Growing up as a soft boy was like being a misplaced note in a song everyone else seemed to know. My personality was bright, flamboyant, and gentle, but instead of being celebrated, it made me a target. From an early age, I was bullied so harshly that I began to think maybe it would be better if I just disappeared—if I ended my life. I remember the way my voice and my way of being were ridiculed, twisted into insults that I almost started to believe about myself. I was seen as wrong, defective, simply for being me.

They treated me like a replacement for a girl, a stand-in for their twisted urges—something less than human. Because I had the soft qualities that people liked to label as "girlish," I was there for them to mock, touch, and violate when they wanted to push boundaries. I remember how they'd say they couldn't touch the girls because it was wrong, but somehow, touching me wasn't. I was almost gang-raped once, but by some miracle, I managed to run away. My body trembling, heart racing—I never knew fear like that before. And yet, when I spoke up, when I reported it, the response was nothing more than a shrug. They brushed me off, as if I wasn't worthy of their protection, as if the pain of a soft boy didn't count.

eople talk about wanting someone kind, someone open-hearted—someone like me—but when it comes down to it, it's always the straight-acting, traditionally masculine people they choose. I've always felt like I had too much softness for them, too much vulnerability, too many colors that didn't fit the monochrome world they wanted. They wanted strength as they understood it, stoic and hardened. And me? I was a reminder of something they didn't want to see—the tenderness that exists inside all of us, the fragility that takes real courage to show.

I was left standing alone, wondering why it wasn't enough just to love fiercely, to be kind without armor. My softness was not valued; it was seen as something to exploit or something to ignore, never something to love. I grew up aching for a world where being tender didn't mean being weak, where my flamboyance wasn't a justification for cruelty. But that world never came. And so, I learned to swallow my tears in silence, even when all I wanted was for someone to see me—really see me—and tell me that my softness was beautiful, that it was enough.

Does anyone here have a soft guy partner or experience dating a soft guy? I would love to hear your stories too?