Category: reminisce

Thoughts about the good old days… memories.

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as many a young lad do become


Good evening folks, and a happy Tuesday to ya. T’was a rare humid day here in Northern California, somewhat cloudy by late afternoon and evening threatening rain. But, we got no rain. Came to the conclusion today that I need a bigger iPod. Or, alternately, another iPod altogether on which I can store only certain items – I’m thinking Beatles bootlegs, for instance, or bootlegs and live-albums in general. My 60GB just ain’t getting it done anymore…

When I was a young lad, somewhere around the tender age of twelve or thirteen, I became quite enamored, as many a young lad do become, with the beauty of the female form. And, while this blossoming interest in all things woman was less of something scholarly or noble, and more of something perverse and puberty-driven, my motivations didn’t provide with my enough shame to want to hide my burgeoning libido. So, I took the conspicuous approach – and plastered my pre-teen lair with racy imagery. Being a kid, however, and still having parents – I couldn’t easily cover my walls with the likes of Playboy centerfolds… I instead had to go with what I could get. And, that, my friends, is how the small alcove on the top bunk where I spent my nights became wallpapered with images cut deftly from the JC Penny catalog. That’s right, I had underwear models, swimsuit models, and the like, all taped from top-to-bottom in some crazy collage of unintentional soft-porn.

I can remember flipping to the middle of the thick color catalog, to the index, and looking for the keywords which would become my new decorations: “bra,” “bikinis,” “panties.” At the time, I don’t know why I wasn’t more embarrassed by my scantily-clad homemade pinups – it’s terribly humiliating to think back on now, and I can remember being somewhat disgusted with myself the day I tore it all down and replaced it with an equally idolatrous picture-collage of black-and-white images of the Beatles I’d clipped from a public library book (without regard, I might add, for others who may have one day checked out said book). But, at the time, I remember carefully tracing the edges of the models with the scissors, being careful not to shear off any boob- or butt-profile in doing so. What a disgusting, and outwardly needy-seeming, thing to do, right? What was wrong with me?

Finally, in the you-thought-you’d-never-see-the-day department: Keaton is, as suddenly as of just this morning, cutting her top two front teeth. Yes, that’s right. This near 17-month old baby of only two teeth is finally giving her bottom two buckies a couple buddies to hang out with. Her sleeping tonight has been fitful, she wakes often crying and we go in to put some numbing stuff on them. Funny that most parents have probably already experienced this by 17 months, but not us. Her teeth are just slow starters, I suppose. I’ll post some pictures of her with her shiny new top-fronts as soon as they’re nice and erupted.

Goodnight.

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worth a thousand words


Ahhhhhhhhh…..

That’s one long sigh of relief; in honor of my vacation. As I write, I still have two full blissful days of relaxing to look forward to. Then it’s back to work for a mere three days, followed by another full week of loafing (as more relatives come to visit). Today is Sharaun and my 7th wedding anniversary – I remembered and got a card, she forgot and didn’t. Kinda feels good to not be the negligent one.

The vacation thus far has been outstanding. We spent two nights at the cabin down south, and then had a barbecue at the house with some friends and the in-laws (got to use the BBQ again). Today, which is Monday, as a whole herd of saps are reporting to the old sawmill for another day’s slave-labor, I’m sitting on the couch with no real motivation to get going. This is a good thing, however, believe me. We’re planning to go out to the lake today, let Keaton goof around on the shore and sit in the sand. After that, our plans are… nothing. So good to be off, I’m really just realizing how much I needed the time.

