Tuesday, October 28, 2014

Bricky's Golden Treasury of Childhood.

How I Learned About Sex or A Sybarite Among The Shades
I learned all about sex by learning about my own equipment first.
Oh... how I love penises, they are all so different- like snowflakes-
I want to run around aimlessly catching them on my tongue like the Peanuts gang on a Christmas special.
Anyway, I found that out after showering with my Dad one Father-Son day at the country club when I was 7, that although we did resemble each other as males of the species, there was a certain big difference that I took as a possible birth defect on my part, as it were. so to speak.
Leaving the Tasty Pines Country club, as we made a few stops on the way home the frustration came to a boiling point and I had a meltdown, I started sobbing and bleating like a Mexican soap opera actress right there in the frozen foods aisle at the local supermarket.
When I finally fessed up to my Dad that my malaise was due to the fact that in seeing him in the shower, I felt baby Jesus had "short changed" me in that department, He consoled me, saying that I would one day have a nice Pino, that’s what he called them, but at that point, more than anything in the world, he needed me to calm down and behave. Mom really liked that particular Piggly Wiggly that we were in and wanted to continue trading there.
I just knew I would look absolutely stunning with a really large appendage just like my dad‘s so as I sat stoically in the car on the way home pouting and planning for my future
To prove my point, like a prepubescent drag-king, socks, balls, bananas and balloons alike were carefully jammed underneath my pants in an attempt to create the appearance of a monster pee pee, I would walk around the neighborhood greeting the neighbors like Hapsburg royalty.  "Allo there! Allo ducks!"
For years I was known as "that nice little English boy with the tumor".

Many hours were spent pinching and prodding my junk as if frequent handling would encourage growth. I drank plenty of milk and even choked down some spinach, but it was all to no avail.
My pino remained a Vienna sausage as I dreamed of Kielbasa.
How long would I have to wait for a grown up pino of my own? How long would it be before my pino grew so large that I would have to be mindful not to knock down passers by or otherwise cause injury to home and hearth with my majestic weenie?
Thoroughly frustrated, a few months later, I went back to my Dad for advice.
Actually truth be told, I snapped. Suddenly barging into the bathroom, pulling open the shower curtain, not unlike Norman Bates, and tentatively pointing to his pino, I asked, “When will I get one of those?”
After recovering from shock my Dad stated in his heavily accented voice, “You’re only 7,” he mused, “You’ve still got a long way to go.”
I moped around the house, demoralized, for a spell until I came up with the most scathingly brilliant plan I’ve ever had: I was going to ask Santa to bring me a man sized pino for Christmas.
As far as I was concerned, the plan was foolproof. I had been a good boy all year long.
My teachers loved me, (save Sister Mary "Stink eye") I always shared, I was a good host to my friends and I rarely got in trouble with my parents. (Except for the time I tried- unsuccessfully- to drive a railroad spike into the head of my sleeping brother...) I had earned my reward by God.

To really drive my point home, I coolly strolled into my Dad’s study like I had just paid the mortgage, sat down across from him, crossed my legs, took out a candy cigarette, handed my weekly allowance over to him, and ask him to give it to some starving children on my behalf.
“Just make sure O’le Santa knows it was from me,” I whispered as I gave him a wink while spuriously dangling my Buster Brown shoe from my big toe.
Then, it was time to go in for the kill. I sat down to write my Christmas list. It went something like this:
#1. PINO size extra-large
I chewed thoughtfully on my eraser for a minute before I added:
#2. Soccer Ball
#3. Hot Wheels
#4. Beatles records
#5. Lederhosen

Considering that a grown up penis like Dad's was a tall order to fill and I didn’t want to appear greedy, I decided to end my list there.
I finished my letter off with a few declarations of love for Santa, actually I think my words were "Undying devotion" and even went so far as to call him my Hero, "More than Batman and Robin and Batgirl combined!"
I figured a little sucking up couldn’t hurt my cause.
Later that evening, I handed over my Christmas wish list, heavily perfumed with Fidji by Guy Laroche, to my Father and asked him to mail it to Santa for me.

Counting down the days until Christmas is torturous for any kid, but it was particularly hard for me. The days seemed to drag on forever and remaining on my Best Behavior was getting tedious. But finally, finally, Christmas Eve arrived. I could hardly sleep, I was so excited. I just knew I would wake up in the morning with a brand new extra large pino.
You can imagine my utter dismay when I woke up that brisk December morning and peaked down my pajama pants only to find I was as small as the day before. Santa, that fat bastard, had screwed me over. It was travesty! How could he do this to me after I had saved him the very best of the Christmas cookies?


