Nothing

My first porn magazine. Blueboy, June 1980. A man – all wet in a navy blue bikini, his looks chiseled, lean, and blonde, the hair on his chest slithering down his navel toward his groin, before disappearing into his tiny bathing suit – graced the cover of the magazine. And inside the cover, one gorgeous guy after another, wearing nothing, page after page. My 17-year-old heart raced one beat after the other. But it wasn’t the only part of me pulsing that afternoon in Pittsburgh.

I got it at the university bookstore. It cost twice what it ordinarily would, only since I felt compelled to buy a copy of Playboy. I walked up to the cashier, my Blueboy concealed by the Playboy on top, feigning nonchalance as I raised my eyebrows, looked around as I handed the cashier the magazines. She just punched the numbers into the machine, asked for the sum (no way do I remember that, 35 years later). I paid, got to the car, put the magazines at the bottom of my gym bag, and headed straight home, hoping Mom and Dad wouldn’t find out.

Next twenty-four hours, I set a masturbatory record I have never since equaled: six times in less than twelve hours. And then the phone rang. I heard my mother talking, and it was clear – someone had died. Her Uncle Frank Monahan, a stroke. He was only 73.

I ran upstairs, grabbed the magazines, tore them to shreads, and smuggled them into the garbage. I had killed one of my favorite uncles. I resolved then and there that I would never, ever masturbate again. Or buy a copy of Blueboy.