I started to write last night, but gave up for lack of material. I was all ready to call it another lost day, and send the blog down what would’ve ended up being one of the longest dry-spells in its history. Then, I was checking my e-mail on the BlackBerry while I was taking my morning coffee dump (yes, I do this) when a certain configuration of bits and bytes flew through the ether, recombined into a JPEG on my phone, and inspired me. What got me going, it turns out, was a photo that my dad sent. His simple explanation was that it was an “old photo” of me that he thought I “might like.” Check it out (click for a slightly larger version in a new window):

Now, to me, this picture was a treasure-trove of memories. Let’s set the stage first though, shall we? I can roughly date the picture by examining the wall decorations: We’re somewhere in the pre-Beatles phase, and still have quite a bit of post-5th-grade holdover material (the Garbage Pail Kids posters, the Alf poster). I have my TV and NES in the entertainment system, but not my VCR. The lack of Beatles material and VCR mean this picture was likely taken right around my late-7th-grade Beatles enlightenment (I would’ve been thirteen years old). I couldn’t help staring at this thing all “what’s wrong with this picture” style. Some things that I liked:

  • Looking closely at my left wrist, I can see the clay-bead-on-leather-strap bracelet I wore religiously for a few years in middle school. I noticed that an 8th grader had dropped it in the locker room one morning while we were dressing out, and stole it up as my own. I was even brave enough to wear it to school, back into that very locker room with that very 8th grader. I could’ve sworn I saw him looking at it, knowing, but I don’t think he ever challenged me on my ownership of it. The beads were all swirly and spotty and psychedelic, again placing this photo into that 7th-grade time of burgeoning wanna-be-hippie.
  • You can just see the edge of my dad’s old turntable in the left of the shot (by then I had adopted it as my own), and both of my two speakers: one on the right of the TV table with that yellow lamp on it (we used this one as a makeshift stepstool to get a leg-up while sneaking out of the house through that window above it), and the other to the right of the TV stand with some stuffed animals perched atop. Not too much later, I’d purchase another set of speakers from our neighbors garage sale and setup a true quadraphonic system in my room. The first record I listened to in quad was Traffic’s eponymous 1968 sophomore effort – I sat cross-legged in the middle of the room and just grooved.
  • I liked Alf?!
  • In the right-front foreground you can see the corner of my beloved bunk beds. I had these through somewhere late in the 9th grade, when they were replaced with a waterbed. Just barely in the shot near the top right you can see the blurred shape of the ceiling fan which hung directly above the ladder providing access to the top bunk. You had to climb up all hunched over to avoid hitting your head on the thing as it was whirring. I remember being extra super-aware of this on one particularly harrowing evening.
  • I used to keep all my NES cartridges in the little cabinet you can kinda see at the bottom of the TV stand. That’s where my lightgun and ROB the robot lived, too.
  • The stuffed animals on the speaker are, from left to right, “Star” and “Teddy.” Teddy was my brother’s, he was a bear; Star was mine, he was a dog. They used to have all kinds of adventures together, and were the best of buds – as stuffed animals go.

OK I’m tired. Have a good day at work, punks.

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teenage freerange


I had planned on doing absolutely nothing Sunday in celebration of Father’s Day, but I ended up going on a do-nothing bender and wasting the whole weekend on the couch. The iPod stayed on shuffle, and I napped when Keaton napped – it was pure bliss. Saturday night we pondered renting a movie, and ended up downloading a pirated cam-copy of the new “Knocked Up,” kinda like a parent’s night out – but in. Y’know, we’d’ve paid $10 to watch it on-demand, I think – if the cable and movie industry teamed up to do first-run in the home. Could be a viable business model for young parents, older folks, and the generally shut-in or social-phobic. Duh.

But anyway, Sunday morning I woke to Sharaun carrying Keaton into the room with a card in her hand. “Can you give the card to daddy?,” she asked, and Keaton dutifully handed it over. Then, I was asked what I’d like for breakfast (I requested banana-walnut pancakes, since I was asked), and it was whipped up for me while I got ready. Sounds nice, right? ‘Twas. So, let’s keep going.

