I went out on Friday night with a couple of butch friends. Â They had never met, and I was happy to introduce them to each other and watch as their conversation took off. Â We met over beers and I introduced my Butch Agenda (more on that later) and we talked and drank and had a great time. Â Soon it was myself and N, talking about writing. Â We talked about our mutual desire to have a writer’s support group of some kind, leading eventually to having a space to do readings and more. Â We agreed to start simple and so, that weekend, I created a group on FB and invited N and a couple of other butch writers. Â We’ve retained Roxy as our prompt master and on Monday, we got our first prompt, “treehouse”. Â This is what came out of my keyboard.
For a few years, between ages 8 and 11 or so, my best friend was a boy named James. Â Jimmy fit my very simple best friend criteria to a tee: Â he wanted to do the same stuff I did, he lived two houses away and he never told me I couldnâ€™t do something because I was a girl.
Our hangout was a tree house in his backyard. Â Weâ€™d sneak ice cream bars or cookies and go up there to scarf them down and plan our next escapade. Â One spring afternoon, I scrambled up the ladder, breathless from the escape velocity sprint Iâ€™d used to take me out of earshot of my momâ€™s harping voice. Â Jimmy was already there, slouched into a bean bag chair, reading a magazine.
â€œHey, sorry I couldnâ€™t bring anything. Â My momâ€™s a harpy today, I barely escapedâ€ I explained. Â â€œDid you get anything?â€
He answered in a voice I hadnâ€™t heard before, lower and more breathy than normal, â€œYeah, yeah, I did. Â Nothing to eat, but I got this.â€ And he flipped the magazine around so I could see the page he was reading.
My jaw probably dropped a couple of feet. Â It wasnâ€™t a comic book as Iâ€™d expected, instead it was a dirty magazine and I was suddenly staring at the most naked woman Iâ€™d ever seen, and seeing more than Iâ€™d ever seen of a naked woman. Â Now, Iâ€™d been hanging around boys for years, I was not innocent, at least in theory. Â I was just as quick as they were to curse and talk dirty (in the way of pre-pubescent kids with no sexual experience). Â And weâ€™d probably talked about dirty magazines billions of times, but this is the first time Iâ€™d actually seen one.
â€œDude, whereâ€™d you get it?â€ Â I plopped down beside him and did my best to ogle and hoped my face wasnâ€™t as flame red as it felt. Â Acting nonchalant was key, you never wanted to be the most flustered person in the group.
â€œSnuck it out of my parentâ€™s bathroom, it was in the stack of magazines on the back of the toilet.â€ His face was shining too, but in a different way. â€Itâ€™s amazing, isnâ€™t it?â€ Â He flipped a few more pages, showing that same woman in various outfits and poses. Â I continued to stare and became aware that my face wasnâ€™t the only warm and glowing part of my body. Â He stopped at one page where the model was sitting back on a couch, with one leg up and a fancy see through night gown kind of thing on. Â With her legs spread, you could clearly see between her legs. Â I was extremely conscious of how similar I was in that region, and here Jimmy was practically drooling over it. Â I was fascinated, and suddenly very aware of how close we were sitting, crammed against each other in the same bean bag chair.
He reached down and squeezed himself, and thatâ€™s when I realized he had a hard-on. Â Iâ€™d never actually seen one, but had certainly heard plenty about them. Â I couldnâ€™t help staring as he pulled on it a little before stopping, as if heâ€™d forgotten I was there. Â Something passed over his face and he turned to look at me, his expression a mixture of serious and playful.
â€œSo, Casey, ever seen a guyâ€™s dick before?â€
It was one of those moments you remember forever, frozen in amber so you can go back and relive it for your perpetual embarrassment. Â I didnâ€™t respond for a second or two, my brain went blank in panic. Â He was leering at me, still holding his package and staring me down.
â€œYeah, I didnâ€™t think so… so, you wanna? Â Itâ€™s hard even… â€œ
I had to answer quickly or heâ€™d lose his nerve, there was already something less bold about his expression.
â€œYeah, sure, whateverâ€ I said, with all the false bravado I could muster. Â â€œShow it to me.â€
â€œOk, but you gotta show me yours and you gotta never tell anybody, not the guys or anybody, OK?â€
I should have felt more weird about pulling my shorts and panties down so he could see my still hairless mound. Â The truth is, I was way more interested in seeing what he had between his legs. Â He unzipped his cut-offs and leaned back to pull them and his tighty whities down to his thighs. Â It was smaller than Iâ€™d expected, considering the way he and the other guys talked about them all the time. Â He reached down and held it up, so I could see it better. It was rigid, and he stroked it a couple of times. Â My insides did some kind of weird flip-flop and I was tingling in a way that was almost painful.
Just then, like in a movie or something, his mom called from the back door. Â He pulled up his shorts and shot me a look, â€œRemember, donâ€™t tell anyone.â€ And disappeared down the ladder. Â I sat there for a few minutes before realizing my shorts were still down and my hand was between my legs.
Years later, I can still conjure back the musty smell of the bean bag chair, the model in her negligee and way he wrapped his fist around his boy dick. Â In those few moments, I learned a lot about the differences between boys and girls, differences Iâ€™ve been struggling to reconcile ever since. Â Back then, however, sexual politics were nothing I had a clue about. Â What I felt then was fascination and pure, unfiltered envy. Â I wanted a dick of my own, something firm and tangible that I could get my hands on, something that would push me across the line from the girlhood I didnâ€™t want and the boyhood I felt most comfortable in. Â I didnâ€™t know it then, but my time as one of the boys was coming to an end. Â Heâ€™d showed me his and Iâ€™d shown him mine, and the difference was undeniable.
This content is published under the Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported license.