In the beginning…
Men did not wear shirts. Nor did they wear pants. They were men. ‘Real men’, I imagined as I dressed for work that day, ‘would surely put these dirty underwear back on!’ I was 23 and lived with my parents and two younger brothers. Were it up to me, I’d wear a towel around my neck, run down the block and call myself a superhero. But my arch-nemisis (Let’s call her Mom) insisted on doing laundry every day. Daft cunning on her part, but one fateful day I decided, “FUCK UNDERWEAR!!!” And what a day it was….
Summertime. Primetime. Twenty-three years old. I’m in three bands. Ladies, you know what I’m talkin’ bout….Working at that cafe that’s kinda like McDonald’s now but wasn’t then…yeah…yeah…I’ll put some extra caramel on that…(ew.)
At the end of that work day I felt like a dozen roman candles without a pyromaniac. A shaken bottle of cheap champagne without a well trained chimpanzee. A virtual sexual Chernobyl. You get it. My parents always left the side door of our house open so no need to fumble with keys. I gotta do this…
I arrive home…..no one is there. “SCORE!!!”, I think as I pop in a porno tape. In my parents living room, mind you. (Sorry Mom)
So I’m working it. And well. Almost there when my little brother blasts open the side door and careens up the stairs. Fuck. I should’ve locked that shit. In a desperate attempt to hide my shame I switch over to the cable input and try to zip up quick.
At this moment I realize that there is more than one thing wrong with me. My brother sees nothing and goes upstairs. I go to the downstairs bathroom to assess the damage. “We can just pull this out…”, I squeamishly murmur to my now flaccid, frightened, fractured, frenulum (as a coach would.)
I give it a quick pull and then….