A Common Pornography Part 5
After the P.E. soccer game we all ran back to the locker rooms to shower. I had accidentally kicked Farrell in the knee. Two of his friends ran beside him as he taunted me. He didn't need backup though. It was widely believed since grade school that Farrell was probably the meanest and biggest kid in our grade. With only Chongo being arguably tougher.
"You think you'll be okay in the shower, boy? I wouldn't want you to slip or anything," said Farrell. His friends smiled, then he tried to trip me.
Once inside, he leaned against my locker. "I don't think you got any friends in here, do ya? n.o.body'd give a s.h.i.t if I flushed your f.u.c.king head down the toilet. They'd probably laugh." What frightened me most about him saying this was how he said it slowly and calmly, as if discussing what was on the lunch menu.
High Dive
I never took swim lessons when I was a kid and (though I didn't announce this fact to anyone) I was terribly afraid of any water. Perhaps it was my imagination going crazy, but it seemed to me like there was a drowning at the public pool every year. When I first started high school there was a quiet Asian kid-maybe he was even a foreign exchange student-who drowned while swimming in P.E. Some kids said that his body sat at the bottom of the deep end for a good fifteen minutes before anyone noticed. swim lessons when I was a kid and (though I didn't announce this fact to anyone) I was terribly afraid of any water. Perhaps it was my imagination going crazy, but it seemed to me like there was a drowning at the public pool every year. When I first started high school there was a quiet Asian kid-maybe he was even a foreign exchange student-who drowned while swimming in P.E. Some kids said that his body sat at the bottom of the deep end for a good fifteen minutes before anyone noticed.
I think the Jaws Jaws movies probably contributed to my fear as well. I was especially haunted by the scene where Roy Scheider scubas down to inspect a sunken boat and the bloated head of one victim suddenly appears. movies probably contributed to my fear as well. I was especially haunted by the scene where Roy Scheider scubas down to inspect a sunken boat and the bloated head of one victim suddenly appears.
Our public pool was right across the street from my high school, so we had a couple of weeks each year where we swam and played water polo during P.E. cla.s.s.
We practiced diving too. Going up the ladder was the dizziest part for me. I always wanted to turn back, but there were people in the way. I had no choice but to jump. I plugged my nose and dove to the right, so that I wouldn't have to swim so far to get out. I paddled like a dog. I suppose I could have learned the b.r.e.a.s.t.stroke but I never wanted to put my face in the water. I thought I'd open my mouth at the wrong moment and water would flood into my throat and I'd be done for, plummeting to the bottom, my lungs exploding.
One of my friends made fun of me-"Here doggy-doggy." I'd laugh along, scared for my life. When I was out of the pool, I noticed how white my feet looked. I almost wanted to swim with my socks on. I sat in a plastic chair and draped a towel over my lower legs.
When I got older, I eventually taught myself how to swim a little better and, though I was still wary of rivers and lakes, I actually enjoyed going to swimming pools. But one day while I was at a Portland pool, I must have stepped on a small piece of gla.s.s or something. I sat down on a lawn chair and noticed blood shooting out of my right big toe like a little squirt gun. I couldn't figure out what was causing this blood fountain, but it stopped after a few minutes, only to start up again at various random times for the next few months. I went to a foot doctor and he said it was probably a tiny pebble that sometimes shifted and caused the blood to pulse out. He offered to give me a shot to numb my toe, make a small cut, and peel the skin back to see what the problem was. It almost made me sick just to hear him describe the procedure. I said no thanks and decided to see if it would fix itself. A couple of months later, whatever was in there finally came out. I was healed.
Korea
Darren and I wanted to feel the skin of the cashier at the Mayfair Market. wanted to feel the skin of the cashier at the Mayfair Market.
It was cold outside and I had just gotten two ski masks from my brother Russell, who was stationed in Korea. They were Christmas presents, and I think they had trees on them-red trees on white st.i.tching. In black letters it said KOREA on the back. Darren and I thought ski masks were funny looking, and we knew from watching TV that only people in Antarctica or guys robbing banks wore them. I gave one to Darren and we wore them on our heads but never pulled them down over our faces.
Behind the grocery store were some doctors' offices and a pharmacy. By the pharmacy was a big generator. One afternoon, we hid the two Korean ski masks behind the generator, where n.o.body would find them.
