Don't Stand Too Close to a Naked Man
Page 5
Oh, how wrong you can be.
I wonder if it's the same for women? It must be. The only apparent difference was that they often practiced kissing with and on each other. (I didn't miss a thing on those sixth‑grade field trips to the planetarium.) It's definitely something I would still pay to see. And why is that? Men liking women kissing women is so stupid. I don't think any woman fantasizes about two guys kissing. Once again, we're a very different species.
I don't think I'm wrong on this one.
Kissing your hand teaches you very quickly a most important lesson: the nose problem must be dealt with. It's unavoidable. You can't go right at the person you kiss. The standard kiss is direct. Straight on. No twisting. You pucker and squinch your face. Noses collide. It's inevitable. The only difference between kissing mom or grandma and a girl, is angling the nose. When you start thinking about nose placement, you know it's serious. Eventually, you figure out how to get your lips and a girl's lips together.
In fact, the whole sexual mess is about angles. You get way too much information as a kid. You figure out the kissing thing and then some older guy tells you where your penis goes during sex. What!?! When it takes this long to figure out the angles of kissing, you don't want to even bother visualizing how the rest of it works.
Not wanting to have actual sex at the time seemed a certainty, much like "I'll never eat broccoli." You should always be careful about saying "never." But at this point, confronted with all this information and, worse, misinformation, most guys just gave up. It was easier to blow up fish.
Not that we stopped obsessing about it day and night.
Some guys did forge ahead, and they were the lucky ones. All you had to do was get through that first kiss. And soon as the kiss can be performed with the slightest hint of confidence, you're saying, "Now what was that thing about the penis again?"
- -
Spin the Bottle was the game that was supposed to teach us about kissing. Unfortunately, someone would always chicken out. We'd get to the precipice and someone wouldn't play.
It's like welshing on a bet when you're playing poker. Suddenly the whole game is pointless. Any boy who ever experienced the disappointment of kiss welshing surely acquired immediate respect for the honorable tradition of paying off your bets. (Or is it because you know your legs will be broken?)
Spin the Bottle probably reminds guys of basements more than anything else. That's why guys still like them to this day. Eating in the basement is really something.
- -
Once a young man gets the stirrings, and a little bit of knowledge, he's dangerous. He's on a quest to discover what to do with the hormone soup bubbling inside him. And just how does the young man harness this carnal lust for all things female, make her bend to his will, and let him have his…? Hey, hey, hey! In typically male fashion, we're getting ahead of ourselves. No wonder women tell us to slow down.
For most guys there is one girl who will teach him a few of the basics. At this point, the basics don't amount to much: talking to the girl you like, then making physical contact through handholding and kissing. And most important, trying to disguise the awkwardness.
The most confusing part is figuring out which girl.
For most boys there are three types.
The first type knows something. She has something in her eyes, in her face, and you don't care or know what it is, only that you want her knowledge firsthand. That she makes the other girls mad only makes you like her more. When a guy makes other guys mad he's holding back something they want. This is the girl with a bit of experience who is also willing to keep going forward to get more. This is the one who wants to do things in the basement. She'll come over on Saturday to meet the folks and then play games with you, with the lights out. Eventually, she'll suffer the humiliation of seeing her name written on a wall with the word "slag" appended. It's the lunatic inside you that wants her. Not that she cares about you. She most likely has her eyes on an older guy; in order to know what to do with him, she practices on all her inexperienced volunteers. "Come over to my place because I want to touch that." Like panting dogs, they go.
The second girl you're in love with. She doesn't know about the yearnings, or at least she isn't telling. She delights in anniversary cards marking each week you've been together. It's okay to hold her hand. Maybe you even play war together. She makes a wonderfully chaste nurse. Unfortunately, this means you see her only when war breaks out. It's almost backward. This is what an old person's relationship is like.
The third type combines the first two. She actually becomes your girlfriend. For me, our first contact turned out to be a far more human experience than I ever imagined.
My first girlfriend was really sexy, but she wouldn't give it to me in the dark basement. I'd have to get it somehow; and I'd have to give something in return. An unspoken barter system existed-a good early lesson about women and relationships. We sat on the couch for hours. She, waiting for me to do something. Me, waiting for her first to say yes. But you see, I would have to do something first in order for her to respond. But I couldn't make my move until she said yes. The last thing I wanted to do was say, "Um, excuse me, but is it okay to kiss you now?" That's so uncool. So neither one of us knew what was going to happen. A few years later I heard that some older guy came along, dated her once, and "got" her. That's how it always was. Some other guy got what I wanted. Bastards. All of them.
Unfortunately, I never got to be the older guy with any girl. I guess it's too late now, unless I start hanging out at high schools, going, "Hey, want a ride in my convertible?" Not that I ever would.
My first girlfriend was, naturally, the first girl I ever kissed. We waited and waited for her parents to leave the house, or go to bed, or suffer heart attacks. Anything, just go already. When it finally happened, the kiss was warm and hot, but awkward and rushed. I'd never experienced anything like it before. It was nothing like my mother's kiss, thank god. Actually, it did remind me of my brother pinning me down on the ground so he could lick my face.
