Foolish Fire (2 page)

The sound of crying insects drummed into my ears…became a wailing…became a screeching.

*

Like most of my friends, I kept a secret collection of girly magazines hidden in my closet. I don’t know why I started it—probably only because all the others did. We would look at these magazines together after school, and trade them off when we got tired of them.

The truth was that I felt a little silly whenever I looked at pictures of nude women. I couldn’t understand the smirking interest boys showed in them—it was all so childish. I never got as excited as they did.

The flawless, perfect women in the magazines looked so air-brushed and plastic, with their pure white teeth and every hair in place. Their breasts tended to be oversized to unsightly proportions, while below, their tiny smudges of pubic hair always gave me the feeling of something missing. For me, a woman’s body represented only the idea of “otherness.” Nothing could be more different from how I and my friends looked naked. I secretly suspected that it was this “otherness” alone which excited the boys so much.

I really had to keep from laughing every time I looked at a certain centerfold pin-up—the favorite one, by consensus, among my friends. She was blonde-haired, blue-eyed, and baby-faced. And her breasts were enormous; it was upon them that all my friends were fixated. They loved breasts, the bigger the better, and this simple-minded equation summed up the imbecilic geometry of their desire.

This woman’s breasts looked simply cartoon-like, so ridiculously huge that her slender torso below them seemed barely able to support such a heavy mass. The nipples on them stared out like a pair of pink idiot eyes.

In contrast with the rest of her tanned body, the breasts were pale, their whiteness making them look as if they were balloons being blown up—the color of the balloons fading as they stretched and stretched, growing bigger and bigger, threatening to pop at any second.

To me it seemed as if the desirability of women and girls was inflamed by the furtiveness of the boys’ talk, as though the talk itself were the aphrodisiac. Maybe the idea of doing something illicit was what gave them their biggest thrill. But all their talk couldn’t hide the emptiness which lay behind it all.

Perhaps my jaded attitude stemmed from the fact that pictures of nude women were nothing new to me: I’d been sneaking peeks at my mother’s art books ever since I was ten.

On the top row of the bookcase in the living room was a set of books my mother had bought when she was in college. She had majored in art, and most of the books were collections of the work of her favorite artists: Gauguin, Renoir, and Cezanne. Paintings of nude women were quite common in them. But one day as I was browsing through her collection, I discovered something a little more intriguing.

It was a volume called
The French Neo-Classicists and Romantics
, containing works by David, Ingres, Delacroix, and Fragonard, whose names meant nothing to me. When I opened it up at random however, I discovered a fabulous world of lush tints and dynamic action. The color plates were unbelievably detailed, and glowing with a vibrant life. Many of the paintings had themes from Greek mythology, with gods and goddesses completely nude, or with their genitals just barely covered by a stray piece of cloth.

It was the men who riveted my attention. The color of a man’s flesh—so much darker and more alive than a woman’s—seemed to set off something inside me I’d never before experienced. As I gazed at pictures of scantily clad or nude men frozen in action poses with their glowing, sinewy torsos bursting with life, I felt my interest was somehow sinful. I dreaded being caught looking at these pictures. Yet, strangely enough, this dread actually increased the pleasure I got.

One picture showed several men bathing in a river or lake, their genitals unblushingly exposed. I couldn’t believe that such things could be shown so openly. The mixture of shame and pleasure I felt gave me such a unique, oddly visceral thrill that I went through all the books in my mother’s collection to seek out similar pictures.

In time I became more familiar with the world of classical art and sculpture. My interest had turned into a craving, a hunger, almost. I sought out more and more art books to satisfy it, knowing somehow that my obsession would be considered unhealthy by others. Yet I didn’t care. In fact, I suspected that if it hadn’t been for the forbidden nature of it, I might not have spent so much time in my pursuit. I might not have done it at all.

Before the art books, it had been comic books.

