The Aim of the Yang
April 21, 2011 § Leave a comment
A long story about sex ed in Middle America:
In fourth grade, Scotty and I confided in each other, finally, about our boners. This was something that had quite obviously been on both our minds. It was recess, a sort of modern equivalent to the symposium, if you can imagine such a thing. The inquiry began with that eternal and totally absurd but for some reason formally necessary meta-question, Hey uh Jorg can I uh ask you somethin’? Shoot, I said, as we stood with our hands in our coat pockets, Starter coats, his a Dallas Cowboys and mine a rare and much envied Air Force Falcons. It was that time of year with the most miasmatic breath, opaquely so, breath melting the very air you breathed by breathing it. We pretended to smoke with an ersatz existentialism, steam rolling from our mouths, sideways peace fingers holding invisible Marlboros.
Your uh yang ever uh like um uh grow? Scotty asked, taking a deep inhale of unfiltered winter air and exhaling it in that serious way philosophers smoke. It was fitting; this was a most serious question. Like um when you uh when you look at Maggie McConnell, does um it like uh grow longer, he continued, Like um when you look at like uh look at her butt?
Maggie McConnell was the uncontested Helen of Whittier Elementary. She had a duck wings haircut. She was always, always – without exception – referred to both with prae- and cog- nomens.
Yeah yeah, like grows like a lot, I answered in a hurry, half shouting, relieved that what I had previously thought to be a potentially serious medical condition was perhaps something completely normal, or worst case scenario the result of some sort of major breakout, and then at least I wouldn’t suffer alone. And it gets hard too. Your yang get all like hard too? I asked with a distinctly non-philosopher non-coolness, unaware I had inadvertently dropped my imaginary cigarette on the real ground.
We started talking over each other, so thrilled were we to be having this discussion, like when lovers discover to their surprise and immense delight and indeed relief that they share some strange and inelegant kink. Yeah like um all that um like extra skin bunched up at the top like, you know all that skin – Yeah yeah yeah the skin at the uh top right it like – It uh like stretches/yeah yeah like stretches out/out, and the whole thing gets all like um stiff, you know? We were both circumcised, though we had no idea that there was any other way a yang could be. Scotty’s was the only other yang I really ever saw regularly, when we’d shower together on Saturday mornings after our weekly sleepover. We had a custom of pissing on each other during these showers, which gave us kicks.
Yeah yeah stiff. Like hard. Yeah hard and big and/ and all um stickin’ like straight/straight out, exactly…yeah. We were gesticulating in such a way as to sort of pantomime the object we were describing.
Intimate pausing here. For a moment, cigarettes materialize in both our mouths and again we take up our imaginary habit. After some drags of good air, I continued, Feels like kinda like weird yeah? Yeah yeah but it doesn’t like um uh hurt or anything. No no it sorta like feels like kinda cool. Yeah yeah, Scotty said with an innocent eagerness that would never really exist in the same form ever again.
So why do you think Maggie McConnell’s butt like um makes our yangs grow? We had both sought her out with our eyes from our perch on the four square court. We watched her chase a soccer ball toward the prairie at the edge of the ball field. The grass was dusted with a frost in a way that resembled the powder on the hair of teenagers playing old people in a school play, though strangely it made the grass look young. Maybe it’s because I um like her Jorg. Well yeah Scotty but I mean like everybody likes Maggie McConnell. But I mean I like uh like really like like her. Well yeah Scotty but I mean my yang gets hard when I look at Maggie McConnell’s butt too. And if both our yangs get hard when we look at Maggie McConnell’s butt than probably everybody’s yang gets hard when they look at Maggie McConnell’s butt.” This was Aristotelean logic at its best. Our hands in the pockets of our Starter coats, we were now holding our respective coats several inches out in front of our bodies. It was clear that this action had been performed by each of us many times. Silence for some moments as Maggie McConnell was chased by Cody R. and Brandon K. She passed the ball off to Hattie T. but Cody and Brandon continued to chase her, making it clear it was not the ball they were chasing at all, and my deduction about their yangs gained some unspoken gravity.