Really enjoyed reading this short article online the other day, reminded me of all the roaming I used to do as a kid. Sometimes, when I recall to Sharaun some of the journeys my pre-teen friends and I underwent, she’s amazed that our parents let us be as freerange as we were. As pre-driving kids – we were borderline feral. We’d range across the town on foot and by bike, at all hours – sometimes with parental blessing, sometimes without. I don’t think the level of paranoia was there like it is today, and that was only eighteen or so years ago. I can remember being in 7th grade, which would make me about thirteen years old, riding our bikes from our sleepy little riverside burg over the the causeway onto “the island” – a long ride even by my adult brain’s standards today. Once there, we were far enough removed from our own stomping grounds to feel independent and important. Plus, there was a fireworks store there that not only flaunted Florida law by selling the good stuff (firecrackers, bottlerockets, etc.) out of small room in back, but that also had no qualms selling to kids, as long as the money was green. We’d ride the eight or so miles in the moist-furnace of Florida heat, stop at Wendys for a Frosty, pick up a bundle of ladyfingers from the secret stash in back (all you had to do was ask), and take them over to the mall across the street to light a run of ’em and toss ’em in the womens’ bathroom.

Sometimes when we’re home visiting Sharaun’s family and we drive over that causeway, I’ll look to the skinny little strip of paint-cordoned concrete on our right where we used to ride and wonder at not getting killed. Not only did we ride, we walked. I can remember, one day, having walked up to the store for kicks. While there, we’d sneakily swithed the stick-on pircetag (before UPC) from a cheap piece of beef jerky to cover the pricier tag of a “10ft beefstick,” effectively stealing it for pennies on the dollar. As we walked home, we split into groups of two on either side of the narrow lane, each holding (and occasionally gnawing on) one end of the massive meat-rope as we stretched it across the road. Seeing a car approaching in the distance, we waited until the last minute to yank our snack-slash-toy out of harm’s way. Turned out that, in that car was my dad. Here we were, four thirteen year old boys, miles from home and on foot, trying to clothesline automobiles with a few yards of spun beef – and my dad didn’t bat an eye. He slowed, said hello, and was on his way, allowing us to find whatever trouble we could as we trudged the remaining miles homeward. The independence that we felt was liberating, and allowed us to get mixed up in all sorts of shady goings-on – and I consider that independence as a key part of my youth.

Today, though, my initial tendency is to keep my kid close. I’m going to do my best, though, to afford her the freedom she’ll need to get the same kind of independent growth that my friends and I did (minus the beer, pyromania, and weed, of course).

Goodnight.

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santa maria style


Hey Monday night folks, or Tuesday morning folks – whatever the case may be. Pulled two tomatoes, one strawberry, and eight green beans from my garden yesterday. Ate the tomato and the strawberry, both were awesome, and am saving the beans until I can pick enough to make two tiny portions for Sharaun and I. There are plenty still on the bush, so I think by the end of the week we should have enough. More of the tomatoes are coloring-up though, and I just hope the things keep producing. Onward we go.

Anthony and I finished the Santa Maria style barbecue on Sunday, welding the final critical bits into place, giving it a once-over in high-temp black paint, and transporting it from his garage to my backyard. I still want to add on a few accouterments, like some hooks for fire-pokin’ tools, a raised grate for the wood/coals, some custom-fit cutting boards, and a “lid” kinda thing to place over the coals once I’m done cooking – but, it’s ready to cook on now.

Anxious to see it in action, Monday I picked up some oak at a local wood-gettin’-place. Santa Maria purists maintain that only Southern California native “red oak” produces the trademark Santa Maria barbecue flavor – but it’s just too hard to get up here. So, I instead went with a close relative, the so-called “interior” red oak of the Northern California foothills. It’s hard to judge exactly what you’re getting sometimes, as some folks refer to “mountain oak” as black oak, while some mean interior red. Things get more complicated because both the black and red interior oaks are all hybridized together in some cases. Either way, I stomped the woodyard until I found a sweet smelling reddish-colored wood called “mountain live oak,” which I think is about as close to Santa Maria Coastal Red as I’m gonna get easily here. Wow, a wood lesson.

Anyway, I set an inaugural two-log fire in the barbecue Tuesday afternoon to see how it burned, judge the heat and ventilation, and just get an idea of the smell of the particular wood I bought. Oh man, smelling that pungent smoke rise from the grill immediately took me back to my Grandfather’s back porch in Southern California. The barbecue seemed to function perfectly, and now I just have to break it in with a nice tri-tip. A

Here’s a couple pictures of the finished product. We did end up engineering a spring-tension mechanism on the crank so that the grilling surface stays put when you let go at a certain level (we even did an engineer-style nerd-test to see how much weight the springs could support before the crank was pulled into unwinding: ~30lbs). Check her out:



Sitting in the backyard.



