Getting older doesn’t bother me, but, man, oh fucking man, the longer you inhabit the planet the more memories you collect and the more flashbacks you have. Tonight was a night with a flash back and a half.

I got to say this, although I am not sure it will evoke the deja vu, I was essentially a late bloomer sexually. It’s weird, but I don’t recall ever having any sexual thoughts of my own from before say 16. I probably did, but none stand out in the way that other folks have told me about masturbating or climbing the ropes in gym class. I know I didn’t wank it (or whatever the female equivalent is, because we don’t got much to jerk).

The oddest part of that statement is it could not have been physical, my late blooming. Little, annoying overachiever that I was back in elementary school, I busted out all over beginning at about eight and a half.

Yeah, I was fucking clueless, seriously and completely unaware of anything even remotely related to the parts of the anatomy below the waist. I had been told nothing, and I, as yet, understood very little of the physical specifics of what I read in books.

I don’t know who was more surprised my mother or me when the beautiful blossoming of feminity, better known as being on the rag, overcame me at nine. I thought I had wiped all wrong and/or had cancer because of the blood. My mother just seemed shocked. She gave me a cursory explanation of it being OK and normal and expect it every month, but she offered none, not one word, of the nitty gritty details and their relation to sex.

I guess thankfully, she called the school nurse, who roughed out the rest of the female body beautiful. But, the abstract of “intercourse” was still unacknowledged.

My cluelessness persisted years beyond that initial encounter at nine. Although, I was a precocious reader and pieced together some of the basic information. In addition, I babysat my two cousins whose parents were far more modern in their child rearing. One of them filled in the parts I missed, despite being eight years younger, thanks to his parental teaching.

So intellectually, I was at sea. And, physically I’m not sure why–repression, awkwardness, childishness, a whole lot of things?–I didn’t feel anything. All of my fantasies were romantic, sentimental single kisses and Busby Berkeley dance numbers.

Then, in high school, unsure about the fuss, not looking to go any further than kissing and possibly fondling, I went to the movies with two of the more sexually adventurous kids I knew. (So sexually adventurous, in fact, that in adulthood it became pretty reliable rumor that Judy had done some prostitution and Mark was into rough-trade, leather sex at gay bars around NYC.) They were way out of my fucking league, and I was well aware of that.

We got high, as was the custom back in suburban land in the late 70s/early 80s, and saw The Shining. I can to this day remember the stoned immobility I felt and sheer terror while seeing that flick for the first time. Jack Nicholson could have been coming after me.

Afterwards, when I could breathe again and move again, we went out for ice cream. As we sat in the car, Judy and Mark cornered me.

“What are you?” they wanted to know. I wasn’t entirely clear what they were driving at, but I had a general grasp of it being sexual. I also knew that they had both swung on both sides of the gender fence (Although in retrospect there’s a high probability Judy lied about that. A lot of people hated her as being too weird, and while gay men seemed OK within our theater fag crowd, no one seemed to be copping to anything from the island of Lesbos.)

I stammered that I was heterosexual self-conciously, feeling guilty that I was so mundane and middle class in my appetites. They underscored these feelings by informing me that I was boring and a baby. In my memory they said, “Hetero, please, no one is that anymore.”

A couple years later, I had sussed out a lot of what folks had been talking about that I had missed. It took going away to college, but once I knew what sex was, I slipped back into being a tad precocious and over-achieving. I take pride in doing stuff well, and if it’s fun, I might even try harder.

All of this text is far too much exposition as prologue to the flashback.

The time is tonight, well I guess last night now or maybe this morning. I am 40 years old. I am sitting in a car with two friends, one a man and one a woman. Thank-fucking-god, I am not stoned, since many, many years ago that became about as fun to me as getting smacked across the face with a crowbar. Instead of a movie, we were all at a comedy show.

The question comes up, have I ever had any girl on girl action. I offer the same truth I did back then, a good 20 years ago and more. I’m straight. Now, however, I am confident; the answer is not a voice of repression, fear or lack of experience. It’s only one of personal preference. I like boys. A lot.

The questioner persists, as Mark and Judy had. Haven’t I been curious, haven’t I at least kissed a girl, and if not, why not?

Years ago, I wish I had told Mark and Judy to fuck off, because they made me feel worse about myself and sexuality than years of middle-class, suburban, Catholic upbringing. No one wants to feel as though they are bad or wrong or missing something in the realm of their sexuality. Life is too damn hard already.

Tonight, though, I’m just amused. Apart from feeling comfortable that I don’t want to experiment with chicks, I’m horny as hell. I know what I want, but it’s 3,000 miles away and it ain’t no chick, that’s for damn sure.

Maybe my compromise is a long-haired guy who often gets called ma’am when approached from the back. (He does have some great hair.)