The bell rang and Scotty and I both looked at each other and quickly and without ceremony reached under our Starter coats, into our pants, and tucked our hard yangs under the waistbands of our blue jeans. While we did a sort of waddle thing toward the door it was decided that Scotty would consult his dad, Mr. Stan G., on the topic, as Mr. Stan G. was not only the pastor of our church but also a Major in the Air Force Reserve and therefore an obvious authority on all things yang.
And so the next day at lunch, as Scotty and I sat over turkey fritters and what I suspected were instant mashed potatoes, Scotty enlightened me on the teleology of the erection. We had chosen a secluded spot at the far end of a table, within only the earshot of Danica H. and Shelby R. Danica ate exclusively mayonnaise and marshmallow fluff sandwiches on white wonder bread from the wonder bread outlet, which had recently received an automobile through its front window, and Shelby mostly just licked the bottoms of her shoes or consumed the occasional glue-stick. It was a safe spot. So? I asked as I picked up my fritter, examined the fritter, put down said fritter and contemplated beginning with what I suspected were instant mashed potatoes. So…? Did you ask your dad about the yang thing? I said with that voice that people make when they are eager about a secret and confounded that the other person isn’t, the voice that is made by sort of over-blowing a whisper through a clenched jaw. Yeah yeah. Well…what’d you ask him? Wanting to know the exact phrasing of the question so as not to miss a single nuance of what I was certain would be an utterly complex and most beguiling answer.
Again I considered the fritter.
Same thing I asked you. Why our wang yangs get all like um hard when we look at Maggie McConnell’s butt.
Another pause here, this one appropriately pregnant. Such moments as these are the folly of man, for while choosing to go no further at such junctures would lead to the bliss of ignorance, nothing seems worse at the time than the want of knowledge. And thus the eternal conjunction was uttered. And…? I took a bite of the fritter, if for no other reason than that the anticipation of both the fritter and the mystery of the hard yang was simply too much and something had to be DONE, clearly.
Another pause. For Scotty it was too late, but no soldier of courage leaves his brother on the battlefield without at least an attempt to restore life, even if he is injured beyond hope. It is the same logic that draws one to seek answers.
He said our yangs get hard so that we have better aim. I stopped chewing my fritter and looked at Scotty. What? Aim for what? Chew your fritter Jorg that sounded all like frmmm mahr wckk frckkmlw… I swallowed hard, forcing a soggy mess of processed white flour, ground turkey bits and sodium nitrate down my unsuspecting throat . I thought for a moment that maybe I had given my esophagus a Charlie horse. But I was fine. Aim. For. What.
For you know…like…you know…” Here Scotty got unrealistically interested in his fritter.
Yeah me neither. And that’s all he said?
Yeah that’s all he said. You didn’t ask him about what our yangs need like good aim for? Well it got all like weird in the room and Shannon – Shannon G. (everyone’s name in Scotty’s family started with an S – (they had this thing about alliteration)) was Scotty’s younger sister – started like asking what a yang was and dad told us both to drop it.
… I gave up on the fritter and moved to what I suspected were instant mashed potatoes. They were. I felt neither relief nor disappointment at this discovery. Instant mashed potatoes are fine. It’s just the thing was that you actually never knew if what you suspected to be instant mashed potatoes were in fact instant mashed potatoes until you had the first bite, as it could very well have been, given that the same utensil was used for the distribution of each thus making their overall shape and texture sitting on the tray nearly identical, vanilla ice cream.
Some moments were here devoted to chewing. I finished my single scoop of what were in fact instant mashed potatoes and suggested to Scotty, We could ask Mag- No way Jorg. No way. And Scotty was right. Neither of us would have had the balls, even if we had the balls.
Some more pausing. The pausing, it turned out, was genuine, which pausing rarely is.
We could ask Shelby, Scott proposed, not looking at me, and then looking at me, and then looking at Shelby. I followed Scotty’s gaze. Shelby looked like a brown squirrel.