After it was over, I was pretty certain we didn't do it right. But we were both glad we'd taken the first step. One small step for Tim, one giant leap for his monster. Eventually it got better, and every time we got ready to part we knew the moment was coming, so our hearts would beat loudly, and I'd think to myself, "Wow, this is a wonderful thing."
- -
Men look at women the way men look at cars. Everyone looks at Ferraris. Now and then we like a pickup truck, and we all end up with a station wagon: the best of both worlds. Women equate this with the lady in the parlor and the whore in the bedroom. Men are pretty functional, it's true. What's interesting is that we often find the right kind of woman immediately and then, because of a taste for the Ferrari and the pickup truck, avoid the station wagon for as long as we can hold out.
Excuse me while I duck.
Don't get me wrong. I know fm objectifying women, but I do so without malice. I know in my own heart I don't mean anything bad by it. I just talk about everything that way. That's what all men do. We look at a picture in Playboy and say, "Whew. Nice lines." When we get to know the woman as a person, she's no longer an object.
I wonder if it's similar but reversed for women? Because of our appearance, they project all sorts of feelings onto us that aren't there: "That guy's like such and such, I can tell. He wants me." Then they get to know us and we wind up as objects. "I always knew he was a lug nut."
It's worth thinking about.
The danger is when men start out objectifying-with cars and toys-and then keep doing it. Women aren't like cars. Not remotely. We call cars and boats "she" but that's wishful thinking. Women are not objects. But that's the natural way we think: we merge, we fix, we construct objects. So the first thing we thought about women, after breaking that rock and grunting a couple times‑‑ "Here's a rock that moves" and "Whoa, boy, nothing else makes me feel like that except the Buick I've been working on." If we could have had sex with our cars and
boats it would have been a lot easier. But we'd be a smaller species.
- -
Young guys are pretty comfortable about admitting to each other the stirrings they've discovered. This is not something to be afraid of or embarrassed by. It's just the hormones taking over. Men acknowledge what's happened, and as with everything else in life, feel compelled to prove their prowess. In other words, they start making up stories about sex and how much they know and how much they've had. Some guys can bullshit right up to the limit. We're taught at an early age to do this. That's how you get status in the group, by passing off the biggest b.s. and not getting caught. Sometimes all the guys know it's garbage, and they still don't call the guy on it. What's the point? You don't get status that way unless you know something he doesn't-and then you'd have been talking about it.
The kid with the tallest tales was always the one who had just come back from summer vacation. There was no way we could disprove it. "It happened at camp. A girl who rode horses there did everyone!" We let him get away with it because we wanted to be part of whatever happened. I wonder what women said to each other: "You don't want to touch it. They smell bad." I want to know where they got their information.
One kid said his sister always had sex in the basement. More bullshit, we thought. But it ends up he was right. One day, we cracked the door open, looked down, and witnessed two people going at it. It was weird. It seemed like a traffic accident or something. We were mesmerized. We couldn't look away. Even if they had seen us, we couldn't have looked away. We knew what they were doing-but what in the hell were they doing? And on a school day?
- -
Okay, so you're newly self‑conscious and trying to figure out what will attract a girl. Cigarettes seem like a cool thing. But there's difference you learn very quickly between what's cool to guys and what's cool to girls. And what's cool to one girl might not be cool to another. It starts out as a real crap shoot.
A girl I was in love with showed up once at the baseball field where I was smoking a cigarette with a group of guys. We smoke Kools because we were cool. I was excited to see her. The first thing she said was "I thought you were so nice, but here you are smoking." I'm thinking, man have I screwed up. Then I brilliantly countered by appearing aloof, since I didn't want any of my friends to know I'd just given her a valentine. Actually, I'd handed it to her mom, but only because she answered the door before I got a chance to run away. I was so in the habit of leaving things on doorsteps, ringing the doorbell, and running. You know, "Ding Dong and Ditch It." We'd leave sacks of flaming dogshit for some poor sap to stamp out. Naturally, she made it worse by saying, "I was just about to thank you for the valentine, and now you're smoking a stupid cigarette."
I promptly put it out. Come on-I had a crush on her.
As nervous as all this makes them, young boys still want girls to notice them. The problem is the way they do it. Girls want boys to say, "You look so pretty today." You-indirectly-want to say, "You have nice tits." Girls want you to say things that let them know you somehow value them and dig their looks. You want them to let you know that you're someone they want to sleep with. And nobody else. Ever. You want to know that you're turning them on with your boyish charm and your butch‑waxed hair and your dad's cologne. Women want to know they're pretty, and valued, and feminine. All you want to know is "Will you touch my penis?"
I remember all the girls' saying things about Robert Redford, all of which began with "Oh, my god…" To this day I wish I would overhear someone saying that kind of stuff about me. "Tim makes me just want to. ." "I'm so drawn to his. ." "With Tim, it's like flying. ."
I always heard stuff like "Gee, Tim, that shirt makes you look nice." And I'd think, "Yes, but does it make you want me?" Maybe that's what they were actually saying, but they weren't speaking in a language I could understand.
