Come On, Just Lick It

I’m seven years old and this kid from the neighborhood is telling me to blow him.  He’s older than me.  He’s saying all the girls in his seventh grade class love to suck his ding dong.  He says one girl claims it’s the most super awesome penis she’s ever seen.  He says the girl’s gobbled everyone, so she knows what she’s talking about. 

We’re in the woods behind my house.  There’s no one around for about a mile.  The boy brought me here to show me where he camps.  He’s got a little metal pot and a can of beans.  Now he’s unzipping himself and fishing out his wiener.   I haven’t seen many, but I’m pretty sure no one calls this “super awesome.”  It’s purple and veiny, like when you wrap dental floss around your finger and it cuts off the circulation.  It looks like it’s going to fall off. 

“Just lick it,” he says.

“No,” I say.

“Come on, just tell me what you think.  Just–”

“Get away from me!”

“Stop being a baby and just lick it.”

“I’m not licking anything!”

I back up and he’s shuffling towards me.  He’s still choking his wiener with his fist.  His pants are falling down.  They’re around his knees.  I turn, take off running.  I hear him screaming.  Then I hear a thud.  I’m pretty sure he tripped, but I don’t look back.  I just keeping running and crunching over the dead leaves until I make it to my house.  My dad is out front cutting the grass.  He sees me crying and asks what happened.  I tell him about the boy, how he wanted me to put his ding dong in his mouth.

The boy is now across the street.  He’s out of breath.  His pants are back on.  My father charges over and grabs him by the throat.  I think he’s going to kill the kid, and I realize it’s my fault.  My father’s going to murder a child and he’s going to go to jail and I’m going to be an orphan.

I run over, beg him to stop.

My father pulls the boy up to his face.  My father says, “You don’t ever come around here again.  I mean ever.  You hear me?”

The boy nods.  His face is almost as purple as his pecker was.  My father lets him go.  The boy tears off down the street. 

I see him a few more times that summer, but he always heads in the other direction.

PRESENT

When friends find out my wife and I have threesomes with girls, a lot of them ask if that means I have to do stuff with guys.  It doesn’t.  My wife is the one into girls.  It’s not the other way around.  If we brought a dude into the bed, I’d just be sitting there hanging out.

My friend asked, “Would you ever do anything, you know, if that’s what your wife really wanted?  Like that’s what she needed to see?”

“I don’t know…”

“You would.”

I said I guess, but I’d need to be positive that’s what she really wanted.  It couldn’t be a prank.  Like “Ha ha, you blew a dude!”

But if that’s what she really wanted, sure.  I wouldn’t be excited, but I wouldn’t be freaked out either.  I’d probably suck a dick the way I’d eat a Subway sandwich.  Meaning I’d do it, but I’m not gonna brag about it to everyone.  Like “Holy shit, people!  I just ate a motherfucking Cold Cut Combo!”

photo credit: <a href=” the Jaguar</a> via <a href=”;photopin</a> <a href=”;

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Varying Degrees of Gay – Part 2

There are very good psychiatrists in this country.  Men and women who simply want to help, to quiet the voices, to bring peace to the troubled mind.  At the other end of the spectrum, you’ll find a pool of scumbags and scoundrels so vile they should be listed as Enemies of the State.  These are monsters who prey on the weakest, the most fragile; they twist everything, because they need someone to hang on their every word.  They have no friends, and in all likelihood, they were peed on in high school.

In between, you’ll find ones who just want to be called, “Doctor,” the people who only do it for the money and prestige.  You also have folk who want to help the injured, but they’re too squeamish for surgery. Then you have physicians who used to be good, but the stacks of the failed cases and bottles of booze simply scraped out their ability to care.

The psychiatrist my father took me to would best be described as “clueless” and “confused.”  He was well-meaning and he had a good heart, but that only made him more dangerous, especially to my father.

This doctor’s office was near my old high school, and as we passed by the football field and campus, I remembered all the father/son fights we’d had during those turbulent years.  We should have been in therapy then.  We couldn’t communicate.  We just screamed.

My father and I entered the nondescript medical building and walked up to the second floor.  Dr. Len greeted us and shook our hands.  He had a beard, thick glasses, and a soothing voice.  He was wearing a turtleneck and pants that were way too tight.

I tried not to make any judgments.  The man was helping my father to deal with the pending divorce and to move on with his life.  I needed to respect that.

My father and I sat on a small couch, while Dr. Len smiled and blinked.  My father and I were practically touching the couch was so small.

“Thank you for coming,” Dr. Len said.  He was only staring at me.  “Your father wants to see how you’re doing?”

“I’m…fine.”

Fine, okay…okay… What do you mean by that?”

I suddenly realized this wasn’t about my dad’s progress.  This was about me.  I felt cornered.

Dr. Len sat there, smiling, blinking.  “It must have been difficult hearing your mother tell you she’s gay?”

Over the past few months, I’d been asked this question a lot, by friends, by acquaintances.  My answer came out by rote: “It was unexpected, sure.  But she’s my mom, and I love her, so I support her.”

“Of course, of course.  But how are you dealing with it?”

“Dealing with…?  I don’t know.  I’m just…dealing.  I mean, I’ve definitely asked myself if I’m gay.”

I gave a little laugh. I could feel my father’s heartbeat quicken.

I continued, “I’m just saying I’d want to know, like now, you know?  I don’t want to figure out I’m gay when I’m forty-five like my mom.”

I felt my father shifting in the seat.  I chose to stop talking.  I was actually enjoying his discomfort.  He’d ambushed me, after all.

“And…what conclusion did you come to?” Dr. Len asked.

Conclusion?”

My father was going to have a heart attack.  I thought about singing my answer.  Instead, I said, “I’m not gay.  I’ve thought about it though.  I really have, but I’m just not.”

“That’s good,” Dr. Len said.  “I mean, not that you’re not gay -  I mean, it’s good you’ve asked yourself that question.  Perfectly normal.”

“I know.”

“Well, I don’t know if you know this, but ninety percent of the population is bisexual.”

My father sat back and nodded.

“Excuse me?” I said.

“The vast majority of people are bisexual.”

“I’ve…never heard that…”

“Oh yes, all the new data proves it.”  Dr. Len brought out an image of a bell curve on this little cardboard square.  “See these ends here?  They represent the extremes.  Only five percent of the population is completely gay.  And over here, only five percent is absolutely straight.”

I looked over at my father, who was nodding along, clearly having seen this chart before.

“And the rest of the population,” Dr. Len said, “are varying degrees of gay.  See, some are more straight, while others are more gay.  And some are right in the middle.”

“I’m not sure…I mean, what?”

“Well, take me for example.”

Okay, here we go.

“I’m happily married,” Dr. Len said.  “Have been for thirty-one years.  And I love my wife.  Truly love her.  We have three kids and a very satisfying sex life.”

I noticed food stains on his turtleneck.

“And while I absolutely love my wife and find her very attractive, I also like watching track athletes.”

“…”

“Their hard muscles churning at peak physical condition…”

Dr. Len kept talking, but I stopped listening, because that’s when I noticed, over his shoulder, hanging on the wall, was a framed picture of Carl Lewis.  The Olympic champion glistening with sweat.

I don’t remember the rest of the session, but I remember the car ride home.

“Why are you seeing this guy?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, he’s a weirdo.”

“No, he’s got some good points.”

I realized my father wasn’t trying to move on at all, and it was because of Dr. Len.  If ninety percent of the population was bisexual, then sexuality was fluid.  It gave my father this bullshit hope that my mom wasn’t really gay, that in all probability, it was just a phase.

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