Hi Shelby, Scott said. … Shelby replied. So, uh, Shelby we, uh, wondered if we could like, um, ask you a question.
Shelby took a bite of her glue-stick. Scotty looked at me. He looked at Shelby. So, uh, you know like, uh, yangs. Well, uh, they get like hard sometimes and – What’s a yang? Shelby said, licking some glue from her bottom lip. You know, like a ying yang, a wang yang – A ding dong, a wong schlong, I jumped in. Shelby looked perplexed and took another small bite of glue-stick. She chewed slowly, silently. Private parts, I whispered, is what they are really called. And sometimes, you know, like they get hard and grow and stuff. At this point Shelby’s face took on a sort of House of Usher expression. It’s a terrible thing to faze a girl who eats glue. There were glances all around. Something terrible had been done here.
And then the bell, that eternal source of joy and dread, rang out. There are times when a school bell can easily be mistaken for the opening of Mahler Eight, if you listen carefully, and we did.
Veni, it sang, Veni Creator Spiritus.
Five years later, I saw my first vagina.
The diagram, black and white and labeled with all the appropriate biological components, appeared on the overhead projector on my first day of sex ed – my first day ever, which was in eighth grade.
Of course sex ed had begun much earlier for most of the kids in my class – five years earlier, to be exact, just a few short weeks after the fiasco with Shelby and the question about my long hard wang yang, a question she surely had answered by an expert of some kind during those two weeks I spent in the school library researching Neil Armstrong. Yes, that is what I did the first year of sex ed – Neil Armstrong. Scotty did Buzz Aldrin. Not totally unsexy topics, really, and certainly there are interesting questions which could be asked, scholarly wise, given that rockets are so small and three men in there so far away from home and all. But of course this notion never crossed our minds, as we were researching Apollo 11 not with regard to sex but instead of.
Why was I sitting in the library reading anecdotes about the favorite pre-flight breakfast of Apollo astronauts (steak and eggs, it turns out)? Because of the sexual education permission slip – an unassuming half sheet of paper, sent home to each parent of every child every year a few weeks before sex ed begins. Each slip contained two unassuming boxes: the yes, please thank god for sex ed in school so I don’t have to have that horrifically awkward conversation with my child oh my god finally taxes well spent box; and the no, sex is sacred and holy and you’ll just ruin it with all your science and your reason and besides if my kid learns about it in school with all those other kids he’ll be fucking like a rabbit in the bathroom during recess and will be fathering a child by next semester box. And every year Scotty and I ended up in the library. And every year at the end of sex ed, Scotty and I would have to stand-up in front of the class and give a presentation on whatever topic we picked. And you would stare into this classroom full of people, holding back grins, like they were all in on some secret that you weren’t apart of, because they were, while you stood there and told them that Neil Armstrong was from Ohio. Or that Einstein’s violin playing had a tremendous influence on his later work on the theory of everything. Or that entropy was really great. And as it turns out, entropy is great, but it’s really hard to tell that to a classroom full of middle-school students who only the day before at the same hour were discussing the finer details of intercourse.
Looking back I can appreciate my parent’s intentions. To them, as to many, there was a very clear line between what is taught at school as a matter of fact and what is taught at home as a matter of philosophy; money, sex and the origins of the universe were the core of the at-home curriculum. What was good about this way of doing things, and what has been somewhat lost, is that there was a great responsibility on the part of the parent to be heavily involved in the education of their children; it wasn’t entirely the burden of the school teacher as is all too often the case in our present times. The problem with doing things that way was that certain subjects just can’t really be taught at home – calculus is one; sex is another, if for no other reason than that learning about sex from your parents, who you slowly come to realize during the course of ‘the talk,’ had on at least, in my case, three occasions engaged in this activity, is so terribly awkward for all parties involved. This awkwardness combined with the ever-present disclaimer that having sex with anyone you aren’t married to will secure your suite in Hell meant that the Talks my Dad and I had made me only vaguely familiar with the whole mechanics and purpose of the thing.