The comic books I’d loved as a boy had always been filled with brawny, muscular super-heroes. Comic book artists always seemed to endow their men with an exaggerated musculature never to be found in real life. My daydreams were centered on certain visions inspired by them: Tarzan of the apes, almost naked, swinging through the jungle on a fat vine; westerns, with their bare-chested Indian warriors; Roman epics, swarming with brawny Christian slaves. And on the back pages of these comic books I was treated to advertisements for muscle-building courses, featuring grainy black and white photographs of well-built men wearing skimpy briefs, flexing their biceps and chests, or exercising with artificial flexors.

These muscle men could be seen in the movies, too, and on television. I was switching channels idly one night when I came across a late-night movie being shown, a historical epic of some kind, taking place sometime during the period of the Roman Empire.

A recalcitrant Christian slave was being punished by a Roman warrior. The slave was stripped of everything but a tiny loincloth made of animal hide and led to a raised dais between two huge pillars. There, each of his wrists was secured with thongs to the pillars so that he stood with his arms stretched out to either side.

Under the hot sun, his bulging muscles glistened with sweat. He gritted his teeth stoically as the sadistic Roman soldier began flogging him repeatedly with a small, many-thonged whip. At first the slave tried to show his contempt for his tormentor by making light of the punishment. But eventually it got to be too much for him; he was thrashing about in obvious pain. Finally he couldn’t take it anymore and lost consciousness, his head dropping to his chest. The background music became saccharinely lush at this point, the pure, celestial harmonies of an angelic choir swelling to a heart-melting climax.

My feelings as I watched this scene were strangely mixed. I felt sympathy and pity for the slave, of course. He was so handsome, and his suffering gave him an almost saintly appearance. But the brutal Roman soldier—with his expression of obvious delight in his sport—caused another, more earthy thrill to grip my body.

It was difficult getting to sleep that night. In my mind I kept reliving the anguish of the tortured slave. I thought of his contorted face, the writhing of his attractive body, and of his tormentor’s cruel look. The staccato crack of the whip as it lashed against the sweating back, chest, and thighs still rang in my ears. The beads of blood flicked onto the sand….

I imagined my own wrists being tightly bound, my arms stretched out to both sides, secured to fat pillars. I was wearing nothing but my undershorts…no, my briefs were brutally yanked down and I was completely naked. I closed my eyes and imagined I heard a sharp crack! And then another: crack!…another…crack! And when I opened my eyes again in the darkness, I could almost feel the stinging welts raised on my back and shoulders, the trickle of warm blood licking down my arms, the keen bite of leather thongs around my wrists.

*

I was visiting a friend’s house one day when I discovered something lying underneath the backyard hammock, discarded by his older brother.

It was a muscle magazine, the first I’d ever seen.

Flipping through it, I became intrigued by the many photos of well-muscled, bikini-clad men. I knew it was ostensibly a health magazine devoted to physical fitness and bodybuilding, but it was obvious to me that all the models had been chosen for their physical beauty.

As much as I craved to possess this magazine, I knew I couldn’t let my friend know it, for he was sure to find an excuse for not letting me have it, just to irk me. So I deliberately put on a casual air as I riffled its pages in a bored manner and tossed it aside.

He pounced upon it and, finding a picture, imitated the man’s pose in an exaggerated fashion, flexing imaginary muscles.

I obligingly laughed at his pantomime and was secretly grateful when he tossed the magazine away under some bushes. Later, on my way home, I swerved my bicycle around to his backyard to retrieve the magazine, slipping it under my shirt as I pedaled away, my heart hammering with excitement.

In order to examine it in uninterrupted leisure, I locked myself in the bathroom as soon as I got home. Indeed, the tight feeling of excitement in the pit of my stomach made defecation seem imminent. Sitting on the toilet seat with my pants down around my ankles, I began slowly flipping through the pages, eyeing pictures of handsome men with bulging biceps and massive chests, their muscles etched in well-defined contours.

With the sea as a background, they flexed and posed in various attitudes, surrounded by groups of admiring girls who touched and stroked their hard muscles. The camera had caught them at angles best designed to show off their bodies. They were like statues of Greek gods, smooth-skinned and hairless, gleaming as if made of polished steel. I felt my breath come short. Page after page was filled with these fabulous heroes, so magnificently endowed that a young boy like me could only pine with envy.

