Pubic Hair, Papa Charles, and a Big Fat Wedgie

The bottle on the bureau winked at me and whispered, "restore your hair and look great again!"

Making sure no one was around, I pulled down my pants, poured some of the lotion onto my palm, and rubbed it on my pubic area.

Then I waited. And waited. I checked everyday to see if any little hairs had sprouted.

Nothing.

I was 9.

-----

Fast forward a couple of years.

I noticed a little something on my pubic area one day. If I stood at just the right angle, it almost looked like hair.

Sidetrack: You know Charles Ingalls? Yeah, that incredibly loving and wonderful father on Little House on the Prairie? Well, I had a crush on him. Or so I thought. I don't think I ever masturbated to thoughts of him, but I know that I wanted to be near him and follow him wherever he went. He talked to his children, listened to them, he even hugged and cried with them.

Anyway, on one fateful fishing trip day, I thought that maybe if I tried, I could have my own Charles Ingalls in dad.

"Guess what, dad?"

"What?" he mumbled as we maneuvered across the rocks.

"I think my penis has hair on it."

"What?!" he said louder with an irritated face--the same scowl that I have inherited.

"I think my penis has hair on it," I repeated, a little embarrassed yet hopeful.

"Humph," he mumbled, then kept walking.

There! I did it. I connected with dad, I thought to myself and smiled a little on the inside.

I have pictures from that fishing trip. My older brothers and their friends were slim and handsome as can be. But there was a grotesque figure standing amongst them with his back to the camera. A fat, ugly kid with pork chop calves and a big ass with a perpetual wedgie. To this day, I cannot look at that picture without shame engulfing me.

I don't know what it was I did that day. I can't remember. Something an insecure and love-starved 11-year-old might do to get a little attention.

"STOP IT!" my father yelled publically. "You're already sprouting pubic hair! So stop being an annoying, immature brat!"

It was loud enough that I swore everyone heard it. Loud enough to resound through a lifetime of dread and self-hatred.

And so, I found comfort instead in my made-believe world with men like papa Charles Ingalls holding me, comforting me, speaking tenderly to me. I would masturbate, feeling warmed and loved.

-----

Fast forward three decades to today.

I went online and searched for a picture of "wedgie."  This is what I found.

I think they call this male-bonding. A bunch of guys reveling in their maleness, affirming each other that their muscles, their sweat, their stink, their wedgies, their sex are all good.

I've been in a couple of situations like this. I've even tried to be one of the guys. Some party where there was some drugs and sex going on. I danced with one girl and pretended to make out with her. I was not in the least bit interested. But I knew the guys were looking. I did it for them. 

As I held her close to me, the girl had a look in her eyes that said, "take me, I'm all yours." But I did nothing. I had nothing to give her. My wedgie, along with my immature penis and reprimanded pubic hair, had been gutted out and tossed on the rocks to rot forever on that fateful fishing trip day.

But...

things are changing.

Because of you, and you, and You, things are changing.

I want so badly to be accepted as a man--sweat, stink, wedgie and all. I want to masturbate with a bunch of guys together and have them say, "dude, you're gonna make some girl one happy bitch!" And then ejaculate and laugh together.

Yes, I know. Not very Christian. But I don't care. I want to experience having my man-sex affirmed with other guys. I will not edit out these words. 

Not yet.