Don't Stand Too Close to a Naked Man Page 2
I've also never understood why men grab themselves and say, "Right here! This is it, right here." You jump into a cold pond and they try to hide up inside you. These are not courageous organs. Courage is knowing when to get out of the water.
But wouldn't it be great if women's courage and nerve were connected to their ovaries? "Hey, right over here! Right here! Cook these. I've got your steak and potatoes right here!" Women patting their midsections, right where their ovaries are: "Yeah? Right here! I got your laundry right here! I work, too, you know."
Balls are one reason why guys have to be careful of hitting other guys. There's a certain age when all you do is hit other guys there. Even when you're little boys, you know that's where it hurts. You wrestle other kids and they always go for the nuts. I wrestle the kids on the set, and quicker than you can say "ooofff!" they go for the gusto.
This is nothing like goosing, of course. As a kid, you're always goosing other guys. I cracked my tooth in the bathtub once when my brother grabbed mine-and that was just four or five years ago.
The important thing is knowing when to stop goosing your friends. Usually it's when women start doing it.
Some guys never want to stop, though. They'd like to whack you‑just little touches-only there's too big a stigma attached to touching another man there. You can smack it, but you can't make contact. The quicker the snap, the better, but you don't want to be lingering.
Once, camping in our backyard with my brother David and Sam Hobson-one of David's older friends-we were, for Borne reason, all naked. It was innocent nakedness. I was maybe ten. This guy Sam Hobson had a boner. It was always a big deal to get one, although at the time you didn't know why you got one. He laid it on his sleeping bag and said, "I dare anybody to hit that," because he knew he was bigger than everybody else. I've always been proud of my brother David for what he did. Like a flash he was out of his sleeping bag, and he slapped it. Hard. So hard that I burst out laughing from fear. David, on the other hand, ran away as fast as he could. Naked. And Sam Hobson-also naked-ran after him.
Big Sam and the Twins.
Sadly, Sam ended up killing my brother.
- -
When You're a man, the penis is a very difficult part of the body to ignore. It's easy to ignore your liver; it's easy to ignore your pancreas. They do their jobs quietly, and you really only know about them when they malfunction. The penis always lets you know it's there. It shifts, moves, rises and swells with the tides, gets caught in your underwear, too quick a zipper and watch out! It's got to be touched, positioned, adjusted, put in here, tucked over there, pulled out, put in-and don't forget to wash your hands.
It's always in use.
Some women say that's our problem; that we're obsessed with it. Then they say men's behavior-and even our cars-are an extension of our organ. They heap tons of blame on the poor thing. I resent that. What's an extension of the vagina-a purse? I once bought a red Corvette and my aunt kept on me about the extension thing. I said, "Yeah? Sounds all right to me. Who wouldn't want two tons of manhood?"
Believe it or not, I used to think women were just fooling around when they said all that negative stuff about men, and that they never really meant it. (They don't have what we've got, so what do they know about it? Figure out your ovaries and your periods instead.) Now I know that their antagonistic attitude is just a reaction to years and years and years of abuse from men and society about their whole deal. They've got a myriad of problems that we don't have. What we need to understand is that penis bashing has a lot to do with women wishing their lives were as simple as ours. Like a comic once said: "Women have babies, cramps, and menstrual cycles. We gotta shave? All right!"
All right? Clearly, they get the short end of the stick every time they turn around.
We should get over this. To me, the penis is very simple and not deserving of anyone's ire. It's not to blame. It didn't choose its shape. It's vulnerable sitting out there. It has the same problems as every other organ: it ages, it gets sick, it dies.
Uh oh.
- -
Despite what I went through as a kid, it's my good fortune that my real name is Tim Dick. It forced me to focus on what's male about me. So much of my behavior and humor depend on those glandular feelings and associations. But only to a point. Women joke that men have two brains. Well, let me tell you: I control it; it does not control me. It has no life of its own. It needs me to live. I feed it. I take care of it. Without me it's nothing. It does exactly what I tell it to.
Unless I'm around women. Which reminds me of a story.
I once emceed for Sexy Flexy, one of the first male strippers.
