It happened, of course, over a period of years, the awkward ones, plagued by pimples and blackheads, wet dreams and inconvenient erections erupting at the most embarrassing times. But it felt like a sudden metamorphosis, a revelation, a mutation as startling and unexpected as the magical transformation of Peter Parker after being bitten by the radioactive spider. It seemed as if overnight I towered over my mother and stood facing my father, staring eye to eye. Dark hairs spiked through my pores. My voice dropped several octaves, rough as gravel, loud and harsh. A musky scent, like the old man when he rolled out of bed in the morning, followed me from room to room. The changes mystified me, as if some creature, weird and wonderful, had possessed my body. I stood in front of my mirror, studying this stranger for hours, fascinated by his thick eyebrows and the stubble growing on his chin. I could make his small but impressive biceps flex simply by squeezing my arm and force his chest to swell by swallowing a deep breath. I ran him through his drills, teaching him to squint like Steve McQueen, grunt and mumble like Bronson, intimidate like Dirty Harry, how to stand, walk, even how to throw a punch.
An ancient speed bag, its black leather worn to dull gray after years of pummeling by my father, still hung from the basement ceiling. When I was small, I would sit on the steps, mesmerized by the hypnotic beat as my old man pounded at his frustrations, jabbing and punching with blinding speed. The bag had been neglected for ages, waiting for the day I would stand and confront it, determined to make it sing. My first swing missed and I struck the wall with my fist. Determined not to let it conquer me, I read every library book on the shelf on boxing training, studying the simple line drawing instructions on how to stand, where to hold your elbows and fists, the motion for a circle punch, how to throw a jab, where to find the belly of the bag.
My arms and shoulders ached for days and my fingers were swollen and bruised. But pain and frustration wouldn’t stop me from mastering the bag. I bought a pair of cheap Everlasts to protect my hands.
Left, left, left.
Right, right, right.
Jab, strike.
Left, right, left, right.
Pow, pow, pow.
I descended into my dungeon every afternoon and punished the bag for every slight and insult, real or imagined, for all the frustrations and humiliations of the day.
Left, left, left.
Right, right, right.
Jab, jab.
Strike, strike.
Pow, pow, pow.
Da-dum-dum-dum.
Da-dum-dum-dum.
I knew my old man was standing on my old perch on the steps, watching. I picked up the speed, controlling the bag with a skill that surprised even me, making it sing with a voice it feared had been lost forever.
Pow, pow, pow.
Da-dum-dum-dum.
Da-dum-dum-dum.
I ended with a flourish, a magnificent punch that rattled the ceiling.
I dropped my fists and turned to confront him.
“Good speed,” he said, obviously impressed. “Let me show you how to use your shoulders to get a little more power.”
I pulled off my gloves and wiped my forehead.
“No, thanks. I’ll figure it out myself,” I said as I brushed by him on the steps, gloating over this long-awaited opportunity to reject him even though the taste of revenge was far less sweet than I’d always dreamed it would be.
A Short History of Masturbation
Matt, you think I’ve got no willpower. You think I’m weak, unable to resist temptation. It’s nine o’clock in the evening, early, very early. Atlanta ’s a big old city with lots of big, horny men on the prowl. It’s hump night and the boys are out there looking to hump. But I’m going to prove you wrong, you sanctimonious son of a bitch. Who knows what I’m passing up just to make a point? I see they’re filming a movie in town, with you-know-who, that big, big star, the one who joined that whacked-out church after they threatened to out him and ruin his career. I’ll bet tonight’s his one opportunity to slip out unnoticed by the Grand Pooh-Bah of the Celestial Congregation and prowl the underbelly of gay Atlanta. I bet I’m his type, that he’d be all over me, begging to be my love slave, promising to please me like I’ve never been pleased before.
But no. I’m going to lie flat on my back and pound my prick until I squeeze it dry, fantasizing about the best fucking orgasm I’m never going to have.
They kept up the house and the lawn, minded their own business, and that’s all that matters, my father always said. You couldn’t ask for more in neighbors. But when my mother suggested inviting them to a holiday party, he put down his foot with an emphatic no that made it clear the matter wasn’t up for discussion.
Mr. Marion Wright and Mr. Lesley Sax lived in a Victorian pile that lent dignity and a sense of history to the hapless split levels and ranches surrounding it. Mr. Wright and Mr. Sax had never restored the house since, unlike its contemporaries, it had never fallen into disarray. Rather they had preserved it and tenaciously held on to the original boundaries of a rolling lawn that dwarfed the others in the neighborhood. Mr. Wright’s grandfather had built the house before the turn of the century. Mr. Wright’s mother lived there from the day she was born until the day that God finally took heed of her son’s many shaken-fist curses to the heavens above and struck her dead by inflicting a massive stroke. She claimed to never have slept a night of her life outside that house, insisting that she never even closed her eyes during her six-week honeymoon trip to Europe.
I remember the day Mrs. Wright was buried. My father threatened to whup my sister Gina and me for screaming and fighting in the backyard. Show a little respect for the dead, he warned. Late that night, I was awakened by the doorbell. I stood at the top of the stairs, behind my mother. My father told Mr. Sax to settle down and speak slowly so he could understand him. Then, barefoot and wearing only pajama bottoms, he left with Mr. Sax, closing the door behind them. My mother sent me back to bed and went to the kitchen to wait for him to return. An hour later I heard the front door open. I crept down the stairs and listened, safely hidden behind the kitchen wall.
Mr. Sax wouldn’t let him call the police, my father told my mother. Mr. Wright had trashed his mother’s bedroom, breaking furniture, shattering mirrors, ripping her clothes to shreds, tearing the curtains from the windows. The fat old bastard was curled up on her bare mattress, naked as a jaybird, sucking on the nozzle of a pistol. It only took a few sharp words from my father for Mr. Wright to hand over the gun. The goddamn thing wasn’t even loaded. Mr. Sax got him into a bathrobe and my father forced shot after shot of bourbon into him until he finally passed out. Disgusting, the old man told my mother, just disgusting. I should have put the bullets in the gun for him. It’s not like anyone would have missed him if he had shot himself. Well, I suppose Mr. Sax would have missed him, my mother countered. Jesus Christ, Ruth, my father said, the incredulous tone of his voice implying she was crazy.
After that night, Mr. Wright and Mr. Sax withdrew back into their solitude. I knew they were not real men like my father. The old man said Mr. Wright clipped coupons for a living. (I wondered how anyone could make any money snipping the newspaper to get ten cents off a carton of orange juice or a roll of paper towels.) And a good thing too, since he was a little “this way” (my father pursing his lips and waving his hand airily) and then there’s all the goddamn booze…but then again, they mind their own business. When I asked if Mr. Sax had a job, the old man muttered under his breath and told me to go in the house and get him a can of beer.
Mr. Wright and Mr. Sax’s lives didn’t extend beyond the veranda. From the first warm spring evening to the last damp chilly night of autumn, Mr. Wright and Mr. Sax observed the world from the safety of their porch, Mr. Wright in an Adirondack chair, Mr. Sax in a rocker, a small table between them. Mr. Wright sipped a drink from a tall tumbler that Mr. Sax jumped up to refill each time Mr. Wright emptied it.