That night, after the store had closed, we hung out by the telephone booths. Five minutes, then fifteen, pa.s.sed. Darren took a lap around the store and looked in the windows to see what the cashier was doing. She was still there and so was a yellow Volkswagen in the parking lot.
We had no knowledge of being watched, but we were. Across the street in the dark lot of a Chevron station was a police car with its lights off.
After Darren got back to the telephone booths, we talked about the girl and made a decision. As we started back to get the masks by the generator, we saw the police lights. We told the police we were looking for a cat (we whispered this alibi to each other as they got out of their car). They wrote down our names and phone numbers and asked us to show the tread on our shoes. They told us to go home and got back in their car to watch us walk away.
When I got home I remembered the ski masks by the generator. Then I quickly tried to forget.
Braces
One of my first girlfriends had braces and thick gla.s.ses and was not thought of as pretty or even anything resembling "friend" material. In fact, even though I told some people I had a girlfriend, I made sure no one saw her. I was sixteen, she was thirteen. When I had my first car (a cheap Chevette) I'd go to her house. It was nice, and big, with a pool in the backyard. I would pick her up and we would drive around and then make out somewhere. Her breath was always unpleasant, and she had stuff on her braces like she never brushed her teeth. Still, I went out of my way to spend time with her and was jealous once when she told me about an ex-boyfriend, an eighteen-year-old who had his own apartment, where he wanted her to suck his d.i.c.k once. It was a story she told me with an "I can do anything to you" tone of voice. first girlfriends had braces and thick gla.s.ses and was not thought of as pretty or even anything resembling "friend" material. In fact, even though I told some people I had a girlfriend, I made sure no one saw her. I was sixteen, she was thirteen. When I had my first car (a cheap Chevette) I'd go to her house. It was nice, and big, with a pool in the backyard. I would pick her up and we would drive around and then make out somewhere. Her breath was always unpleasant, and she had stuff on her braces like she never brushed her teeth. Still, I went out of my way to spend time with her and was jealous once when she told me about an ex-boyfriend, an eighteen-year-old who had his own apartment, where he wanted her to suck his d.i.c.k once. It was a story she told me with an "I can do anything to you" tone of voice.
Another time, when her parents were gone, we were in her bas.e.m.e.nt. We took our shirts off on the couch. I ran my fingers over her small chest, feeling the nipples, no bigger than pimples. We stood up and slow-danced to a radio song. I picked her up and put her on the pool table. We stared at each other. "Do you want to know something I haven't done before?" she asked. I asked her what it was. "I've never had anyone kiss me upside down," she told me. She kicked the cue ball off the table.
Hiding Places
When we were getting our house done enough to move back in, Dad asked me if I wanted to pick out a ceiling for my bedroom. We went to a home decoration place and I picked out the kind that was divided up into squares. The square tiles rested on a metal framework so it kind of looked like a checkerboard. The metal part was black and the tiles were a b.u.mpy white texture, like on a globe where you can feel the mountains. getting our house done enough to move back in, Dad asked me if I wanted to pick out a ceiling for my bedroom. We went to a home decoration place and I picked out the kind that was divided up into squares. The square tiles rested on a metal framework so it kind of looked like a checkerboard. The metal part was black and the tiles were a b.u.mpy white texture, like on a globe where you can feel the mountains.
After getting my room all set up and living in the house for a year, I realized it was weird to have that sort of ceiling, that it was usually seen only in offices and fancy modern buildings like city hall. I stood on a chair one night and pushed on one of the tiles. It moved up and slid over. I could put my hand up there and feel a couple of feet of s.p.a.ce. I started hiding my dirty magazines up there. It seemed perfect, and it was. Dad was a snoop and would find them if I kept them under my mattress or in a sock drawer like my friends.
Years later, after I moved out, my bedroom was converted to a sewing room for Mom. My stash was gone by then, hidden somewhere in the bas.e.m.e.nt. I'd still find myself looking at the ceiling though, imagining those naked women above Mom's head as she sewed.