Luckily in seventh grade Scotty started working out at the school gym and was therefore privy to so-called locker room conversation. He became my mole, my man on the inside, and one day, finally, Scotty confided in me once again about his boner. It was recess; Scotty and I stood leaning casually against the back wall of the school, hands in the pockets of our new skiing jackets. The inquiry began, Yo Jorg ask you somethin’? Yo man sup. You whacked it? Whacked what? You know, your wanger. You been whackin it? Whatchu talkin’ ’bout man? I’m talkin’ bout whackin’ it man, you know, beatin’ it. I tried it last night man. It’s awesome. Whatchu gotta do? You gotta get your yang hard, you know like think about Maggie McConnell’s tits or whatever. Then when it’s all hard and whatever you just start beatin’ it. Just like WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! He made a gesture of violently backhanding his penis. What’s it do? Oh man it feels great man. You gotta stop after awhile ‘cause it starts to sorta hurt kinda you know but it’s totally awesome. Whoa. Yeah. Cody said you can do it with a bean bag too. Like the ones we use in gym? Yeah yeah. You should try it man.
And so I did. That night I locked myself in my room, stood facing my desk, and focused in a rather yogic fashion on the newly blossomed breasts of Maggie McConnell. My yang rose slowly to the challenge and I was filled with that sort of paternal pride of a father who never tires of seeing his son step courageously up to the plate. I stood there for several minutes, boxers around my ankles, completely still except for my lengthening wang, and I contemplated this most seemingly unnatural act I was about to perform. But as strange and unintuitive as it seemed, there was little, I had to admit, about the mysterious yang that seemed anything but strange and unintuitive. And so I drew my right hand back a little more than waist high, palm facing up, and with a swift and only slightly hesitant swing, I backhanded my yang, sending it swinging back and forth like some sort of rubber pendulum until inertia took hold and my yang was still once again. And I raised my right hand, a little higher this time, and with no hesitation whatsoever backhanded my yang, WHACK! And then a forehand, WHACK! And another backhand, WHACK! Forehand, backhand, forehand, backhand, forehand, WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!
At this point I realized two things: 1) my yang was starting to go a bit numb, an effect I was fairly sure was not the intended one, and 2) I actually had no idea what was in fact the intended effect of this activity. And so, disheartened, confused, and somewhat fatigued, I let my yang fall flaccid. Stepping out of my boxers I crossed the room, collapsed onto my bed, and, gently cradling my slightly throbbing penis, resolved that next year I must attend sex ed at school at any cost.
As it were, it wasn’t hard to convince my parents it was time for me to go, seeing as Scotty’s parents had also agreed to let him go that year. Quite frankly, I think there was a certain relief on their part, though it was disguised under the guile of ‘we think you’re old enough now to separate lies from the truth and to not get swept up in the glamorization of sexual intercourse and if the Giles think it’s ok, well then.’ And so it was that I found myself finally, in eighth grade, looking at my first vagina.
Who can tell me what this inner lip around the vaginal opening is called? Ms. Bopson-Olps asked while pointing nonchalantly to the projection with a pointer stick. Yes, Shelby? The minor labia! That’s correct. The minor labia, shown spread apart here, is enclosed within this fatty tissue here, which is called? Yes, Shelby? The major labia!
Very good. The major labia. Now, if the labia were not spread apart here, what would the vulva look like? It was at this point that I started to become a little lightheaded. Yes…Shelby. It looks like just a little crack down there.
