Piecing It All Together

At an early age sex was a subject I became very aware of but something I didn’t fully understand. I’d seen all of the magazines full of naked women with the occasional penis here and there, hidden between the wall and bed in my oldest bothers room. The magazines were taboo indeed, but only in that I knew their being hidden meant they had a value of some sort. Nudity wasn’t the most pressing issue but rather the fact that my brother was hiding them. The magazines would serve to be a treasure to me with an unknown value, so my interest in them held firm for a while. As time passed — which included many secret viewings, I quickly grew bored with the generic and subtle sexual imagery in everyday life. The soft-core stuff they showed on some of the late-night television shows wasn’t as special, as I had become desensitized to what most my age felt was risque. I was close to eight years old when I found the magazines and their true significance was absolutely lost on me. The imagery never affected me in the way that it would, say, in another four to five years later. At the time, I was just glad they weren’t pop up books like some were at my elementary school library. The most important thing was that I had something to use against my brother if ever there were a need. Despite this, sex was something that never went away and something I felt was solely exclusive to just me and not any of my classmates.

As most children have done at some point in their lives, I walked in on my parents having sex a number of times. I was a pretty dull student and never learned to just quit opening their door – besides, my issues were much more urgent. Yet for some predetermined reason, there comes that first time in our lives that as children we awake just a few minutes earlier than we normally would. On that one particular morning we stumble out of bed in a haze. Walking much akin the stagger of a Hollywood zombified-mummy amalgamation, slowly getting ready to take on that days’ worth of adventure – which for me typically included building sand dunes in the backyard using miniature Tonka tractors, we hear the strange grunts from within our parents closed bedroom. Curiosity being the alluring creature that it is, beckons us to turn that doorknob and take a peek. Of course the peek is never enough to fully see what it is that’s really going on, so then that door widens and widens until — it stops. And, oh, does it stop rather abruptly. Soon after comes the painful awkwardness that that moment will forever bestow – once youthful eyes gone blind burning the images a thousand times over; the groaning silenced and their positions held frozen in time and then the quick slamming of the door that ends up echoing through even the deepest of childhood nostalgia. Next, they come out of the bedroom and pretend nothing ever happened. They even have the audacity to make eye contact with you and in such a way it convinces you that what you think you saw you didn’t really see. At least, this was what happened to me. I learned to just call out to them from behind that closed door and never under any circumstances open the damned thing.

With all of this “experience” now under my belt however, being self-educated on all things sex brought forth in me a confidence that no other peer within my age bracket rivaled. In my fourth grade class I once chose to impress my classmates, and in particular the girls, with my vast knowledge of such mature and complex material. There was a portion of the school day dedicated to spacial and creative learning that involved using an array of laminated paper cut-out shapes called Tangrams. We were each given a small bag full of these shapes and the freedom to create whatever it was that our little innocent minds could muster. Some students created such phenomenally beautiful and intricate designs such as: Stop-signs, beehives and even unisex versions of humans that wowed our very attractive teacher into a meditative slumber. In her lifeless eyes I could see the boredom swallow her soul; having to witness a limited number of designs children could create with a limited number of shapes over and over again, provided no spark and excitement for her. Understanding her pain, I took it upon myself to separate from the herd and prove my uniqueness. Well that, and an overwhelming desire to see her as I did the many women in my brothers magazines, of course. Somehow, some way, in my very naive brain I imagined that impressing her with my Tangram ingenuity would woo her. For whatever reason why I didn’t know, but there was an overwhelming impulse that I had to obey. In doing so, I became a Tangram God of sorts; I gave sex and individuality and life to the plain and boring human designs by putting large and small triangles on them to form breasts, and the thin slender triangles between the legs of the others to serve as what I would then call, wieners.

Upon completion of my work, I heard gasps from behind me. Some of the girls blushed and smiled. Some of the boys laughed and began to copy my ingenious designs. I smirked and held my head high, feeling as though I were royalty standing among a sea of peasants. But something felt off — one of the gasps was a pitch higher than the rest. This was more a warning than anything affectionate. I looked over my shoulder and a young boy who too had his sights set for our lovely teacher, quickly schemed to win her affection over and thwart my attempts by tattling on me. He and I long held a war of attrition, and he was seconds away from one-upping me. His reaction clearly meant that I had done something wrong, so I knew I had to stop him. Obviously, he knew what I did not at that time and the proper conduct for a class room environment: that pornography of any kind was not tolerated. As I quickly made my move to stand and subdue him, he was gone in a flash and already tugging at her blouse. As he whispered into her ear she looked to me with such a pretty face and warm smile that I felt comforted and that everything was going to be alright. But ever-so slowly that smile turned sour. From within her gaze I felt my hair singe and skin begin to burn; my face felt as hot as the sun and I began to worry it would dissolve. I knew my cheeks turned a bright shade of red as the very girls my age that I desperately wanted to impress began to giggle and point at me. The pint-sized Benedict Arnold smiled widely as he went back to his seat, confident and pleased with his betrayal against our male-based camaraderie. Even enemies have respect for one another, but this, this was something new and cruel and unusual altogether. Guerrilla warfare had now been initiated. Et tu, Geoff?? I should have known from the spelling of his name that he was destined to be a little punk-ass snitch devoid of respect and honor.