It was only after some time had passed that I noticed for the first time the reason for the stiff, nudging prod I’d felt against my belly. Dropping the magazine, I stared down at the biggest penis I’d ever seen in my life. I couldn’t even recognize it as my own. Grotesquely changed, it was poking straight up against my stomach, pressing so hard that it hurt, its skin stretched so tight that it shone like a plump sausage. Fat, ropy blue veins throbbed on its exposed underside, and a brown seam bisected its swollen length.

It didn’t belong to me. A stranger had inexplicably usurped the place of a familiar friend.

Physical Education

In the winter, Coach Kapp introduced us to freestyle wrestling. The entire gym floor was covered with mats, and the basketball court looked strangely transformed, as if it had received a blanket of snow overnight.

From the very start I became enthusiastic about wrestling. My father had been a champion wrestler in high school and would have received a scholarship to go to college if he hadn’t broken a collarbone in a motorcycle accident. He taught me all the holds and moves. I enjoyed the rough contact of the sport which gave me a chance to delight in my own speed and agility. To my amazement, I found that I was one of the stronger boys in class.

I loved the thrill of pinning a weaker opponent to the mat, feeling the gradually feebler struggle beneath me, the labored breathing against my neck and ear—and hearing the coach’s hand-slap against the mat indicating a victorious pin.

PE became my favorite class period. Maybe it was because of its special ambience of masculine camaraderie…the shouted encouragement of the boys when I wrestled, the coach’s sharp whistle echoing through the gym’s rafters.

My strongest opponent was Ted. Though we were in the same weight class, he was taller than me by a good six inches. Indeed, he seemed to grow taller by the day, but the added height only made him seem frailer. He was always making some reference to his own height as though demeaning my lagging growth, and this was a source of irritation for me. I’d wrestled him once and beaten him, but recently he was making a good showing against the others in our group.

Coach Kapp had scheduled a tournament to determine the best wrestlers in each weight class. On the last day before the tournament, we were free to practice with the partner of our choice. Naturally, I picked Ted. A group of boys formed a ring around us on the mats, eager to see the outcome. One of them acted as the referee.

Raising our arms like attacking bears we lunged at each other, grappling in the standing position. I pressed my head against his shoulder while he bent down a little to lock his head alongside mine.

He was so thin I thought he’d fold at the slightest attack. I made a grab for his leg but to my surprise he easily stepped out of reach. Then he reached an arm down to snag my leg, and his arms were so long that he had no trouble pulling me off balance and tripping me down to the mat.

As I crashed down I was momentarily stunned, but quickly scrambled up and maneuvered around to grip him in a half-nelson. With a surprising knowledge of tactics, he rolled away, pulling me around onto my back. Then he rolled over on top of me, completely covering me.

I squeezed my legs around his thigh in order to get some leverage or a pivot with which to flip him over. But when I felt my shoulders being forced down I began bucking and thrashing, arching my back as the coach had demonstrated in order to escape a pin. It was to no avail. Beneath me I could feel the damp closeness of the mat, and above me, the burning rub of his salty-tasting skin. Ruthlessly and relentlessly he bore down with all his weight until my shoulders touched.

A slap on the mat. He’d pinned me.

“One more time,” I panted, getting to my feet. My face felt flushed not only from the exertion but from the humiliation of being beaten. “I wasn’t ready yet,” I said.

We grappled again. This time, when I felt his hands grope for my thigh I was prepared. But as I stepped back out of his reach I lost my balance. I’d gone too far back and he took advantage of it by pulling me forward.

Luckily I had enough presence of mind to land on my stomach, the safest position after a take-down. I felt him drop onto my back without hesitation, then snatch my right arm up from under my stomach and pull it up behind my back. Again I was put into a vulnerable position.

My amazement at his skill was outweighed only by my own humiliating lack of it. I could feel the full length of his body on me but could do nothing, though I tried to twist my hips out from under the hold. I was pressed too tightly to the mat.

“Give up?” his strained voice breathed in my ear.

“Never!” The stuffy smell of the old wrestling mats, pungent from years of usage and the sweat of generations of boys, only seemed to augment my despair. I twisted wildly and managed to free the lower half of my body. In doing so I heard a loud smack as I accidentally knocked my head against his jaw. His body went slack. “Sorry! Are you all right?”