Ok, yes. This, um, ‘crack’ is called the pudendal fissure, or the Cleft of Venus, as it is sometimes referred. Now, you might wonder how something large like a penis could fit into a tiny hole behind such a thin little crack. Well, during intercourse, both men and women undergo what’s called vasocongestion. Vasocongestion is just a fancy word for the hardening of our muscles due to the increased blood flow that occurs when the human body becomes aroused. Vascongestion is what makes the male sexual organ stiff, or erect, as is the proper term. Vascongestion is also what causes vaginal mucus to form in the vagina, lubricating both the vaginal opening and the vulva generally. This mucus allows the erect penis to slide easily through the labia and penetrate the vagina. Now, I have some worksheets here which breakdown the chemical components of vaginal mucus – some of which I think you’ll find surprising. As you can see on the worksheet, vaginal mucus is considerably acidic, and it can really vary in consistency, smell, taste – I’m not dull and I know you’ve probably heard that vaginas tend to smell a little ‘fishy’ and taste a little ‘battery acidy.’ Ok, maybe, but, vaginal mucus can be an important indicator of sexual health so I want to make sure everyone understands the sort of normal range of vaginal secretion.
At this point what started as mere lightheadedness had become full-on fuzz face accompanied by that rushing sound in my ears. I started sort of nonchalantly shaking my head back and forth, trying to clear it. Ms. Bopson-Olps must have noticed my slightly queer behavior and she asked me if I wanted to pass out the handouts, have a bit of a walk. Pass Out? Oh, handouts. Sure, I said. As I stood up and wobbled to the front of the class to take the stack of informational documents on vaginal mucus Ms. Bopson-Olps asked me if everything was okay. Yes, yes I’m fine Ms. Bopson-Olps. I’m just a little – And then I actually up and fainted. I must have hit the floor pretty hard. Scotty got up and dragged me by the shoulders into the hallway, where Ms. Bopson-Olps (a rather burly woman) grabbed my ankles and she and Scotty carried me to only place they knew to take me – the band office – which is where I woke up, in the arms of my band director Ms. Gwee, sipping water out of a bottle she held to my lips.
What happened? You had a bit of a fainting spell in Ms. Bopson-Olps class. We can’t get ahold of your mother, so Mrs. Giles is coming to pick you up and take you home.
But…but… I stuttered before I blurted out, I didn’t pass out because of the vagina you know. No, of course not. You’re probably just a little dehydrated. But as you might imagine, it was nearly impossible to convince anyone of this, especially my fellow classmates who witnessed me being brought down by a medical diagram of a vagina and the mention of pussy juice. Ms. Gwee helped me into her office chair and I was rolled out of the building to the parking lot where Mrs. Giles was waiting for me with the sort of consoling and empathetic expression that seems so disingenuous on most people but not on her. Ms. Gwee and Mrs. Giles helped me into her Ford Aerostar. And so it was that my only exposure to public sex ed came to an end, for there was no going back after that. The next day I returned to the library and sullenly hid myself behind a copy of Enrico Fermi’s Thermodynamics which would become my study subject that year. Entropy, I told the class during my mandatory presentation a few weeks later, is really, really cool because it represents the potential for chaos, and it’s always increasing as we move forward in time! That means that the future will be nothing but chaos! A smirk, a snicker, Brandon K. sat in the back wiggling his tongue between a peace sign he was making right in front of his mouth. I became flush. Ms. Bopson-Olps asked me if everything was alright. Yes, I said, yes I’m fine. Are you sure? You look a little faint. Ms. Bopson-Olps had little penchant for discretion. I’m sure, I said as I put transparency of an equation of which I hadn’t the slightest understanding of on the overhead projector. So like I was saying, entropy is freedom. The more freedom something has, the more possibilities it has and so there is more entropy.
Cody R. pantomimed stroking his cock underneath his front-row desk.
Children can be so very cruel, which I guess explains a great deal about the world, and I get some strange comfort from knowing that now, perhaps because I hope it means that the grown-up cruelty is somehow innate, and none of it is really anyone’s fault, exactly; but at the time it stung, it really, really stung, like a getting shot point blank with a pellet gun.
A bit over a year after the fainting incident, I had my first orgasm. Of course, still having a general lack of knowledge regarding the subject, I had no idea what it was when it happened.