There were eight hundred women at a club in the middle of Michigan to see Flexy and his greasy, pumped‑up crew.
That was when I finally learned that women‑‑especially in large groups of two or more-are not used to taking no for an answer. It was very illuminating. Maybe it's because they haven't been watching men strip forever, but they were rude and rude beyond rude. They'd grab these guys and the bodyguards would have to knock them off. Do that in a female strip club and they'll cut off your arm. Meanwhile, I'd be yelling into the microphone, "Hey lady, that's not a roll of quarters you're reaching for!"
After four or five hours, these women got, bored with Flexy's guys and they started pointing at me. I said, "Nah." They said. "Yeah." I said, "Nah." What they wanted involved dancing and looking foolish. Dancing is not a male thing. Dancing for must men is just killing time. "Can we go home now? Let's go, ah. . make love, or something."
But these women wouldn't back down. So 1 started rolling my hips, kind of getting into it. (Hey, I was flattered!) Eventually I got $96 tucked into my pants. Then, suddenly, a group of ladies pulled me off the stage and ripped off my watch. They ripped down the entire front of my pants. They pulled my suit coat, down behind my back, immobilizing my arms. I've seen the mob do this in movies. Then an older woman-close to my mom's age-started yelling: "I've got his quarters! I've got his quarters!"
"Ma'am, once again"-by now my voice was a high-pitched squeak-"these are not quarters you're grabbing." She paid no attention. Somehow I freed my arms and I elbowed this woman so hard that she crashed backward into a chair.
She had to let go. She fell down and crumpled in a heap. I didn't realize I'd hit her that hard. I was shocked. I felt miserable-until she somehow got back up, took a slug of some brown liquor, and said, "You're not getting rid of me that easy, sonny boy"'
These days women want what they want. And why not, especially if they'll take an elbow to the head and get right up again to get it. Women can complain all day long that men have all the power. I know a grandmother in Michigan who could show them a thing or two.
In fact, there are many dynamics in the world. But none is more important to me than the drive to procreate. Let me paraphrase Lynn Margulis and Dorion Sagan, from Microcosmos, their book about bacteria: There's no greater dynamism in life than life itself. The odds of life's existing are rare, but once it starts it's very difficult to stop. And we are part of that dynamic process of life: cells dividing and finding new ways to beat the odds. The whole universe, allegedly, is black and cold and nothing. Ninety‑nine percent of the universe is an unknown quantity. And only a minute part of the one percent that's left is life. As far as we know, we're the only thing alive. There's no proof and no indication otherwise. Earth might contain the only life in creation. We might be far more important and far more of an experiment than we think.
Whatever the case, men and women fight and struggle way too much on their path to figuring out the truth. They are compelled to become unified and have a baby. Sorry, we weren't created to have sex just for a good time. The reason it's a good time is to get us to reproduce in spite of all the hassles encountered along the way. (Then we can have a good time, okay?) We just end up piling on all sorts of metaphysical attitudes and sociological theories, trying to explain why two species so unlike each other-and who often so dislike each other-a
bsolutely have to get together. Ultimately, it's like eating; you can't help it. That's why the majority of the population is attracted to the opposite sex.
Some societies separate the men and women. The reason is that men get along better with men, and women get along better with women. But after being in prison, I know that we can't do that forever because it turns men-I can only speak for men-into very violent creatures. Without women around, we become very violent and very sad, and very uninspired and very one‑sided.
It's called watching too much sports on TV.
My philosophy is that most of what I've done in life is because of women-and even more so because of my name. I got clued into the realities early. It's my half of the imperative of existence. I had to find a woman and reproduce. I'm not the only person ever to say this: Camille Paglia says this; Dr. Joyce Brothers says this; even Warren Beatty eventually did this.
As a kid, you can be so happy. Then you discover women and you're so unhappy. Then happy and unhappy and happy. These differences, this rhythm, underlies everything I ever wanted to say about being a man, and about being molded by my reflection in women's eyes.
As Tim Dick I just got to think about it more than most, because it all starts "down there."
Wow. . I think I need a woman right now!
