I discovered my hard dick at twelve years old in the Sunday newspaper, the middle section, between arts and entertainment and the metropolitan, the part that fell out and spilled onto the floor if held incorrectly. It’s the part only important to bored housewives, the consumer section, filled with coupons to get ten cents off green peas or a bucket of chicken free if you buy a cake and large soda. I learned to read when I was four years old, or at least I learned to recognize certain words, so I anticipated the Sunday paper for the cartoons because I liked the funny colorful faces, but it wasn’t until I was nine years old that I started paying attention to the department store advertisements: average looking people wearing average looking clothes that were half off for some dead President’s birthday. Maybe it was just curiosity, maybe I was looking for a new toy when I first opened one of the department store advertisements and flipped passed the pictures of dull jewelry, plain looking women looking bored, little boys and little girls trying to appear happy, towards the back, where at first rugged men posed in khakis and business suits, but as I flipped further, the clothes lessen, first to short shirts and jeans, and then finally, the men’s underwear section.
As I stared at the page, I felt different but I didn’t know what it was, the heat, why my stomach felt uneasy, why my heart quickened and thrust in its cage, why I stopped and studied strange men with defined lumps for a stomach, hard nipples, smooth slender arms, and muscular legs protruding confidence. Their glistening almost naked bodies were curiously appealing but it was the underwear, not so innocence that clung to masculine hips like a tightly gripped fist hiding a secret. It was the same mystery of neighbor’s Ken doll, how I stripped it bare hoping to find something I needed, but there was nothing, just smoothed over lust. Staring at the page, it was different than the Ken’s doll, no longer plastic but flesh and alive and seemly calling me to its rabbit hole. I found myself touching the page with my left hand, and my right hand suddenly with a mind of its own slid itself down my pants, and as I ran my twelve year old hand across glossy teasing hoping to absorb a feeling, find its secrets, I realized that I was different, and the discovery frightened and excited me.
I wasn’t like most growing boys; I wanted underwear for Christmas and my birthday. I loved going shopping with my mother so that I could gently pull my hand from her when she saw a pair of shoes or purse she had to have, and sneak over to the men’s section. It was there that Sunday newspaper came alive, not just men in one type of underwear but men in various type of underwear: bikinis, thongs, briefs, boxer briefs and jocks. I liked the Designer labels because the models were raw with sweaty slippery skin and seductive penetrative glances. I started buying my father underwear for his birthday and Father’s day. My mother thought it was strange for young boy spending two months of his allowance to get his father a Calvin Klein mesh bikini or a leopard thong. I would ask her why it was strange, hoping she would reveal the secret I was so longing to hear, but she’d just smile as if she knew that I didn’t know what I was doing like a baby cursing manically, just repeating what he heard. My father was a military man, hardly spoke and demanded quiet children, so when I handed him his birthday and father’s day presents wrapped in the Sunday cartoons, he’d open it casually, shake his head in disbelief and throw the box in the trash. It was exactly what I wanted him to do. And when everyone was sleep, I would sneak from my bed, rummage through the trash, pluck out the box and dust it off. I would sneak back to my room and with a pair of plastic scissors I cut the picture out and place it at the bottom of my drawer. My allowance increased as I got older, and I had a part time job with the church cutting grass and also delivered the paper in my neighborhood, so soon my father’s presents became cliché, a tie with a frog on it or a coffee cup that said “world greatest dad” and I started buying the underwear just for me. I also bought me a lockbox to keep my hobby protected.
When I was a sophomore in high school, my mother started needlessly interrupting my life. She was bored, my older sister started college and my father had been shipped off to Korea to train soldiers to be sent to the Gulf War, so it was just us and she had no job. I stayed in my room with my door closed and demanded to be left alone. She didn’t. One weekend she decided to invite her sister and her rowdy kids to come visit us. She didn’t even ask or warn me. I just heard the door bell ring, screaming, and suddenly two cousins I hadn’t seen since I was five years old were sleeping in my room. Derrick and Derek were fraternal twins and a couple of months older than me. They barely looked like brothers. Derrick was short, stocky and insecure about both so he overcompensated by being extra belligerent. He was a red-blooded thug. Derek his younger brother by two minutes was the complete opposite. He was tall, slender like a slice of grass and almost as fragile. Derrick voice filled a room but Derek often whispered if he spoke at all. Yet, Derek was Derrick’s sheep. He followed his older brother blindly often to juvenile detention centers or getting kicked out of schools.
I somehow managed to avoid all human contact even at school. I had no friends and felt comfortable living in my head with my science fiction books, underwear hobby and the television. All that changed. My mother felt I needed to hang around other boys my age. She didn’t understand other boys my age didn’t like me. She didn’t understand that she was offering up a seductive rabbit to ravenous wolves that liked to play with their food before they killed and ate it. I somehow had managed to avoid the bullies at my high school and my mother moved two of them into my room. The twins didn’t read books. They brought with them a bb gun, basketball, football, and a stash of porn.