This girl Jaci and I had started going out during the school musical, which this particular year happened to be a retelling of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland; Jaci played Alice and I was the Mad Hatter. Destiny or stochastic beauty, call it what you will. Jaci was hot and she was in marching band and she had breasts; she was everything I had ever wanted in a woman.
Marching band meant frequent bus trips together. Bus trips, as any public school marching band member in the midwest can tell you, are the bar and bedroom of band nerd romance. On the marching band bus, revelations are had, love is found and lost, shame and infamy are introduced and innocence is forgotten.
The first marching band bus trip Jaci and I took together after we started going out was the annual end of the year trip to Noah’s Ark, Wisconsin’s grandest water park. This was a blessing and a curse.
Conveniently, Jaci’s best friend Keely and Scotty had also started going out, and they were both in marching band as well. Scotty and I both played sax, I was first chair. Jaci was first chair flute. Keely played third clarinet. We all sat together on the way to Noah’s ark, Jaci and I just behind Keely and Scotty. As we all sat watching A Night at the Roxbury on the little TV screens, (the band boosters, bless their hearts, always managed to get the band a chartered bus for the end of the year trip) Jaci slowly moved her hand onto mine and we interlocked our fingers and for the first time I was having direct physical contact with a girl (except for that time when I was four, which hardly counts). Instantly, my already aware yang became a raging, gooey erection. This, I suddenly realized to my horror, was, while manageable under the current circumstances, going to pose a serious problem at the water park, especially considering the dress code at such places and the excitement I would experience because of it. When we arrived at Noah’s Ark, Scotty and I headed toward the boy’s locker room, having made plans to meet our ladies outside the gift shop after we were changed. As we shoved our bags into lockers and started to strip, I turned to Scotty and once again confided in him about my boner. Scotty. Yeah man. What are we gonna do when we see Jaci and Keely in swimming suits. What doya mean what are we gonna do. I mean like don’t you think like them being in their swimsuits, I mean, it’s practically like seeing them in their underwear/no it isn’t. It’s totally not the same. Well, ok, but I mean, what are we gonna do about you know like our yangs. Like what about our yangs. Scotty and I had never been awkward about having our yangs out in front of each other, but now that we found ourselves naked in front of one another while we were at the same time talking about our yangs there was an abnormal sense of urgency to getting our swimming trunks on. Like I mean what if our yangs get hard and stuff yo. Just like if your yang starts to get hard just like think of your grandma naked or something yo. Dude! Step right off mofo. That is nast. Duh dude that’s why it works. Or just try to get some cold water as fast as you can, you know, shrinkage.
We left the locker room, our locker keys safety pinned to our swimming trunks. Jaci and Keeli were waiting for us, each standing with one hip out, pulling the bottoms of their bikinis just slightly in the direction of their jutted hip, revealing a little of the opposite ass cheek. Jaci’s bikini was a solid yellow, with just strings holding the parts in place. It was just slightly too small for her figure, allowing the bottoms of her breasts to hang just below the cups of the bikini top and letting the bottoms sit low on her hips, exposing just a little more of her lower abdomen than is generally socially condoned. I scanned clandestinely, or so I thought, for a rogue pube (it wasn’t until late in college that I learned that women always know exactly when and what you’re checking out). Keeli’s bikini was athletic and black, holding her large tits closely to her chest and letting her nipples poke through. Hey, we said, Hey, they said. Naked grandma, I thought, naked grandma naked grandma. Nasty naked grandma with a crusty vagina. Wanna get a pop or something before we hit the slides and stuff, Keeli said. Jaci and Scotty shrugged in apathetic agreement. No! I blurted. No, no I think we should get in the water right away, I mean, we’ve come all this way, you know, and like I just can’t wait I mean look at that wave pool it looks like the most amazing wave pool I’ve ever seen right? While the three of them sort of stared at me, a little nonplussed by my sudden enthusiasm for the wave pool, I was trying desperately not to look at Jaci’s soft underboobs while trying to let myself imagine my grandmother in the buff. I could feel my penis warming with that slow rush of blood that gives form and function to one’s floppy cock. Um, yeah sure, whatever, that’s cool, they all sort of grumbled and, making sure to lead the way in a manner that hid the front of me from them and the fronts of them from me, we headed to the wave pool. Without any sort of hesitation, and indeed with an earnest yearning for safety and relief, I flung myself into the mechanical ocean. Feeling my cock and balls retreat toward my torso for warmth, I turned around to see Jaci, Keeli and Scott tepidly making their way into the pool. Isn’t this great! I said. This is so great. Ah, I feel much better. The girls looked at me with a strange inquisition on their faces. Scotty rolled his eyes. I grinned and flung myself farther into the pool.