Fired up as a test run.

That’s really all I had today. Wednesday I’m off to San Francisco for a day-long visit to a work-type conference – probably be back too late too blog.

Goodnight.

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beautiful and nice?


Monday night around 8:30pm. I came home and mowed at lunch, took a little longer than my usual hour trip home but I could afford it. Sharaun had an evening engagement tonight and another tomorrow night, and I didn’t get the chance to mow this weekend after being in China for more than a week since the last pass. So, I took care of it when I could – lunch hour. And now I’m here alone half-watching some Simpsons reruns and writing.

Since getting back in town, I’ve watched two TiVo’d episodes of the new Discovery Channel series Planet Earth – which I’ve found pretty engaging. I’ve always enjoyed “nature” shows when they’re done right, and this one is spectacular, just like all the hype said. One thing it does do though, is increase my yen for a high-definition television – I can already tell the thing would look incredible in HD (even though it probably would be all ugly and stretchy-squashy because nothing seems to be the right shape for the rectangular HDTVs). When are they gonna figure that out anyway? You know when I’ll spend two grand on a TV? When the picture being broadcast “fits” without A) clipping the edges, B) letterboxing, C) squishing people to look all fat, and D) squishing the extreme edges to marginally improve over (C). Yeah, eat that HDTV manufacturers… or TV broadcasters… or filmographers… or whomever is responsible.

While we’re on the topic of TV shows, I was reading a buddy’s blog the other day and hit upon a seemingly simple statement that he and his wife had been reliving some 1980’s moments watching The Wonder Years on TV. He even mentioned the name of the network, something called “Ion.” I was immediately drop-jawed. I’ve pined for Wonder Years reruns ever since the VHS copies I taped off Nick at Nite in the old days were plowed into a landfill. I immediately opened multiple Firefox tabs to kick into high-gear in my search to see A) what the hell the Ion network is, and B) do I get it on DirecTV here in California. Turns out, I freakin’ do get it… and I already had the channel mapped (I think it used to be the WB or UPN or something?)… anyway, two minutes later I had a TiVo season pass setup for the best show on earth, and one that shaped my tween years like none other. Oh Mike… you know not what you have done. Now, if we could just meet somewhere between that snowy place where you are and the sunny place where I am to catch the premier of The Dark Crystal II, I’d be in clover.

Now for some dispatches from last week in China:

My first night in Shanghai, I decided that were I to sleep immediately after getting to the hotel, I’d wake up in the middle of the night and not be able to get back to sleep. My plan was to retire to the bedsheets only upon complete exhaustion. For that reason, when I got to the hotel I showered, redressed, and called a buddy of mine who lives in town. “Beers?,” I asked, “Beers,” he affirmed. Twenty minutes later and we were walking down a pub-lined Shanghai street in search of hoppy goodness. A few pints and a plate of french-fries later, I was climbing into a taxi and handing the cabbie my room keycard to express my desired destination. Now, I’ve been to Shanghai once before, and I’m moderately familiar with certain areas – so I knew enough to recognize that the driver was headed in the right direction. As we neared the area where I knew the hotel to be, I stopped paying attention assuming he’d got it right and wasn’t taking me for a ride (I know that, literally, he was, but I’m using the expression here… well… if you didn’t get it you don’t deserve the explanation).

Soon, we were pulling into the taxi loop at the hotel. The driver stopped and said something to me in Chinese, I glanced at the meter and handed over the requisite 16 yuan. Stepping out of the cab I walked toward the large revolving doors of the hotel. In the elaborate glass doors there were little “pockets” with shrubbery and Chinese-style decor, the whole thing being a large rotating circle split down the center by a glass partition (you’ve no doubt seen the type of door, which is actually harder to describe in words than I’d’ve every thought). Anyway, I remember thinking that I didn’t remember the little pockets of decorations coming into the hotel earlier. Then, as I stepped into the lobby, it hit me: this was not my hotel. Confused for a moment, I walked around thinking I’d perhaps entered through and alternate entrance and was just approaching from an unfamiliar angle. Nope, wrong hotel altogether.