Troubled Girl
Whenever I went to Fruitland Park to shoot baskets, I noticed a girl sitting on the porch of a house across the street. I thought she was really cute, but couldn't tell how old she was. to Fruitland Park to shoot baskets, I noticed a girl sitting on the porch of a house across the street. I thought she was really cute, but couldn't tell how old she was. The Karate Kid The Karate Kid was my favorite movie and I'd seen it six times in the theater. She looked a little like Elisabeth Shue-I liked the scene in that movie where she had on the tight sweater and they went to the amus.e.m.e.nt park. was my favorite movie and I'd seen it six times in the theater. She looked a little like Elisabeth Shue-I liked the scene in that movie where she had on the tight sweater and they went to the amus.e.m.e.nt park.
She started to come over to the courtside benches when I'd show up. I was nervous as I talked to her. She told me she lived with her cousins because her parents were murdered in Chicago. Nothing ever happened with this relationship, not even a kiss. She gave me Bruce Springsteen's Born in the U.S.A. Born in the U.S.A. for Christmas. I never listened to it. We drifted apart that winter, partly because it was too cold to play basketball. for Christmas. I never listened to it. We drifted apart that winter, partly because it was too cold to play basketball.
Five years later, I lived in a different town and was in my twenties. I'd visit my parents for holidays, and one time she called. I met her in a grocery store parking lot and we sat in my car. The steering wheel of my car seemed enormous, almost as if it were growing in front of me, as she confessed that she had told me lies about her family. She said she was married but had always loved me. I almost wanted to kiss her but was nervous again. She said her husband beat her up sometimes and that she had a baby boy. His name was Kevin. I thought about how long she would have to live with that.
My Friend Pat
In tenth grade, I started to embrace my weirdness a little more, thanks to one of my new friends, Pat Kennelly. He was this short kid with curly white hair and gla.s.ses. He sort of looked like an albino. He lived with his family in a pretty big house a couple of blocks from the high school. We had a couple of cla.s.ses together and even though I really wanted to be popular (and Pat was like a poster boy for Not Popular), Pat cracked me up and I realized we had the same kind of weird humor. We both liked I started to embrace my weirdness a little more, thanks to one of my new friends, Pat Kennelly. He was this short kid with curly white hair and gla.s.ses. He sort of looked like an albino. He lived with his family in a pretty big house a couple of blocks from the high school. We had a couple of cla.s.ses together and even though I really wanted to be popular (and Pat was like a poster boy for Not Popular), Pat cracked me up and I realized we had the same kind of weird humor. We both liked Monty Python's Flying Circus, Monty Python's Flying Circus, the movie the movie Airplane!, Airplane!, and Devo. and Devo.
I started to hang out less with Darren and Maurice. I hung out at Pat's house a lot and spent the night there on most weekends. We stayed up late and watched Night Flight, Night Flight, an a.s.sortment of music and comedy that took over the USA Network on the weekends. an a.s.sortment of music and comedy that took over the USA Network on the weekends.
At school, we would do weird things for the sake of being weird. We'd go sit in a cla.s.s that wasn't ours until the teacher would look at us, puzzled, and then ask us to leave. While walking down the hallways, we'd sometimes fall to our hands and knees and spastically crawl several feet before getting back up on our feet, our facial expressions flat and muted, as if nothing goofy was happening at all. We would get in fake fights and then run away from each other, pretending to cry. If someone from Yearbook was taking photos, we'd try to get in the picture and point at something outside of the frame, sometimes with a look of glee, sometimes with an expression of horror.
We were friends for a couple of years, but something odd started to pull us apart. I really wanted to have a girlfriend and I wanted to be cool. I wasn't sure if I could hang out with Pat Kennelly and be cool. Plus Maurice would make snide remarks about Pat and how much we were hanging out. Not that Maurice was any cooler, but sometimes it's easy to be swayed by fear, and I was afraid I would lose Maurice as a friend. We'd been friends for a long time and we sometimes talked about living with each other when we got older. I think when you're a teenager and you start making plans with your friends in regards to living together or going to a college together or hunting for Bigfoot or whatever, you really get excited. Because it's the future! And it's without your parents!
I'm sad I wasn't Pat's friend for longer. I've looked through all my high school yearbooks and I don't think he even signed any. There is one funny scrawl that takes up a half page in back of my soph.o.m.ore yearbook. It doesn't have a name signed to it, but it says in part: Kevin, Guilty! Where is the fish? Dance with the flame! The yellow man inside that egg is in love with Big Leggy! Vegetables!