The fall after the marching band trip to Noah’s Ark we once again found ourselves sitting next to one another on the marching band bus, returning home late from an all-day tournament that we’d barely managed to place third in. I blamed our poor placement in part on our musical selection – a medley of tunes from Porgy and Bess, which just doesn’t hold up on the field like a retrospective of Michael Jackson hits or Holst’s The Planets. Plus the trombones couldn’t glide step for shit and none of the saxes could get their horn angles right. In any case, there we were, melancholy from our loss to Ankeny and Muscatine, sharing a seat on a dark school bus, interlocking fingers, snuggling just a little. At that point we had only kissed once. It was my first kiss and it happened on her doorstep on the night of our six month anniversary not long before this particular trip. Her lips were warm and she was an experienced kisser. I let her tongue into my mouth just a little as I stuck my ass out behind me, trying to not stab her abdomen with my cock, which had been so stiff for so long that it hurt, as we’d been standing on the doorstep talking, the possibility of a kiss racing through my mind. Before the kiss, our physical relationship had not gone beyond passionate hand holding and the occasional hug, which were always made slightly awkward by me trying to sort of hug her enough off center that she wouldn’t feel my erect penis. I would have been perfectly happy to stay at that level of intimacy probably indefinitely. But then Jaci, who had made a point earlier of changing out of her uniform in such a way that I got a clear glimpse of the back of her bra and whose head had been resting on my shoulder, turned just slightly and began to nibble gently on my lobe and before slowly putting her tongue into my ear, letting the rushing whisper of her heavy breathing sound in my ear like the inside of conch shell that’s trying to seduce you.
I felt my face get red and warm and flush and then suddenly the muscles in my penis and my scrotum began to spasm. A hot rush shot through my cock and I felt a warm and sticky liquid move quickly from origins unknown up through my shaft and then out, filling my boxers. I suddenly felt light headed. My body trembled and I jerked upright. Jaci looked at me quizzically and asked if everything was alright. No, no I said, no I don’t feel good, I feel really not good. Uh uh uh uh, I don’t what’s wrong with me. Something is wrong. I need to lie down. I need to lie down right now. I think I might pass out. I don’t feel good. What’s wrong what’s wrong? Jaci pleaded. Nothing nothing I just I really don’t feel very good. And so I grabbed a small navy blanket from my bag, wrapped myself in it, and proceeded to lie down in the central isle of the bus, contorting my body around some mellophones and a hat box. I curled up there, on the bus floor, and shivered in a sort of half-conscious state the rest of the way home, Jaci alone in the seat wondering what the fuck was wrong me, slightly perturbed. Everyone else on the bus went about their secret bus business, canoodling or making out or giving or receiving clandestine hand sex. A couple days later Jaci broke-up with me.
It was another few years before I finally understood what Stan G. meant when he said that our yangs got hard so we’d have ‘better aim,’ though to this day I think that’s one of the oddest and unsexy ways to explain the functionality of a boner. And besides, even the straightest and truest of boners often still need a little help to guide it in the right direction.
It was another few years until I realized that what had happened to me on that band bus was my inaugural orgasm.
It’s been a decade since that orgasm on the bus, and while I don’t come when a girl looks at my penis the right way, and while I now know all the anatomy and physiology involved, I’m still, in most ways, just as confused by sex as I ever was.