“Yeah.” He touched his tongue tenderly. “I’m okay. Let’s wrestle.”

We got back up to a standing grapple. This time I dropped down to the mat and, hooking my arms around his knees, shoved him off balance. He went down with a yell and while he was sprawled flat I scurried around to get him into a pinning hold.

Quickly I slid my left hand down between his thighs and fumbled for a body lock before he could recover. I knew I had a victory now. No one had ever escaped from this hold.

As he became aware of the imminent pin he began rocking frantically in an effort to loosen my grip. But I was fired by the taste of coming victory and only tightened my clutch.

“Give up?”

“No!”

He only increased his resistance. I’d never thought he had such a will to win. My own strength was giving out and I wondered if I could maintain my advantage long enough to pin him. I reached for another surge of strength.

As he frantically sought an escape, it dawned on me with a mild surprise what was rubbing and pressing so intimately against the inside of my elbow. At the recognition I instantly froze, wondering whether my fumbling might have hurt him. But that was just the opening he needed. He twisted me over and bulldozed me onto my back.

“Hey!”

Now he was once again sprawled full-length atop me, and I was faced with the prospect of another defeat.

“That wasn’t fair!”

Both my hands were pinned up by my shoulders, held flat by the weight of his hands. His upper body was pressing down against my shoulders and chest. I cursed my momentary lapse which had so suddenly turned the tide against me. I knew I was pinned but stubbornly refused to accept it. A rage welled up inside me, half at my own stupidity, and half at Ted’s hitherto unsuspected strength.

“You’re pinned,” I heard his muffled voice say somewhere above and behind my ear. I felt the hot press of his neck against my cheek.

“Not yet!”

I struggled feebly but it only brought on another burst of vigor. His body writhed down harder to ensure a pin. I wrapped my legs around his thighs in an effort to get my ankles around into a leg lock. He felt the maneuver and began madly wriggling from side to side to shake it off. I felt his hardness rubbing down along the inside of my thigh. I wondered if he knew I could feel it.

“Give up?”

“No!”

I realized that I, too, was hard and he might be able to feel me against his stomach. He was panting loudly, and the exertion had made his skin flush hot.

I felt a strange new sensation come over me. I began to panic.

“Get off!” I yelled, squirming.

He made no move.

“I said get off!” I screamed.

At this new, desperate tone of voice he rolled off me with a worried look. I scrambled up to my feet and rushed to the restroom behind the bleachers. Entering the nearest stall, I slammed the door shut behind me and tugged my shorts roughly down, then manhandled my jock strap halfway down my thighs.

Something was coming and I was scared. Whatever it was, I didn’t want it to happen in my clothes. I knew it was impossible to urinate the way I was, but something insisted on coming out and it felt terribly uncomfortable. An incredible sense of urgency came over me. I wanted it to end—I urged it with my hand.

Something happened.

Something happened and it felt strange. I stared down at the pale milk-colored liquid which had oozed out like watery tears and knew that whatever it was was over, though I couldn’t say how I knew. At the same time, I felt the strangest sense of relief. It was the most mystifying thing that had ever happened to me, and I was scared.

Only after some time had passed did I realize that Ted was outside the door softly knocking and inquiring in a worried tone of voice if anything was wrong.

“I’m okay.”

Quickly I wiped away the milk and pulled my shorts back up. I felt shaken, afraid of facing him.

“I’m sorry, Guy,” he said. “I didn’t mean to be so rough. I guess I got a little carried away. You’re not mad at me, are you?”

“No.” I felt too ashamed to go out after what had just happened.

“Come on out, then.”

I knew if I didn’t go out he might think there really was something wrong with me. Shakily, I opened the door and, not daring to look at him, walked straight past him out to the mats, away from the others, where I sat down cross-legged. I wondered if he could guess what had happened, whether my shame was written all over my face.

He squatted down beside me. “No harm done, right? We’re still friends?”

I wanted to be left alone with the mixed-up feelings inside me and felt irritated at his hovering about with such naive stupid concern. Yet I managed to shake off my sulk and clasp his extended hand. We shook hands solemnly, adultly.