I'm pretty sure that's from Pat.
Trespa.s.s
Once, during a snowy winter break, Maurice and I were jonesing to play basketball, so we walked over to our high school to see if any of the doors were open. Sometimes there were doors left open near the gym because there were teams practicing or a janitor working. snowy winter break, Maurice and I were jonesing to play basketball, so we walked over to our high school to see if any of the doors were open. Sometimes there were doors left open near the gym because there were teams practicing or a janitor working.
We got there and found the doors unlocked and the gym lights on, but no one else around. No sign of a janitor. We had our boom box with us and plugged it in at courtside. We had some sodas and a bag of chips from the store. It was like we had set up camp for the night.
We shot baskets on the beautiful hardwood floors and listened to Kurtis Blow and the Bar-Kays. About an hour into our private practice, three cops appeared. Two of them were up in the stands, walking around as if we had hidden bombs somewhere, and one of them approached us on the court. "What are you guys doing here?" he asked. Maurice turned the music down and told him we were just shooting baskets and that the doors were open and that we were students of the high school. They took our names and phone numbers and made us walk back home in the snow.
When school started again in January, we were called into the office and told we were to do Sat.u.r.day school for two weeks because of our "trespa.s.sing." The school narc gave us each a police report and told us to have our parents sign them. Maurice and I went home that day, nervous that they had called our parents. They hadn't, so we forged the signatures on the reports and served our two weeks of Sat.u.r.day school without our parents knowing.
Big Gulp
For most of my junior year of high school, I developed a strange dietary ritual. Before school, I would start my day with a package of Hostess Donettes (usually the waxy chocolate-covered ones) and a Big Gulp of Pepsi. Once at school, I'd put the Big Gulp in my locker and use it for quenching my thirst throughout the day, even past the point when the melted ice took over the cola flavor. My locker partner ridiculed me. my junior year of high school, I developed a strange dietary ritual. Before school, I would start my day with a package of Hostess Donettes (usually the waxy chocolate-covered ones) and a Big Gulp of Pepsi. Once at school, I'd put the Big Gulp in my locker and use it for quenching my thirst throughout the day, even past the point when the melted ice took over the cola flavor. My locker partner ridiculed me.
It was almost like an eating disorder. I put inexplicable pressure on myself to finish the drink before my last cla.s.s of the day. I threw up a couple of times.
If I wasn't eating Donettes for breakfast, then cereal was the usual replacement. I was a very picky eater. If I woke up early enough, I took a couple of pieces of my dad's bacon. For dinner, we had very typical meat and potato kind of meals. We rarely ate out but when we did it was usually at Skipper's on Friday nights or, on rare occasions, if the parents were feeling flush, Sizzler. At the end of these meals, Dad, too embarra.s.sed to ask for a doggy bag, would wrap his leftovers in napkins and stick them in his pockets.
Suitcase
When I was fifteen years old, I had a suitcase full of p.o.r.n. It was greenish blue-the aged color of flat turquoise. Square and heavy. Two metal latches kept it shut. Two b.u.t.tons popped the latches. I kept it in the back of the closet, behind the clothes, and next to another suitcase that didn't match. We were a poor family without nice things. fifteen years old, I had a suitcase full of p.o.r.n. It was greenish blue-the aged color of flat turquoise. Square and heavy. Two metal latches kept it shut. Two b.u.t.tons popped the latches. I kept it in the back of the closet, behind the clothes, and next to another suitcase that didn't match. We were a poor family without nice things.
The suitcase, for me in the eighties, served as a "best of" fantasy portal. Whereas now, most adults-and yes, even fifteen-year-olds-keep their "best of" p.o.r.n in a folder on their computer. Who needs all that paper anyway? I could do without all the wordiness of Playboy Playboy and and Penthouse Penthouse. I wanted skin. Photos. Pictures. Images to fill my eyes and mind. So two things happened-I started to find magazines that were almost entirely photos, and because I was acc.u.mulating too many magazines to hide, I started to cut out just my favorite images. It was like clipping coupons.
I had various ways to get these magazines. I had friends with cars and the knowledge of a specific Dumpster. I had an older brother who had his own place. I had a cousin who hid p.o.r.n in the closet. Those were my sources.