At first I tried to fit in. I tried throwing the ball around with them. I tried staying up all night watching violent movies like Scarface and The Godfather. I tried to seem interested in their dirty magazines. I’d watched the two twins sit up late at night and flip through their stash of busty women in bad lingerie and even worse make-up, how the heat in their underwear would rise but mine stayed cold. I didn’t play sports nor did I care about Hustler and Playboy magazines. It was the first time I was around real boys. I somehow managed to avoid gym. The twins seem so free with their bodies. If I was taking a shower, one of them would just walk in and start using the bathroom. They seem to know no boundaries. I slept in my pajamas, they slept in their underwear. They always seem to be almost naked around me. It confused me. I wondered if all boys were like the twins, so free with their bodies. They figured we all had the same equipment so it was no need to hide it. I encouraged such thinking.
Yet, however hard I tried, the harder I failed. It was clear that we couldn’t be friends. I was just too flimsy for their taste. I didn’t like the unsolicited punches in the arm, twisting of the nipples or sometimes sneaky blows to the nutsack. I complained about everything. The twins decided they didn’t like me and made it very clear they were going to beat the shit out of me the minute we were alone. I hated my mother. I hated her more when she decided to take a spa day with her recently re-discovered sister. I was left alone with Derrick and Derek. Three hours later I had locked myself in the bathroom because Derrick had gotten out his BB gun and shot me in the arm while I was washing dishes and again in the back of the neck. I was scared for my life. If I had gotten access to a phone I would’ve called the police. I decided to stay in the bathroom until my mother returned. I was going to show her my blood and demand their eviction. It was Derek, suddenly the kinder of the twins, who begged for me to come out of the bathroom. He promised that his brother was sorry and wouldn’t do it again. I ignored him. And then I heard a loud scream, Derrick screaming for Derek to come see what he found in my bedroom. I immediately knew the bastard somehow opened my lockbox and found my hobby. I snatched open the bathroom door, not caring for my life anymore but the secret I had promised to take to my grave. And just like I thought, Derrick had found my stash of men, cut out pictures from underwear boxes and Sunday advertisements. It was almost three years worth, the older pics beginning to fade and tear at the edges, the newer pics shimming in their glossiness. “He’s a real faggot,” Derrick laughed. I knew immediately what he meant. I liked men more than just friends. I wasn’t as horrified as I imagined I would be, because finally my heat had a name which meant I had an identity and there were others like me. I raced over to my bed, swung at Derrick and hit him in the face and knocked him off the bed. He stared up at me with intense surprise, his nose started to bleed and when I went to hit him again, Derek caught me, but not to hold me down, but stopping me from killing his brother. Derek helped me put my secret back in its box. Derrick ran out the room.
I thought he was going to tell. I thought as soon as our mothers returned Derrick was going yell at the top of his lungs what he found, but he didn’t. He stayed quiet. Yet, he didn’t say another word to me the rest of their trip, and I didn’t know if it was because I’d hit him so hard or because I was gay. He even stopped sleeping in my room. He slept in the living room on the floor by the big television. At first Derek also slept with him, but one night I heard a knock on my door. I opened it and there was Derek standing there in his underwear and his heat. His underwear was the domestic kind, the ones that came six in a box and the same color. His underwear hung from his narrow waist, a delicate cotton white, almost transparent, with a yellow strip, the elastic band a couple of more washes from retirement. “Do you want to?” I could barely breathe. I knew what he meant. Derek didn’t say much, but when he did, he got straight to the point. It was the first time I realized his face, so young and gentle, his eyes a shimmering hazel, his curly brown hair, he wasn’t drop dead gorgeous but comfortable. In my next breath, as I mouthed the word yes, he was no longer my cousin, tormentor, he was now my lover. He grabbed my waist and kissed me as he pushed me into the room. I closed the door and locked it. We didn’t even speak. I usually slept in a t-shirt, underwear and a pair of old shorts. Derek pulled my arms up and slid my shirt off. And then he unbuckled my shorts and they fell to my ankles. I also found myself falling to Derek’s nipples, then belly button, and finally the tip of his impoverished underwear. His stomach was so small, soft and flat like a deflated balloon, not at all like the pictures of the men on the underwear boxes who stomachs look as if it was chiseled from marble. At the tip of Derek’s underwear, there was a faint sense of must, he was sixteen years old, and his pubic hair seemed new, almost wet. I slid Derek’s underwear down, and it was so natural, had never done anything thing like that in my life, and I found what had been missing in the pictures, his dick. It was no longer just heat, but flesh on a mission. It stood before not defiant or cocky but almost vulnerable and begging for touch. I grabbed it with my right hand and squeezed, like I had squeezed my own, and I felt Derek’s body slightly convulse, and he pushed his pelvic towards my face, I opened my mouth, at first tasting the tip with my tongue as if sticking my foot in a water to see if it’s warm and safe before I plunged into the deep end, and then I slowly slid Derek’s hard dick in my mouth, past the tongue and towards my throat. He wasn’t even in for two minutes before he unloaded; his knees buckling like a fallen horse. He pulled his underwear up and left my room. I swallowed what he left behind in my mouth.
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The twins and their mother left the next day. I didn’t say goodbye or saw Derek again. I did steal a pair of his dingy underwear from his bag. I also noticed that a couple of pictures from my treasure chest were missing. A decade and half had past and I’d forgotten all about Derek. I wondered what happened to his life. I wondered what type of man him grew up to be. Did he have a mustache? Did he get fat? Had he learned to last more than two minutes in bed? I did hope at least he gotten better underwear.
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