Not knowing what to do, but knowing I was relatively close to my real hotel, I walked back outside and surveyed my surroundings. My head was telling me my hotel was just down the road somewhere, and the way to my right looked most promising by virtue of some big buildings. So, I struck off to the right and soon found myself between two hotels, the wrong one I’d just left and another, the name of which I could not yet see but which ended up being mine (I guess the cabbie had simply dropped me between the two assuming I’d walk to the right one). As I walked in the darkness, a man appeared from the curb and began approaching me with quickness.

“Hi!,” he said. “Oh crap,” I thought, what now? “Beautiful girl, sir?” Ahh… the outside-hotel hustler shtick, a simple pimp trying to move his merchandise, a common occurrence for westerners in China. “No thank you,” I said as I walked on, not stopping to give him more conversation time. “Nice girl, sir!” Nice girl? “Hold the boat!,” the little devil-looking me on my left shoulder began, “Beautiful and nice?!” I turned towards the approaching little man. “Don’t you even!,” harped the the little cherub-me perched on my right shoulder – as he shot a lightning bolt of righteousness at the devil-me opposite him, causing devil-me to explode in a poof of red dust. “No; no thanks anyway,” I mutter as I shuffle away.

Goodnight.

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there’s coke on the money you give to god


Sunday night and I fly out to Colorado tomorrow, it’s gonna be freezing. This intro isn’t going to be very long, I wrote down a good story this weekend and want to get right to it. If you’d like, though, before you get into it, you can check out Keaton’s gallery, where I’ve uploaded another set of new pictures (thanks to Sharaun for her diligence in taking some great pictures over the week). You can check out the new images here, enjoy! Now, I’m off to pack a double-overnight bag (don’t forget the jacket) and get some sleep.

When I was in the seventh grade there was a guy named Mike Fahey, he was a grade older than me and was generally well liked by the girls. The girls thought Mike Fahey was cute, he was taller and slim and had a kind of olive skin. He had a crop of curly black hair, and the silky little clumps of curls would jiggle like Jello when he ran – the girls probably loved that too. He wore Drakkar Noir, we pronounced it like “Jakar.” Every boy in that junior high wanted to wear Jakar, Jakar drew the girls like honey, they said.

I wasn’t really jealous of Mike Fahey or anything, in fact, I didn’t really care one way or another. He wasn’t the kind of guy I envied. I envied more the guys who could play football and baseball and whose armpits stank after gym. I also envied the guys with the long hair and jean jackets covered with Iron Maiden and Metallica patches, but not as much as those “all around” kids. Either way, I fit in pretty well, and by 8th grade I fit in perfectly. It was my jokes you know. I was a fast wit, and I was that kind of stupid-daring that adolescent boys admire. I’d make jokes out loud in class, right in front of the teacher. I like to think the kids thought me daring, funny, and a little “bad.” So, even though I couldn’t throw or catch and didn’t wear a jean jacket with heavy metal patches, I still ran with all the guys. But this story happens before all that.

Mike Fahey had a little brother called Nick. Nick Fahey was in sixth grade and he was the antithesis of his older brother. He was runty and small, fairskinned and freckled with plain old coarse brown hair. He would’ve been otherwise unremarkable were it not for the overly obvious differences between he and Mike. I’m sure he dealt with it every day, the kid that was only noticeable because he was plainly not as attractive as his older brother Mike, not as tall as his older brother Mike, didn’t have his older brother Mike’s lush dark curls. He was about as much not-Mike as anyone could be. Mike had long legs and could ran fast, Nick was short and tiny and couldn’t keep up. Mike wore tight-rolled jeans and fancy shirts and Jakar, Nick wore shorts and a t-shirt and no cologne at all. I think, if I was Nick, I might’ve done something about it too… it must have been hard being not-Mike.

And Nick did do something.

