We Don’t Have to Take Our Clothes Off to Have a Good Time
What a crock of shit that title is, right? Good song, but come on…
A part of me feels like, since I have a young adult novel coming out in July, I should be super-PG-13 in this post. Use it as a promo for the new book. But fuck that noise. Who do I think I am? Stephanie Meyer? And this column is titled “Perv with a Pen,” so why should I hold anything back? Is my mother going to read this? (*waves to Mom*)
I’m always fascinated with how sexual experimentation is neglected or glossed over in so many novels for teens, especially considering how much of my high school experience revolved around Tim. Who is Tim, you ask? He was a boy in my high school who I had a little crush on, but most importantly, he was a pillow I’d nicknamed. This pillow and I had a very serious and intensely sexual relationship from freshmen year of high school to my sophomore year of college—after which I found I didn’t need Tim to help me climax anymore.
He was a good fake boyfriend, being that he was everything I imagined him to be, ready for sex all the time, and loyal to a fault. There was this vertical striped brown and white t-shirt that I loved to dress him in because it was tight and made him look like he was shaped like a real guy. And then I’d put boxers around the base of the pillow sleeve.
Every time was our first time. I’d be very sneaky with how I slowly removed his clothes as I made out with him, groping his impressive body with a feverish passion that would later be reserved for…well…real people. We would watch MTV’s Undressed together.
Sometimes, when I think about that Canadian series that had plenty of homosexual subplots that assisted me on my path to discovering my sexual orientation, I remember how many times Tim and I enjoyed our imaginary passion. I wrapped my arms around him and held him close, whispering how much I loved him into the area where his ear would have hypothetically been. Around the same time, I had an obsession with the film The Silence of the Lambs, and after doing some research on serial killers and discovering they had unnaturally high libidos, I worried that jerking off to Undressed until 4AM was somehow an indication that I was heading along a dark and dangerous path. I also had this paranoia that my mother knew what I was up to and was eagerly waiting to catch me in the act. To keep her from discovering my crime, I would position myself just right on the bed, so if I saw her trying to unlock the door to my room, I would be able to toss Tim into the closet and act like I was being a perfectly normally teenager (which I would later learn was exactly what I was doing). Of course, there were other ways she could have found me out. The white t-shirt that I used to clean up my mess afterward—one I didn’t throw away or wash for far too long—certainly was just a big red “I’m masturbating constantly” flag. I used to imagine she’d come running downstairs one day, waving it over her head. With wide eyes and gnashing teeth, she’d scream at me, “Look what you did, you dirty dirty boy.”
As I write this, I feel like I owe my mother an apology:
Sorry for thinking that you were a deranged psychopath who wanted nothing more than to make your child feel guilty about being a human being. I think I mistook you for Carrie’s mother. Perhaps because I watched that movie so many times.
I’m not sure that I can say that my pillow boyfriend or MTV’s Undressed were the most bizarre parts of my sexual exploration, though. Perhaps it was hiding the cutouts of JC Penney’s catalog underwear models between my mattress and box spring. Or recording the blurry image of what my TV could pick up of late-night Skinemax movies. Or finding every conceivable way of Googling “sexy men” without having to use those words so I could say that I accidentally stumbled across whatever pornography I happened upon. Of course, in hindsight, I’m sure my father, who worked in IT when I was growing up, must have gotten tired of deleting the browsing history during that brief period in my life when I didn’t even know what the fuck an internet history was:
“hot surfers” “romance novel covers”
“Jeff Goldblum” “98 Degrees poster”
We’ve never discussed it, but I’m sure Dad got more than a few chuckles as he weeded through the browsing history. But that guy deserved to be a little inconvenienced, especially considering the poor sex talk he delivered when I started inquiring about the no-no thing, which I would obviously later discover is the yes-yes thing.
I admit that the sex talk must be difficult for any parent, but lemme break this down for you. There I was, wide eyed and eager to receive universal wisdom from my father about what I would one day discover was the reason why the world was utterly caught up in its obsession with sex and debauchery.
