either you accept him or you reject him. He already found strength to answer those “bigots” who reject him in the second article we won’t deal with here, but we must note in passing: could it be possible, if pedophile is permitted to say publicly:”I like to imagine shoving my penis in infant’s anus, but I don’t act upon it”, for Salon to publish someone saying:”I imagine shoving Tod Nickerson’s prosthetic arm up his ass, but I don’t act upon it”? I think the answer is obvious.

Now, as for acceptance of pedophile, what he really wants is not merely to have a right to jerk off – after all he said he was a celibate and expects us to believe that he is not acting upon the main driving force in his life. On the contrary he wants people to approve of his desire. After all:

„In essence, your brain knows what it likes and isn’t going to take no for an answer. For that reason, the nature or nurture question with respect to sexual preference is ultimately irrelevant—it becomes all but hardwired soon enough, until it’s all you know. And it’s self-reinforcing, no matter how much you wish to dig it out. Eventually it all tangles together with the rest of who you are.“

It’s not him, you see. It’s his brain. And you can’t argue with brains, everybody knows that.

People will not approve of this man because they approve of pedophilia per se, but because good chunk of populous consider their right to act upon outside stimuli a sacred law. To hide behind one’s own brain means to make oneself other to oneself, the ultimate irresponsibility – and ultimate freedom – one can expect in this world. Admittedly, it’s so stupid that it defies reason, but, after all, what reason has to do with it anyway? Who needs reason when you can act your brains out with public approval?


“Who am I? Nice to meet you. My name is Branko Malić, and I would gladly shove Todd Nikerson’s prosthetic arm up his ass. Does that surprise you?”

If it does, before you judge me, please realize:

I’m a monster, but not a pedophile.

Branko Malić

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2 Responses

  1. Vatroslav says:

    Nemojte zaboraviti hrvatsko čitateljstvo! Vidim da Vam je ovo već drugi članak na engleskome bez istoga na hrvatskome.

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