I had gym first period, me and some other sixth graders had our lockers on the bottom row, the ones nearest the ground. The older kids made sure of that, they got the upper lockers so they didn’t have to kneel down to get their clothes in and out, and they could hang their balls on the backs of our heads because we did have to. The older kids liked to mess with us. They’d hit us and fart on us and smoosh their sweaty clothes into our faces, not to mention the balls on our heads. It was OK though, because they weren’t really being mean, they were just being boys, and we knew where we stood. In two years, we’d have our own bottom-locker pussies to hang our balls on and fart on. Boys are like that, you know.

One morning, some of the older guys came in laughing. “Have you heard?,” they asked the other older kids. “Nick Fahey walked into the bathroom at home this morning to take a piss while Mike was in the shower”, one of them said. “Yeah,” another chimed in, “and he’s telling everyone Mike was in there jacking off!” The boys rolled with laughter. “Omigod,” they said, “Holy shit!,” they said. “Can you believe that faggot?,” one asked. “Only gay faggots beat off in the shower,” someone said.

Now, I must admit that, even by that tender age, I was quite an experienced masturbator. I learned early, I was self-taught. I don’t know how most guys find out, maybe from a friend or a magazine or something, but not me – I just kinda lucked into it once. After that, it was a regular practice for me. “I can’t believe Mike Fahey is a fucking fag,” someone said. Everyone laughed. I laughed too, even though I beat off in the shower, probably that very morning. But hey, I laughed.

Little not-Mike Nick Fahey was telling the entire school he caught his big brother beating off in the shower. What’s worse, somehow, probably because of those three older idiots in my first period gym class, the rumor had grown to say that Mike was not only a dick-jacker, but worse – that he was gay. Personally, I have no idea how that jump was made by any of us boys. I’d bet money that each and every one of us in that locker room had closed our eyes and worked out our own bodies to thoughts of Alyssa Milano or that girl on the car in the Whitesnake video or Ms. Banks, our Geography teacher.

Oh man, Ms. Banks. I used to sit in class and daydream about eating her out under her desk while she sat and taught. No one else would know I was down there because the desk was closed from the back, and Ms. Banks would have to keep a straight face and try and teach through her ecstasy. I didn’t pay attention much in Geography class, I was too busy eating out the teacher in my head.

But those guys, all those guys masturbated, I’d bet my life on it. To make that jump, to call Mike gay for what they all did in the shower or under their covers or between the couch cushions – that was mean. And poor Mike, not only exposed for a masturbator, but worse a gay masturbator. For some reason back then, masturbating meant you weren’t getting girls. I mean, if you had to get yourself off, you obviously didn’t have a girl who could do it for you. Maybe this is where the gay thing came from, I’m not sure. Maybe it was because Mike dressed well and was popular with the girls and wore Jakkar. Maybe it was because his hair always looked so healthy and he was so tall and could run so well. I think it was all of that. If I noticed it, so did the other guys. What better way to take down a guy like that then to turn all his assets against him? He wears nice clothes because he’s a priss, keeps his hair nice because he’s a fairy, wears cologne because he wants it in the butt. Mike Fahey, as elevated as he was, made an easy target for jealousy.

That morning I imagine Nick Fahey was living a dream. The older kids crowded around him between classes, asking him to tell the story about his gay brother Mike jerking it in the shower. Nick smiled and bounced around anxiously, telling the story to the rapt crowd of guys who were slapping each other on the back and guffawing. Girls listened too, but they pretended to be disgusted or sad for Mike, they made “tsk” sounds as if to say, “What a shame!” They reacted this way because they were ladies, but they listened intently with bright eyes – they wanted to hear about this thing, this thing boys did in the shower with their own parts, they wanted to know – I was sure of it.

I didn’t actually see Mike until lunch that day, he looked beaten. His normal straight posture had changed, he was weary. Even his shiny bouncy curls looked limp and dull, he shuffled more than walked, his Jakar suddenly smelled a joke, like he was trying to cover up a stench. Poor Mike. People came up to him, girls to comfort him and tell him it was OK what he did, and it was OK if he was gay or whatever, or that they didn’t believe a word of it. Girls were always nice that way, must be how they’re made. Guys came too, mostly to point at him or call him a fucking faggot or make fists in front of their crotch and stroke an imaginary cock while screwing their faces up in pretend pleasure. “You like that, faggot?,” they’d ask, beating off their invisible cocks. Mike Fahey was destroyed. Mike Fahey was a man at the end of his rope, a man on the edge, an angel cast from the highest cloud in Heaven. Mike ate alone that day.