The cousin was the most interesting. She was young and married. Her husband had a mustache and drove one of those Snap-on tools trucks around (I'm not sure why that seems significant, but it does). When I was younger, even before p.u.b.erty, I remember wanting to kiss her knees, to touch her legs. But my incestuous urges were pushed aside by childish angst whenever she talked to me in condescending baby talk. So it was most satisfying when I found her "marital aides." Not only was there a box of magazines and erotica books (bedtime reading, I presume), there were also films. Not videos, but actual plug-in-the-projector-and-loop-it-to-a-reel films. This was on a night when she and her husband were out and Matt and I were having a sleepover at their house. We found the projector and tried nervously to snake the film through it. We found a blank wall to shine our jittery s.m.u.t on. The grainy color film was upside down or backward or maybe both. It was confusing but it was the first moving s.e.x pictures I'd seen. We put everything back before they got home, but I managed to slip two magazines-smaller, Reader's Digest Reader's Digestsize ones with foreign words on the cover-into my sleeping bag.
Later, at home, behind the locked door of my bedroom, I looked through one of them and tried to follow a story just by the photos. The language was strange, maybe French. I couldn't make out anything. But the images gave me an idea: A young man working at a grocery store helps a woman out with her shopping cart. She has poufed-out red hair and wears a short skirt. Her legs look smooth and strong. She also wears a loose blouse that looks slack and thin over her cleavage. As the boy starts putting the bags of groceries in the back of her minivan, she climbs in the back and feigns to help him, making room and crawling on her knees in front of his face. He reaches up her leg and she looks back at him and smiles. He glances around the parking lot before climbing into the van. Her clothes come off quickly and he eagerly covers her from behind, his pants around his ankles. I put my own translation into the captions around the photos. I think the woman probably talked to him as he touched her but I couldn't fathom what she might be saying. Maybe it was just heavy breathing. Heavy breathing is the same in every language. When I cut those photos out of the magazine, I kept some of the mysterious language in there. It was a reminder of something I couldn't explain. I used those pictures, that story, over and over, for my own foreign pleasure.
Pee-Chees
Before the suitcase, there were Pee-Chees, folders usually reserved for keeping schoolwork in. Ill.u.s.trated with images of football players, track runners, baseball hitters, and pom-pommed cheerleaders, I filled them with my favorite clippings of naked women. This was also done because of s.p.a.ce issues. With magazines, sometimes I'd have to find more than one image to look at. I'd spread open magazines all across my bed, but that seemed so arduous. One fateful afternoon, I snagged some scissors from my mom (she often sewed in the room next to mine). I waited for everyone to leave the house and then proceeded to scavenge through the stack of magazines. I'd been keeping my stash in the ceiling of my room. It had those big suspended tiles and all I had to do was stand on a chair and push one of them aside to sneak stuff in and out. But I was getting worried about the weight and girth of my p.o.r.n. It actually took me a few days to go through it all with the scissors. I had to determine which images turned me on and which ones didn't. I found that I wanted a little of everything: big b.r.e.a.s.t.s, small b.r.e.a.s.t.s, skinny, chubby, blond, brunette, black, white, Asian, purple, short hair, long hair, big bushy hair, glossy red lipstick, clown makeup. It turned out that I wasn't too discerning. Of course, I was also a virgin. there were Pee-Chees, folders usually reserved for keeping schoolwork in. Ill.u.s.trated with images of football players, track runners, baseball hitters, and pom-pommed cheerleaders, I filled them with my favorite clippings of naked women. This was also done because of s.p.a.ce issues. With magazines, sometimes I'd have to find more than one image to look at. I'd spread open magazines all across my bed, but that seemed so arduous. One fateful afternoon, I snagged some scissors from my mom (she often sewed in the room next to mine). I waited for everyone to leave the house and then proceeded to scavenge through the stack of magazines. I'd been keeping my stash in the ceiling of my room. It had those big suspended tiles and all I had to do was stand on a chair and push one of them aside to sneak stuff in and out. But I was getting worried about the weight and girth of my p.o.r.n. It actually took me a few days to go through it all with the scissors. I had to determine which images turned me on and which ones didn't. I found that I wanted a little of everything: big b.r.e.a.s.t.s, small b.r.e.a.s.t.s, skinny, chubby, blond, brunette, black, white, Asian, purple, short hair, long hair, big bushy hair, glossy red lipstick, clown makeup. It turned out that I wasn't too discerning. Of course, I was also a virgin.