My tutoring in the “hands on” aspects of the tender Arts of Venus began one afternoon about a year later as I was trailing after a few older boys from neighborhood. Joey and Noel were laughing about someone they knew that had a magazine with photos of people doing something I had never heard of. Fucking.
Neither of these boys were going to let me in on what this was- I mulled the term over and over in my head, “Fucking…” I could just see hear it, spoken in the adult realms of locker rooms and men’s clubs, “Great fucking today Chip!” “Well, I always enjoy fucking with you too Biff!” It sounded to me like a new sports craze - like Jai alai.

Being devoted at the time to all things Basque, I thought I would ask my mom or dad about this new fad, so I waddled home and made my way to my moms boudoir where she was hurriedly twisting on some 'cherries in the snow' lipstick and making herself all pretty for cocktail hour with the neighbors. She had just returned from doing a 10K - at Tiffany and Company.
Leaning casually on the door frame and carefully yet absent-mindedly arranging my candy necklace and puffing languidly on a candy cigarette, I asked, in a rather offhanded manner, " Soooooo Mother, what do you know about... fucking?"
The look she gave me was priceless, it was the exact same look a baby makes when you fire a gun over its head.
Grabbing a tissue and removing some 'cherries in the snow from her forehead, she calmly said, "Bricky dear, where did you hear that word? Was it from your grandmother?" I shrugged and said I didn't remember, some magazine I thought. She added "I believe you need to go and ask your father what you just asked me."
I turned and scampered to my Dad who was outside on the patio preparing the altar for the Tiki booze Gods. I asked him the same question. He reacted like I had heard some top secret information straight from the Russians but asked "Did you hear that word from your Grandmother?"
As I repeated that I didn't remember where I had heard it from, he grimaced deeply yet calmly led me to his personal private inner sanctum off limits to children, his workshop, where he told me in deep and thickly accented voice were going to talk about the "Birds and Beans". 

"When two peoples love each other, they like to have a close personal relations, to make the fottere, the fucking." I listened in awe, feverishly chewing my candy necklace, "That is when the man will put his pino into the woman's figa, and they sometimes makes the bambinos."
There was a short question and answer period after about things like what the testicles were for and whether the woman minded what sounded at best like a tedious way to spend an afternoon. In general it was a satisfactory lesson in anatomy and reproduction, and I looked forward to the day my Pino would make crema, which I was sure would taste just like banana pudding.

When I was about 12, I started going through puberty. I was pleasantly surprised not only with its increased size but also with the number of things I could stimulate my privates with. It was a steep learning curve, The vacuum cleaner hose was more of a success when applied to my penis than when applied to my rectum, the maid always gave me dirty looks after that experiment. There was the pool jet, the sofa cushions, my grandmothers stone martins-I still get a chubber when I smell Dial soap or walk through the fur department at Saks.
In the midst of these phallic halcyon days there came a hulking menace in the form a of a thirteen year old boy named Wilie.
Wilie was the neighborhood bully and for several years struck terror in the hearts of younger children in a ten block radius. I was lucky for some time dodging the Indian rubs and from turning over my candy money, but one evening at the city park my luck ran out. Wilie ran up behind me and grabbed me in a half nelson, pulling me into the bushes.
Thinking quickly, I did my best imitation of a fainting goat. (It’s a great imitation, try it when the bill arrives at Antoine’s.)
Surprisingly enough Wilie didn't beat the crap out of me. He looked at me with his eyes on fire and his nostrils flaring and asked. "You look like a girl, do you have an innie or an outie ?" By then my mastery of slang was becoming somewhat advanced, so I knew what he was saying. " I have an outie." I haughtily answered, carefully tucking my long hair back behind my ears. "I don't believe you, drop your pants." He leered. Still in a state of shock, but always remembering my manners, I complied. Before I knew what was happening, he had taken down his pants and had a full erection stuck in my face telling me to put it in my mouth. Long story short, as I reapplied my Bonnie Bell Dr. Pepper flavor Lip Smackers I was somewhat disappointed that what came out of his pino did not taste at all like banana pudding.
He wiped my vomit off his PF flyers and said "Thanks queer. I'll see you tomorrow." “Not if I see you first.“ I quipped rolling my eyes.
That night was spent in my room strutting and fretting in front of the Barbie townhouse wondering if I was really queer for doing what I did. Certainly, It seemed odd but not queer.
My answer came the following evening.
If I was queer, then Mr. Big Bully tough guy was too.
I swear his face looked like a toaster strudel.
We segued into being soul-mates soon after.
We did everything two males could possibly do to each other sexually- including a rather surreal episode involving a tall Mary Poppins doll and me dressed up as Serena from Bewitched.
That arrangement continued until Wilie discovered booze and mushrooms. They started calling him Wilie Peyote.
He had to be sent to military school.
I’ve managed to move on.
Waiter, I'll have Pino please.