In the afternoon, word got around that Mike Fahey was going to kick his brother’s ass; his own brother. Mike had been setting people straight, telling them the real story. He said Nick made it all up, he hadn’t been jacking off in the shower, he had just been showering like anyone else. He wasn’t gay either, in fact he had sex with girls all the time, he said. Mike’s own reputation saved him, I think. People already thought he was a suave ladies man, it was harder to accept the new gay masturbating Mike than to just keep on seeing him as we always had. He probably could’ve recovered with propaganda alone, dispelling the rumors and sticking up for himself. After all, it was just his runty little pissant brother who was saying those things, why should we trust him? Yeah, he probably could’ve recovered with words alone, but I think he was smart to seal the deal with fists.

After school Mike beat his own little brother’s ass. Not a typical older-bother vs. younger-brother thing, this was an all-out fistfight. Nick Fahey never stood a chance. Mike towered inches over him, was older and stronger and faster than him, and had all the anger of a day spent as a faggot masturbator behind his blows. It was a good fight, Nick got a bloody nose. Afterward, Mike wasn’t gay anymore. And, even though I’d bet most people still believed he did get caught jerking it in the shower that morning, no one seemed to care anymore. He’d proven himself according to the law of boys by fighting his problem and winning. And anyway, maybe people were a little happy that jerking it in the shower didn’t make them gay, that’s not a bad thing for a teenage boy to not have to worry about.

Many years later, my estranged best friend would be suspended from high school for going down on Mike and Nick’s sister in the girls bathroom when they should’ve been in class. But that’s another story, and not mine to tell.

Haha, you’d never know I’m reading Ham On Rye, would you? Wink-wink. Hope you enjoyed the story, goodnight.

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setting the scene, quoting the players


Another blurringly-busy day at work today. Tonight we again had dinner with the older couple we know from church. We talked of B17s and bombing sorties over Southern Germany; of riding motorcycles around the makeshift hangers on a unassuming US airstrip in England, the hangers covered with brush as camouflage; of French pistols, the spoils of war; of flack from anti-aircraft guns at 30,000ft; of breaking formation to dodge scrambled German props. Unbelievable evening, had a great time. Was still in a writing mood when I got home, so for Friday I’m gonna get a little blue (OK a lot blue). Some scenes I remember, and quotes to go with them.

Scene: Boy in his room, showing a friend’s girlfriend something on his computer. There is a small group of people outside on the back porch, the boyfriend of the girl is one of them. She’s petite, her body tight and and small, making her look younger than she is. The boy perceives a signal, subtle body language – he makes his move, there is no protest. His hand moves under her shirt, along her side, up to her bra. She moves against his touch, providing “go ahead” pressure as his hand trails along her soft skin. No underwire, not much filling the cups but he doesn’t care, he’s dizzy in the moment – so risky, so exciting. Pushing aside the satiny fabric, he traces, pinches, pulls and pets.
Quote: “He’s right outside… No. Don’t stop. I’m so horny. Do you want to go somewhere?” “I can’t. He’s right outside.”

Scene: Boy and girl at work, it’s a Sunday in the mall and trade is light, there is plenty of time to talk and flirt. As the three-person shift progresses, the boy, who is the assistant manager, sends the third employee to the floor. He and the girl are left behind the counter, this is by design. She is younger, not “tight” or “petite” at all, rather healthy and amply bosomed. She has blonde hair, he thinks it may be fake, but he doesn’t care. The small flirtation continues, he’s always considered himself good at this game, and his conceit is confirmed as things seem to be progressing well. This is unusual, as he usually waits until success is all but a sure thing before making a move, this time he’s just forging ahead blindly. At the end of the day, he gets to choose who “closes” with him, he gets to send the other one home. He’ll count the money, note the total in the book, he’ll enclose the comparative running total as compared to last year in <carrot -parentheses>, it’s always negative compared to last year. He’ll put the money in the safe, she’ll be vacuuming the sales floor. Yes that’s his plan, and he’d successfully execute it later, but for now they stand behind the counter. He decides to be bold. His hand touches her leg through her pantyhose, there is no protest. Bolder still, he uses the midriff-high sales counter to his advantage, pushes up her black dress and moves inward on her thigh. There are are customers in the store, but to them the two torsos behind the sales counter are simply standing there. He reaches his goal, bolder than ever now.
Quote: “When are we going to fuck?” “I thought you’d never ask.”

