What fascinating item to add to this disjointed narrative next? Perhaps the time that my mother found the smooth end of her hairbrush covered in excrement when I was experimenting with anal pleasure? When my Dad made me take down all of my superhero posters because the female heroes, of all things, were scantily clad? When I got a cramp in my face during my wedding because I wanted to stop smiling but didn't want anyone to think I was unhappy?

When puberty hit, I was living in Central America. I had moved there when my upper-middle-class family decided to sell everything and "serve hwere the need was greater," by which we meant go door-to-door evangelizing smoewhere that they needed our abilities. As it turned out, the local evangelists were handling things nicely without us, and the need was not great at all, but we stayed because it contributed to our sense of importance.

While down there, I began to sprout hair "down there". I was horrified. The thought of sex had, I exaggerate not, never crossed my mind. I had no idea where babies came from, why I got boners, and I must have had a olympian ability to not think about things that were everywhere. I never gave a thought to dating, or even looking at another person in anything other than a detached or at the most amused way. But when I began growing a sexual forest, it was a bit more difficult not to consider what my penis was really for. So I cut the little bastards off. When that didn't halt the onslaught of impurity, I plucked. The result is that now I am a veritable hedge of pubic hair, these things tending to adapt to attack, but I digress.

But something changed when I had my first wet dream. I recognized it for what it was, for I had heard the descriptions among other students, and they proved quite faithful to the real thing. All of a sudden, friction was wonderful. I learned to rub against my sheets such that it seemed to be an accident when I would ejaculate. After all, I wasn't touching myself. I couldn't help it if things beyond my control caused me pleasure. Being of a rather short attention span, I soon graduated from such pretenses and would fuck that dirty whore the armchair cushion. I would put my treasures on the housing of the electric fan to feel the vibrations or on the metal window sill to feel to cold against them. I would stay awake until 2 or 3 in the morning trying such things out, even venturing into the living room to explore the textures there. It is a miracle that I never got caught, although if my parents ever happened down the stairs and saw me humping the television, I'm sure they would never mention it.

Then I put two and two together. I had been fascinated with the male body ever since I saw the movie Jason and the Argonauts. I would dream of touching the oiled bodies of Jason, and even of the Minotaur. Nothing dirty--I was only six--but charged with what would evolve into sexual energy. In my mind I never connected these ideas to the boners I would get, until I was watching Arsenio Hall late at night, and his guests were Milli Vanilli. The introductory clip was of them, nude, on a record turntable. I promptly got a boner. A new synapse was formed, to the effect that naked man=boner. The rest is history.