He glanced around my room uneasily. Since I was the oldest of my brothers, it was the first time he needed to offer this talk. Of course, being that he had to act very in control of the situation, he played it cool.
DAD: Well, Devon, you just get this very special feeling. And when you are with a girl, then you get another special feeling and then it happens.
DAD: Make sense?
What the fuck, Dad? Seriously? Yeah, that would make sense if it was even remotely true. Let me tell you about what the first time was really like.
At thirteen, I’d saved up my allowance for two years to purchase a TV for my bedroom (something that would later play a vital role during these formative years of exploration – refer back to MTV’s Undressed). I’d realized for a while that my cock was up to no good. While sitting in class, I’d have to shift around in my desk and try to move that inconvenient bugger every time it’d raise its interest. I didn’t really get what it was responding to. Sometimes, I would be excited about a math test or the way my dick rubbed against my jeans in just the right way. To say that it was related to someone I was attracted to back then would just be a lie because it could have been anything.
One night, I had my TV on Valley Girl, a 1980s film starring a very young and very shirtless Nicholas Cage.
I can’t really recall when I started pushing my fully erect dick up against my dresser, but I found that it was a very satisfying feeling, so I did it…again…and again…and again…and again. Keep in mind, this wasn’t the first time I had played with my dick. I’d already discovered that it felt good, so I was just sort of rubbing it against things all the time, thinking that was enough to satisfy the one-eyed serpent. Typically, it was. I would rub it on my mattress or against the wall and then I’d be like, “Well, that was fun.” This night, however, the pressure in my cock—the same sort of pressure I’d already experienced with these other experiments—became more intense. And though the sensation I experienced was painful, it was painful like poison ivy or a mosquito bite. There was something really good about the feeling too. Something that egged me on. I kept going until my face filled with this intense pressure as a wave of sensation exploded through my body. It felt like a powerful burning sensation rippling through me, but I couldn’t keep myself from repeatedly thrusting my pelvis against the dresser until I felt this intense jolt and then to my horror white shit started spewing from the head of my cock. It looked like watered-down Elmer’s glue. And having had such a fucking shitty explanation of what to expect, I didn’t know what the fuck was coming out. It definitely wasn’t blood or piss. Although, for a moment, I was sure that we’d have to rush to the hospital to discover what sort of Linda Blair shit was coming out of me.
And then, as the high settled…as I realized just how good it all really felt, I remember thinking very clearly, “You can’t ever let anyone know what you just did.” Um…which is a little bit of an overreaction when I later discovered that every dude did this. So then I spent years feeling like I was committing some horrible crime by sneaking off to my room and repeatedly jerking myself off. So, Dad, if you happen to be reincarnated, please explain in great detail or with a video what will happen and say it is totally normal to do this by oneself seven to fourteen times a day throughout your adolescence. You’ll be saving your other-life child a lot of grief and unnecessary praying to a God that probably doesn’t give a shit how many times he gets off in a day.
So when it comes to those formative years, I would definitely say that I had to take my clothes off…a lot…to have a good time.
Thanks for checking out the blog post today. And as always, feel free to stalk me and such:
Meet Devon McCormack
Devon McCormack spends most of his time hiding in his lair, adventuring in paranormal worlds with his island of misfit characters. A good ole Southern boy, McCormack grew up in the Georgian suburbs with his two younger brothers and an older sister. At a very young age, he spun tales the old fashioned way, lying to anyone and everyone he encountered. He claimed he was an orphan. He claimed to be a king from another planet. He claimed to have supernatural powers. He has since harnessed this penchant for tall tales by crafting whole worlds where he can live out whatever fantasy he chooses.
A gay man himself, McCormack focuses on gay male characters, adding to the immense body of literature that chooses to represent and advocate gay men's presence in media. His body of work ranges from erotica to young adult, so readers should check the synopses of his books before purchasing so that they know what they're getting into.
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