Michael Davidson’s autobiography The World, the Flesh and Myself from 1962 begins with a detailed description of his family and early childhood. We’ll skip that part and jump right to page 30, where he elaborates on the kind of games he used to play as a kid, which leads him to the first of many passages where he ponders his sexuality:
I spent a lot of my time at ‘unmanly’ games. Nowadays, I suppose, the sophisticated would read into this a disposition towards a ‘passive’ sexuality; a sign that I was going to turn into the ‘camp’ sort of queer. But they’d be wrong: I can see now that this was the beginning of an inveterate ‘motherliness’, the broody fussiness with which I’ve coddled all my boys – plaguing them about warm underclothes or changing their wet socks, and trying to ‘feed them up’ after they were already full.
I suppose every true pederast’s emotional foundation is this maternalism; I know that in all my relationships, other than the most casual, I’ve been driven just as much by a passionate protectiveness as by sexual interest – the second, for all I know, may be an extension of the first, as a mother gets sensual pleasure out of suckling.
And even during actual bodily play, my pleasure – beyond the mental joy of seeing and touching, which is intense – comes from a consummate privity to his pleasure; if that’s absent, the whole process seems absurd and pointless. My own orgastic conclusion may happen as a mere afterthought, if it happens at all – that too depends on his desires.
I’m seeking an analysis of my own emotional lusts because, if I’ve found it, it’s typical I imagine of most ‘normal’ lovers of boys: the prepulsion is pretty much that of a mare nuzzling and licking her foal.