Nothing has changed. How else can you explain the store shelves full of books on how men and women can learn to communicate better? Someone should come out with a man‑woman dictionary, like those English‑French ones. Men say, "You have a nice set of tits." What we mean is, you have a nice package and you're pretty. We don't see only the breasts. Well, only for a moment or two. Women want to hear "You look beautiful." And certain men know how to do that. They learn the little trick. Anyone who wants to teach me can write in.
- -
Bernie Broder taught me all about sex. He was an older guy who didn't bullshit. He felt compassion for younger kids because he had been there. He was a mentor. He bonded with us, and we weren't afraid to ask him questions.
So one day he took five of us down in my dad's fruit cellar and fondled us repeatedly. No, he took us down to the basement and we asked him point‑blank: "How do you make love to a woman?" We weren't going to giggle and be silly; we wanted to know.
In sex‑ed films, when you finally thought you might see something that would give you a clue to what was happening, they suddenly cut away to this outer‑space‑looking shot of sperm paddling furiously for the egg. What galaxy was this in? It was, now that I think about it, the classic comic misdirect. They got your attention and then went from pictures to the scientific data real quick because they didn't want to deal with it either. No one seemed to want to reveal what really went on.
We five listened while Bernie answered our question in his straightforward manner. "A guy lays on top of a girl and his penis goes in between her legs and into her vagina." Once again, it was too much information. The French‑kissing thing and the tongue were enough. My mind was racing. Now how about a game of war? Anyone? Isn't it time to go outside and torture some ants with a magnifying glass?
"So, now wait, wait. You lay on her?"
"No, no, no," said Bernie. "You don't put your legs sideways."
I can't remember what we thought: rub up against women, kiss them. If we'd done it the way we imagined we'd get busted in fifty states today.
I eventually realized it didn't matter what I thought. When Mr. Happy decides it's time, he'll tell you. At this point Mr. Happy was so brutal an animal there was no way to communicate with him.
We later found out that Bernie was dating Ellen Stratton and eventually married her. Then they moved next door to Tommy Rodriguez and his family. Remember Tommy? This guy was in the eighth grade, had a family, and worked at a factory at night. Drove a car to school. I think the guy was forty; he just kept coming back to high school because he liked to shower.
I knew these people having sex were all related.
the eddie haskell syndrome
Guys never get girls when they need them. If they did, they wouldn't get into trouble.
Trouble for most young men springs from unfulfilled desires. Now you're on a roll. Testosterone is powering your system. You're all dressed up, but where's the party? You have no job, you have nothing to do, peer pressure is mounting, and you're still too young for the girls your age.
So you get into trouble. There are new limits to explore, but it's different from when you were smaller. Now you have real hostility, confusion, and insecurity. And mom can't fix it anymore. Your group of guys even starts falling apart. One friend is drinking too much and getting in trouble with his folks. The guy across the street can't hang with you anymore because he went off the deep end. This is when you start becoming a loner, and have problems respecting authority.
To deal with the stress, some of us developed split personalities: half model citizen, half hooligan.
In other words, we become Eddie Haskells.
I was an Eddie Haskell. With my friends' parents, I was the model kid they wished their kids would be. I made their brood look pitiful.
"Don't you look nice today, Mrs. Cleaver. That's an interesting tool, Mr. Cleaver."
I'd go on trips with these kids, and later their parents would write notes to my parents: "Dear Mrs. Dick, Tim is just a delight. He makes his bed and cleans up after himself. He's always welcome."
But when my friends' folks were away, I became Tim, the instigator,
forcing these same kids to buy beer.
"Okay, Beav, they'll be back about ten o'clock. Now go get me a gun and some brown liquor and see if you find two loose women. Whatever those are."
- -
There are lots of ways to get into trouble.
At school, we were forbidden to smoke in the boys' room. A rule that forbids is a rule that is broken. I would rather have smoked in the girls' room, anyway. (In retrospect, I would rather not have smoked at all. Smoking's not good for you. But then you all know that.)
We also had fights. Manuel Lopadeca was always in the "ring" with somebody. He'd get pissed at some poor guy and the word would spread around school. At three o'clock everything would shut down, and we'd all gather behind the gym. Eventually, Manuel and his latest victim would circle each other. Smack! A couple of blasts to the face, a little blood. It was a catharsis. Fighting was a way to rechannel unused sexual energy. At least it was physical contact. It was a better way to release aggression than today's knifings and drive‑by shootings.
I only fought with my brothers, except for once, when I fought Bob Stirwood. He hit my brother, so I made him sit in an ant pile. That's creative retaliation. Then his brother came, and chased me up a tree.
These days, kids maim each other for scuffing their tennis shoes. Can't we go back to fist fighting when you only hit people you loved?
- -
Sometimes our evil was premeditated.
One of my best friends kept maligning another kid in our science class about his, uh. . unit. He'd say, "Jim Kerwin has a bald pin cock." He'd say it really loud and really often, because this kid was easily intimidated. And rightfully so. We'd seen him in the shower. Tommy Rodriguez's opposite number. He probably spent his spare time desperately scanning the hair‑growth‑tonic ads. Doesn't work. You really gotta wait out that transformation and not fear that it's already happened.