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The first time Ben and I ever talked about girls in a meaningful way was at school where we were, by the sixth grade, the oldest boys on campus. Of course, we had talked about girls before this in a manner less than appropriate: for example, calculating the number of women Magic Johnson must have slept with during his professional basketball career. We are numbers man, if you had forgotten, and Ben is a very smart little boy and between the two of us we came up with some fairly convincing and intriguing algorithms. Of course, at the age of twelve, one misses the point of Mr. Johnson having contracted a deadly and horrific virus that is probably still tearing him and his family apart and latch onto the fact that he was infamous for the amount of poontang he acquired. It’s sad now, but then, as we calculated the amount he could shag in an hour, in a day, a month, a year, and over the decade — instead of doing our trigonometry or whatever it was we studied in the sixth grade — it seemed pretty funny.

Anyhow: when the day came to really talk about girls — and I am not even sure how the conversation began, as it was so foreign to us — Ben made it clear to me that there was a girl that he liked. This was an amazing revelation. I had never really thought that liking a girl was one of the options available to us boys and, if it had been, I thought it suspicious and requiring careful observation. I sat dumbfounded and stared at him for a moment while I reorganized my perception of the known world. Then, like Sherlock Holmes, I guessed at who it might be:

“Sally?” “No.” “Mary?” “No.” “Jane?” “No.” “Mildred?” “No.”

It went on like this until I ran out of girls available in our class. Then I went back through the list and this time added a few boys just to be safe. Still: he said no. I gave up and said: you have to just tell me who it is, there’s no one left — surely not our teacher? No. I hadn’t a clue then. I gave up and, upon relinquishing interest, Ben immediately revealed who it was and I said:

“Oh.”

That was all. I had forgotten about her entirely and soon afterward, Ben did too. Nothing special, nothing romantic, nothing even moderately cute or noteworthy. That was it; it came and went. He liked her and then he didn’t like her, and then we made fun of her ruthlessly — probably because we didn’t understand the subtle emotions of young attraction.

I don’t believe I told Ben that I liked anyone until I was, perhaps, eighteen, because I was terrified of the possibility of my father finding out that I liked a girl. This fear manifested itself, I believe, to such an extent that not only did I not tell anyone that I liked a girl, I never even got up the courage to begin liking one at all. I don’t know where this fear came from or why or what, if anything, my father did to instigate this feeling (and he claims to be innocent, saying he had no opinion on the subject — which isn’t a difficult claim, for he often asserts he has no opinion about anything except death). Whatever the reason, I was nauseated by the possibility and did everything within my power to stay as far away from girls as allowable given the coed nature of my existence. For example, if a girl actually mustered up the courage to call my house (imagine the audacity!) and then tell whomever answered the phone that she would like to speak to me (the horror!) I would take the receiver, palms sweating, and gasp a few unintelligible phrases hoping to communicate that “I couldn’t talk now or ever and to please never call me again until I move out of my parent’s house for the love of God — please.”

The funny thing about all of this is that my parents were both rooting heavily for me to become a normal little boy. If I had told them I had liked a girl they would have jumped up and down, rented me a limo and surround me with a joyous chorus of support, and much advice would have been forthcoming. Especially from my mother. She went out of her way to take me to social functions, practically insisting that I go no matter what the cost to her or the rest of my family. Everyone was piled into the car, driven forty-five minutes to a friend’s house where a party was being held, and there they all sat for three hours until I (who had been wanting to leave from the moment I arrived) came back out. Then we would ride home and my mother would wait for me to tell her about the party and the people I met and the friends and — I suspect — the girls but I said nothing because I was terrified of giving anything away. Any little hint that I might like someone would then make its way back to my father and then! Oh then! He would know! The horror!

My father, despite my misled expectations, also wanted me to be a normal boy. His desire for normalcy and my desire to be as asexual as possible in his presence led to some fairly confusing moments, as one can imagine. An instance of my childhood that stands out sharper than most was a day not unlike any other day, when he and I were walking, side by side, to a basketball game of mine and a cheerleader, from the school I played for, waved to me, bouncing merrily past, and said:

“Hi Damon!”

Immediately I withdrew within myself and attempted to reverse the outward worldly projection of my person effectively ignoring the fact that she had ever known me. How could I, with my father directly beside me, speak to this wretched whore? How dare she talk to me! That wench! That vile temptress of the nether worlds! I would not be so easily swayed! I would make my father proud!

But then my father (constant enigma that he was in my young life), instead of being proud that I had resisted the carnal urges that have sullied the male sex for eons, whispered fiercely:

“Don’t be such as asshole.”

An asshole? Father, don’t you see I do it out of love and respect for you? My suffering! My penitence! My chastity! My vow of silence and sexual poverty! It is all for you! Why can’t you see that? Why! Why!

Needless to say, it was very confusing and it took me until I was eighteen to finally admit to myself that I liked a girl and even then I told my mother about it first and let her be the one to tell my father. That I liked a girl was bad enough but he was sure to find out that we had kissed and I didn’t know if he would ever be able to look at me the same way again. My mother was a safe bet and she was thrilled at the news; by then I had realized that my mother was starved for information regarding any aspect of my life — whether I found it interesting or not — and have since made a conscious effort to engage her in conversation. My father, despite my hesitations, was likewise pleased.

This misconception of mine regarding my father’s wishes further illustrates the universal truth that I am never right about anything — ever.

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