*

Something new had come into my life. I had found a brand new toy. Gradually, fumblingly, I began to discover its delightful uses—this toy I’d had all along, not knowing its secret powers. In no time at all it dominated my life. At least once a day I felt compelled to respond to its irresistible call.

The first few times I did it I felt crushed with shame immediately afterwards. I thought everyone would know what I’d done…that it was transparently evident in my guilty features. But after I survived a week, then two weeks without being detected, I began to get braver. In fact I loved the brazen, defiant nature of the act. Its implicit rebellion thrilled me. I almost dared them to catch me at it.

At first I thought I was all alone with my secret, the only one in the whole world to have discovered it. But gradually I became aware that other boys knew of it…quite a few other boys, more than I would have guessed. And in a way this cheapened my secret.

I learned that it even had a dictionary name—masturbation—though the boys endowed it with numerous pet names—”beating off,” “jacking off,” “whacking off,” etc. And I guessed from the sneaky smirks they exchanged whenever the topic came up that almost all of them did it, though most tried to deny it or even claimed a complete ignorance of it.

Yet the very fact that they knew of its existence—and more, tried to hide the fact—branded them, too, as conspirators in the secret brotherhood. And that added further fuel to my fantasies, for now I could pick out any boy in class and picture him stroking himself.

I began to pay covert attention to other boys’ penises. Hitherto, when I’d found myself beside another boy at a urinal I’d averted my eyes from shame. Now I glanced surreptitiously downward, knowing I was safe from detection. I carefully noted the size and shape of his penis, the furtive way he tried to cover it with his hand, the jiggly shake afterwards when he was done.

My schooldays were now a daydreamy haze. From early morning, as soon as I got up, I looked forward to the day’s masturbation, planning when, where, and how I would accomplish it.

In class my stomach was knotted up all day at the thought of it. I couldn’t concentrate on the teacher’s words or my studies, and my grades began to drop. The mere thought of masturbating was arousing, and the almost constantly erect state of my penis was an incessant call for attention. I couldn’t say anymore whether I masturbated in response to my body’s arousal, or whether my obsessive thinking about the act aroused me.

I constantly sought new ways of increasing or prolonging my pleasure, for though it was so intense, it was over so quickly. The actual climax was an instantaneous moment in time, gone almost before I could savor it, with my mind in a hazy swoon. Sometimes the entire process from excited unzipping to panicky clean-up took very much less than a minute—even as little as twenty or thirty seconds.

It was the dreaming of it which took up all the time…so that when it was over I often felt a tremendous sense of letdown and disappointment. If only the sweet moment could last and last…if only the eye-blink could be turned into a steady, heart-stopping gaze.

I tried everything, hoping I would stumble upon an undiscovered variation which would give me the ultimate pleasure.

I did it in the shower at home where I languorously soaped myself until I was all covered with suds, stroking myself with the now-familiar rhythm I’d instinctively discovered to be the one which gave the greatest pleasure, enchanted by the slick lubrication. And in the thundering spray I could moan as loudly as I wished. Or I could do it in the bathtub where I would watch, fascinated, the emergence underwater of a billowing, ribbon-like white streamer.

Locking myself in the toilet, I pictured the boys I’d seen naked in PE class that day, concentrating my mind on this boy or that—Ted, Tony, or Doug—and keeping my eyes closed until the penultimate instant when I opened them to watch with an almost detached amazement the incredible white leap land on the tiled floor many feet away.

Sometimes I used pillows. Lying naked upon my bed, I would slip a pillow under me to cushion my pelvis. Then, pretending to be rubbing against the hard muscles of a fellow wrestler, I moved my hips to the rhythm which my hand had learned. And I hugged another pillow tightly to my chest as if I were clasping the struggling boy. I became so wrought up that I had to roll to the side of the bed so I wouldn’t wet the pillowcase, cupping a hand to feel the warm catch moisten my palm. Later I spread tissue paper on the lower pillow so I could continue my fantasy wrestling without fear of leaving a trace (for by now, the ejaculate was a thick white paste.)