Don't Stand Too Close to a Naked Man

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.