Scene: Boy and girl sit in a car, he in the passenger seat and her in the driver’s. It’s her car. The boys arm stretches across the stickshift, his hand disappearing under unzipped jeans and polka-dotted cottons, working. It’s his first time inside her car, his first time inside her. They are both nervous as hell, their leaned-in kisses awkwardly twisting their bodies across the gulf of the parking break. She pants, but protests.
Quote: “Let’s move to the back seat.” “I can’t, not now.” “Just let me taste you, I just want to taste you.” “I can’t, not here.”

Scene: Boy at girl’s house, her parents are out of town, it’s the Fourth of July. For the longest time, he’s thought things could be “on” between them if he only made a move. He’s deathly afraid, she’s harder to read than any girl he’s previously courted. Boy has been trying to win back an old girlfriend, but it’s not this girl. This girl is small, petite, tight. She’s not the same small, petite, tight girl from the computer chair. All evening, he’s on the edge of making a move, on the edge of making a mistake, on the edge of faithfulness. She’s wearing one of those “at home” outfits that girls, particularly cheerleaders, wear when they want to entice boys: a tight-fitting pink tanktop with thin straps and short, short pants made out of grey cotton. He’s pretty sure he has permission, but he’s got a case of morality. He tries to leave.
Quote: “Please don’t leave, stay the night here tonight with me.” “I can’t.” “Please, I’m scared of the noise, the fireworks, you can stay with me in my room.”

Scene: He’s tutoring her, in math. He lays on his bed, she sits with her back to him, against the bed so he can look over her shoulder and see her book, equation, and work as she writes. He corrects her, gives her helpful hints and little explanations. The parabola opens upward if the slope is positive, she nods. She’s dressed for soccer practice, jersey and white Umbros, he can see through the white Umbros: striped panties, like a rainbow candycane. Her long blonde hair reflects the light in strands, it smells otherworldly as he peers over her shoulder. She gets it right, x=7, he reaches around to put his hand on her chin, he turns her head. Her skin is ghostly pale, he loves it, her legs gleam like alabaster pillars, her thighs like fresh cream. She turns her head, her eyes are already closed, her lips, so thin and pink, are presented and at the ready. They kiss, her tongue is pointier than he’s used to. She’s stunningly beautiful to him, so innocent.
Quote: “Sharaun is my friend.” “I know.”

Scene: Two young kids in the back of a car, clothes completely off. The car is parked in an open field in the woods. A field which, years ago, used to be the “parking” part of a drive-in movie theater. The teenagers grope, fogging up the windows. It’s cold outside, but warm humid in the car. The air smells of perfume and sweat and dried saliva on naked skin, and things are heating up. The girl is a virgin, the boy has two notches on his belt. Things are heating up. The boy knows he’s not getting lucky tonight, not in the strict sense of the term, but he does have a plan. He asks the girl if she wants to see something she’s never seen before, and in her best shy-excited voice she affirms she does. He says it’s nearly time. And that’s how two naked kids found themselves standing outside a car in the freezing darkness, the girl manipulating the boy, working to see something she’d never seen before. Their breath comes fast and ragged, accelerated by the moment, heavy with anticipation. The boy gives one final warning, then rocks up onto his toes as his muscles tense.
Quote: “It’s so warm. Is it always that warm?” “Yeah, always.” “I want to do this again, did I do it right?” “Yes, you did it perfect.”

Enough of this filth, again, and again, and again.

Goodnight.