In mid-adolescence
my modesty proved flammable.
I was clumsy, a bit chubby
(not as much as I thought)
and had the social skills
of a friendly mutt, whose
wagging tail knocks over
vases. Also, I was sure
I was the smartest person
in the world and wanted
everyone to know it.
Boy, the girls all knew something,
and avoided me, creating ripples
around me in the high school hallway.
At home, alone ("home" and "alone"
have long been sad companions),
I noticed in the bathroom and bedroom mirrors
(how all the mirrors agreed!)
my hairy pubes, my enormous upward jolting
erections (and admiring myself in the mirror
was enough to flick that switch) --
I thought them enormous, was surprised
when I measured myself (full erect)
and just made it to the notorious 6 inches.
Modesty? I had the idea that if all the girls
whose padded bras I didn't know were padded
could just see what a stud I was, all else
would be forgiven -- they'd WANT me and
want me to want THEM. I couldn't just
walk naked through the halls, so I had
long and elaborate day and night dreams
about going swimming with a girl, and
having lots of gritty sand get under our suits,
and having to share a small changng hut
and, hell, whatever it took to get naked
and get laid, though usually, before the plot
came to it's culmination, I'd get impatient,
and take myself in hand. I was so damned
juicy! How could all those girls resist me!?
These days I've calmed down. Last time
I went to a class reunion, I saw dozens of ladies
who once starred in my high school dreams
and didn't even ask them for autographs,
though I'm sure some of them still have
lovely hands.
Dean
Posted by: j b | 08/06/2005 at 03:18 PM