These Pee-Chees replaced the magazines in my ceiling. I took a Hefty garbage bag full of discarded magazine sc.r.a.ps and walked them over to the Mayfair Market's Dumpster after dark. I was filled with a sense of relief, like a drunk coming out of detox. I could sleep at night now, knowing that fifty pounds of dirty magazines weren't going to break through the tiles above me and pummel my face. I was comforted with the thought that only "the best" was up there. Nestled together in their Pee-Chees. Three of them. Overflowing with women reclining, leaning, jumping, pouting, posing, and playing. Sometimes I could just stare at the ceiling and I'd get hard. My focus and concentration were impressive. Above the Pee-Chees was nothing else. No roof. No sky. No G.o.d.
But I couldn't stop it there. I couldn't quit going to the p.o.r.n Dumpster. Or stealing Playboy Playboy and and Penthouse Penthouse from the Mayfair. What I really wanted was a girlfriend, someone who would welcome my smothering affection, but I was nervous, insecure, and acne-ridden. I remember my friends who somehow attached themselves to girls and learned their rules and protocol. I tagged along with them to the park sometimes and they'd make out inside the play structure or smoke cigarettes. I waited on the swings, making myself sick. I saw Beth stick her hand down Scott's pants. It looked like she was punching him. When she took her hand away, it looked so small. Her fingernail polish was dull and sloppy. I was so h.o.r.n.y I don't even think I could bear to hold hands with a girl. from the Mayfair. What I really wanted was a girlfriend, someone who would welcome my smothering affection, but I was nervous, insecure, and acne-ridden. I remember my friends who somehow attached themselves to girls and learned their rules and protocol. I tagged along with them to the park sometimes and they'd make out inside the play structure or smoke cigarettes. I waited on the swings, making myself sick. I saw Beth stick her hand down Scott's pants. It looked like she was punching him. When she took her hand away, it looked so small. Her fingernail polish was dull and sloppy. I was so h.o.r.n.y I don't even think I could bear to hold hands with a girl.
As my Pee-Chees swelled further that year, I began to worry about my ceiling again. I didn't want it to start sagging, so I found the old turquoise suitcase and piled my stash inside. I imagined what it would be like to dress up in a suit and walk around with the suitcase like a businessman. I wanted to paint it black so it seemed less suspicious. The color was odd and kind of garish, like it was announcing itself as a vessel of s.m.u.t. Even the old 1950s shape of the thing seemed pervy. My family never went on vacations or trips though, so it was a safe and una.s.suming place.
Joan Jett
I bought the Joan Jett ca.s.sette called Joan Jett ca.s.sette called Alb.u.m Alb.u.m (I admit I had a crush on her even though I was also scared of her). I listened to it a few times in my room, rocking out on my mushroom chair. At the end of side two was a secret unlisted song that had a chorus where Joan sang the lyrics "You're a star f.u.c.ker star f.u.c.ker star f.u.c.ker" over and over. There was also a part about a clean p.u.s.s.y and giving head to Steve McQueen, but I didn't really latch on to those. (I admit I had a crush on her even though I was also scared of her). I listened to it a few times in my room, rocking out on my mushroom chair. At the end of side two was a secret unlisted song that had a chorus where Joan sang the lyrics "You're a star f.u.c.ker star f.u.c.ker star f.u.c.ker" over and over. There was also a part about a clean p.u.s.s.y and giving head to Steve McQueen, but I didn't really latch on to those.
Dad charged into my room while I was listening to it and told me to turn it off. Then he ejected the ca.s.sette, pulled a bunch of the tape out, and put it on the ground. He lifted his foot high and then stepped on it. He took the ca.s.sette box from my hand and looked at the yellow cover art of Joan jumping in the air with her guitar. He said through gritted teeth, "I should just burn this c.r.a.p."
I didn't know how to respond, so I just said, "Sorry."
"I don't care for any of this stuff that you listen to," he said.
He ground his heel into the plastic ca.s.sette and into the carpet. The ribbon of the tape surrounded his foot like dead baby snakes.
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