![]() I remember the first time I met Frank O'Hara. I remember those sexy little ads in the back of Esquire magazine of skimpy bathing suits and underwear with enormous baskets. I remember magazine pictures of very handsome male models with perfect faces and, with an almost physical pang, wondering what it would be to look like that. I remember that Rock Hudson and Charlie Chaplin and Lyndon Johnson have “giant cocks.” I remember the way John Kerr was always flexing his jaw muscles in “South Pacific.” (But old enough) Pale and blond and eager. I remember sexual fantasies of seducing young country boys. I remember jerking off to sexual fantasies of Troy Donahue with a dark tan in a white bathing suit down by the ocean. I remember how many other magazines I had to buy in order to buy one physique magazine. For many years he was the choir director at church. Among his belongings was a very old photograph of a naked young boy pinned to an old pair of young boy's underwear. I remember when I had a job cleaning out an old man's apartment who had died. I got very excited and when my stop came I hurried out and home where I tried to do an oil painting using my dick as a brush. Some guy (I was afraid to look at him) got a hardon and was rubbing it back and forth against my arm. I remember my first sexual experience in a subway. All very “hush-hush.” (As it was illegal.) There was a slight chance that something might go wrong and that I'd end up with a really giant cock, but I was willing to take that chance. I remember daydreams of a doctor who (on the sly) was experimenting with a drug that would turn you into a real stud. ![]() I remember how little your dick is getting out of a wet bathing suit. I remember the skinny guy who gets sand kicked in his face in body-building ads. I remember when, in high school I used to stuff a sock in my underwear. ![]() ![]() I remember when, in high school if you wore green and yellow on Thursday it meant that you were queer. ![]()
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