I quickly destroyed the evidence by rearranging the Tangram portraits, but the damage was done as the woman I had a crush on stared right through my body and soul. She knew my intentions and everything I ever thought or was going to think; she saw everything I had ever done or was going to do and she stared bullets through all of it. She saw me as a dirty sex-crazed teen just hitting puberty, and no longer as the innocent and curious child I thought I was. I sat alone and defeated, putting the stupid shapes back inside their stupid bag. I was never approached nor spoken to about what I had done, and I believe it was due to my look of utter fear and shame that my teacher saw that day. Nonetheless, I learned that the knowledge I possessed wasn’t mine alone and  that the other children within my age group knew what I knew concerning sex. It was all misery and depression; the travesty I fell in love with was taken from me in an instant. All of my wallowing however, grew into anger and resentment for my personal Brutus.

I devised a plan to get back at Geoff. I began to stalk him and catalog his habits and patterns. On the day I exacted revenge, I followed him to the restroom. It was after school and all of the children were well on their way home and the playground was empty. Trash bags and leaves blew across the black asphalt, and tether-balls jostled in the wind as the chains they were attached to creaked. From my research I concluded that embarrassment would be the harshest revenge, and there wasn’t a better way to invoke it than to violate the most intimate form of privacy: the bathroom. I followed him in and hoped he would choose a stall rather than a urinal, and I also prayed that there would be many witnesses. I chose to do the deed after school because it was easier to get away with, though I had to sacrifice a larger number of spectators. I lucked out and there were a handful of other children, and Geoff did choose a stall. This was the moment. I kept my face away from the others who were either washing their hands or using the urinals, and I walked up to the stall Geoff was in and as I got into position, our eyes met from between the crack of the door. The toilets were a good distance away from the door so he would have to get up in order to close it. Perfect. My heart beat faster and I laughed out loud; his eyes went wide and begged me not to do it. With all of my might I kicked the door in and it burst wide open and there, petrified in agony, sat my nemesis. All of the other boys in the bathroom burst out in laughter as he was stuck between deciding to either finish using the toilet, stand to close the door, or pull his pants up and let everyone see him in all of his glory. Just for insurance, or as a calling card of sorts, I gave him the middle finger before wildly escaping.

The roaring echo of laughter shot out of the bathroom and seemed to chase me away. My route was perfect: around the bathrooms and across the playground, behind the giant shipping containers our school used for storage. No one ever went there, and I would sit behind them in hiding. Only, once I got there I realized I had to go to pee. What a goof! My kidneys hurt so bad I doubled over, and because I was laughing hysterically thinking of what I had done, I was close to peeing my pants. So I did what all men do at one point or another: I peed outside. I had to, I knew I was going to die if I didn’t. Literally. Afterwards, I peeked around the corner and looked to the bathrooms. It was still quiet, and had been about ten minutes. The chained basketball nets played an array of soothing music much like a group of wind chimes. I exhaled and smiled. Then, all of a sudden, my name was announced over the loud speaker. What?! They never do this. How in the hell did they know I was still on campus? My thoughts raced, as I searched for an excuse as to protect my revenge. No one in the bathroom knew me, nor did they see me, but they saw what I was wearing. I took off my sweater and tied it around my waist. Boom – instant new identity. I slowly made my way to the office in a very calm and collected manner. Once inside I was surprised to see Geoff sitting in a chair with his eyes red and his face damp. I made him cry! I was ecstatic. And evil, apparently. But he was now a rat.

I was given a clipboard with a referral on it and told to fill out what I had done. I panicked and claimed to have not done a thing. Geoff smirked and the receptionist refused to help me. She said I should know exactly what I had done. So, I filled out, in pen of-course, what I did to Geoff. I couldn’t fight it – clearly I was busted and there was no way around it. But overall, I was happy that I embarrassed Geoff and it was especially fulfilling that he knew it was me; no punishment could ever be able to deem the crime unworthy of committing. I wrote with a smile on my face. Once I finished explaining the details of my triumph in the restroom, I returned the clipboard back to the receptionist and sat back down. A minute went by and she called me back to her desk and gave me another clipboard with yet another blank referral on it. Clearly upset, I asked why the last one was wrong. She told me that what I wrote wasn’t the reason I was in there, that I was in there for publicly urinating on campus. My world came crashing down for the second time in just as many weeks. Two referrals! Two! With one I could wiggle my way out of the ensuing beating that was to come later at home from my mom. But two?! I was a dead man walking, and the worst part was that I made my own gallows and put the noose around my own neck! And that little shit Geoff glared at me from his chair. He hadn’t said a word to anyone about our incident, and I was the one to turn myself in. This was to be the height of our war.

The subject of sex never went away for me, it only became more evident as I grew older. It certainly caused me more heartache, grief and sorrow, but it also showed me a different side to humanity — one full of genuine connection and maturity, and of love, commitment and encouragement. I learned about vulnerability and a deeper level of friendship and invigoration, and most importantly, I learned of all the things the magazines my brother had lacked.