Honey? I have something to show you.
And get a couple bucks from the cookie jar. I feel like dancing.
animal boy
Little boys are animals. They're indestructible creatures made of sticks and stones and ball bearings. Their mission is clear: push the boundaries wherever possible. Keep in mind that teenage girls and raging hormones aren't yet in the picture.
Ah. . ignorance is truly bliss.
- -
I grew up on Marion Street in Denver, Colorado. I was born in 1953. Fascinating, isn't it? (Well, at my age it's important to test my memory whenever I can.) I hung out in this great neighborhood gang. great neighborhood gang. Remember? You were in one. When our group of guys assembled, we were like little apes in a circle-minus the body hair. We had our own hierarchy, like in Lord of the Flies-only nicer. All the different personality types were there. It's funny how we still seem to be those same people as adults. Think about it.
In any group, a couple of kids always vie for leadership. One's bigger, the other smarter; both qualify. Barry Phillips and I both had leadership qualities, even though he was a year older.
In my big brother Steve's group, Barry's older brother, John, called the shots. I don't know if he was smarter, but he was a giant, so everyone was afraid of him-and that somehow made him appear smarter. John, and Barry's other big brother, Howard, liked to torture people. (At that age they called it teasing: "I was just teasing the cat/little brother/grandma.") As you may have guessed, the older Phillips boys are now in politics. Anyway, they used to beat up on Barry all the time. They called it "roughhousing," which is like men calling lying "bullshitting." Barry wasted no words. He called it "pain." Then Howard would point his finger at me and ask, "Hey, Dick, you want part of this, too?" And I'd say, "No, you big jerk, but maybe you'd like a Hertz donut."
Apparently Howard rarely heard my clever comebacks, partly owing to my mumbling them under my breath and running at full speed in the opposite direction. Or maybe the big fat idiot was just deaf. (Just kidding, Senator!)
When you grow up, size still matters among men, only now the size of your bank account determines who's the leader. It also helps if you're smart. And physical presence is still important. This means that a big, rich, smart guy is your worst nightmare. The big, rich, stupid guy, as a rule, inherits a car dealership. And, incidentally, if any guys from either of these categories are reading this book right now, please disregard the previous sentences. It's just a theory.
In the group there's also the kid who's so crazy he'll do anything. Steal candy? What brand? Drink sewer water? Gimme a glass. He lived outside the rules and you never knew what to expect. This kid was respected and feared.
Today, he's dead.
One kid's funny, another is good at sports, another rides his bike real well. And there's always the guy you can manipulate. That was Dennis. I was cruel to him then, but I'm nice to him now. Of all my friends, we're the ones who still stay in touch because, okay, controlling him is a thrill I just can't give up. All right, all right. He's used to it. His parents pushed him around his whole childhood, and now so does his wife.
And, of course, there's the kid you're always trying to ditch. It's an unwritten law of childhood that works all over the world. And the best part about it? The kid always comes back to the group. And you welcome him-so you can ditch him later.
- -
Our basic transportation was the bicycle. Talk about a boundary stretcher. You could actually go places. Six blocks. Sixteen blocks! In any direction.
I liked meeting new kids, or going to the house of the weird boy from the strange part of town who wanted me to come over after school. I'd have to ride my bike. It was okay playing over there-but still sort of uncomfortable. What did "playing" mean, anyway? You just messed around in his room. Sat on his bed, then the end of his bed, under his bed, talking about nothing, playing with his stuff, realizing he didn't have very cool stuff-well, maybe a couple of cool things.
The worst thing was that strange people's houses always smelled weird. Right away I'd be thinking, "Wow, something died in here. It's that carpet. No, that old lamp. Both of them. No, it's that woman. Oh, she's his mom. No, his grandma. Her legs are weird. What a weird dog. What are they cooking? I want to go home. I don't like it here anymore."
So I'd get on my bike and leave. I'd be pedaling furiously until I'd cross a familiar street and, once back in safe territory, suddenly breathe easier. But I knew I'd crossed a boundary.
Bikes were also cool.
The rich kid always had the ultimate bike, right? When I was young it was a Stingray: banana seats and a sprocket the size of a quarter. You could do wheelies, but you didn't want to go long distances because the small sprocket meant you'd have to pedal like a little clown at a Shriners' convention. I asked my mom to buy me one. She wouldn't, so I made my own. Got a Stingray frame and handlebars, bought a banana seat. Really cool. Then I spraypainted it purple. That's when it stopped being cool. No way you could compete with a Schwinn paint job. They knew what they were doing.
Barry Phillips had a Bendix, with the two‑speed rear axle. You'd push the pedals backward quickly to change gears, like you were using the brakes. What a marvelously simple piece of machinery. You really don't need fifteen speeds: "Oh gosh. There's a hill, lovey. I think it's an eight. No, a six." What is this-Tonya Harding's skating score?
Today, it's the same sort of overkill in cars. I have a car stereo that will leave messages. It's got a manual two inches thick. The manual that came with my wife is smaller.
One thing I don't understand about bikes is why boys' bikes have a bar between the seat and the handlebar, and girls' bikes have that V. Isn't it backward? You'd think the boys' would have no bar. If you fell off the pedals going over a bump, at least your balls wouldn't say an immediate hello to a piece of iron. (And I think we've all said hello to a piece of iron at one time or another, right?)
Of course, if a boy fell off a girls' bike and didn't have a bar to stop him-hmmmmm-I guess he'd drop down and have his balls mashed in the pedal crank and his face dragged on the sidewalk. Maybes the bar isn't such a bad idea after all.
Of course, if a girls' bike had a bar, she'd have to step over it and any healthy adolescent boy would probably give up a week's allowance to stand behind her waiting for a cheap buffalo shot. I know I'm right.
That explains bikes. But many boy‑girl mysteries remain. Like boys' and girls' shirts. They button differently. What's that all about? Is it so you'll know when you're wearing a girl's clothing? "Well, will you look at that? I've put on my wife's blouse again." You'd think you'd know because of the floral print. But it's a fun look. Summery.
One t
hing you'll never hear boys-or for that matter, men-saying is, "Charlie, that's a good‑looking shirt. Kind of a fun thing. And those trousers make your ass look nice. Can I borrow those?"
- -
To young boys food is simply fuel. You run low on fuel and you don't run around very well. We'd get hungry about three‑thirty every afternoon. Power‑up time. We'd go right for the main energy source: sugar. Two big Cokes, Twisters, Twinkies, Hostess cupcakes. On school days we'd have a thirty‑two‑ounce RC Cola, a couple Pixie Stix, a Snickers, and some Wax Lips just to keep our mouths busy until we got home.
Sugar may seem like just sugar to an adult or the doctor, but I was much more sophisticated. I knew the value of consuming something from every major food group in the sugar category. Your sucrose, your fructose, your glucose. Processed sugar of any kind. Your cakes, gums, caffeine‑based sugars. (Caffeine, as you know, runs through the entire chocolate family.)
There are, however, sugars you don't combine: Lik‑M‑Aid and root beer, Jujubes and Chunkies, Dots and Raisinets, Pez and Sugar Smacks. Chocolate milk is better with cakes, but if you're tough, you can down a Coke with a brownie. For a grown man, that's like scotch and peanuts. It goes, but not real well. Cake and beer is another one. That's why adults hate having birthday parties. Combining sugar‑frosting roses with vin rose is a lot worse than getting old.
My mom didn't like to cook, and my dad didn't barbecue. Good lyrics for a Johnny Cash tune, and true. But after my little brother died of starvation, my mom straightened up and began to cook for us. This noble attempt sadly resulted in three more of us dying. Kidding. . I'm kidding.
When my mom did cook, she really went all out to please our palates. For instance, can someone please explain to me about stewed tomatoes? What are they all about?
And what's a cubed steak? Mom fixed it every Saturday night
"Oh, hey, it's Saturday night. Lucky us!" It was a gnarly piece of beef with a pattern on it, like it was beaten with a tire iron. Gotta love that gristle every other bite. Mom would lovingly accent the