A Bad Idea I'm About to Do (8 page)

It has not.

“But . . . ,” she wept. “I'm in love with you.”

“You're . . . what?”

We spent the rest of that night on the phone, crying, expressing to each other how happy we were that we had found love, with all the histrionics and hyperbole two teenagers could summon. Finally, someone felt the same way about me as I felt about her. We promised to stay true to each other while I was away.

“Be safe down there,” she said. I'm not sure what dangers she thought I would encounter during a three-week program full of teenaged kids who liked to debate political hot-button issues. “When you come back, I'll be waiting.”

“Okay,” I said. “I promise, I'll be careful.”

“Chris,” she said. “I'm your girlfriend, okay?”

“Yeah,” I whispered. “You're my girlfriend. That's okay.”

Then, in the morning, I left.

That night, immediately after arriving, I bought a calling card and dialed Samantha. We talked late into the evening, and she told me that when I got home, we were hanging out the first night.

“And when we do,” she told me, “it's going to be fun, for both of us.”

“You mean like . . . ,” I stammered.

“Yeah,” she said. “That.”

“Like we're gonna make out and stuff?” I said, smooth as always.

“Yeah. I keep saying yeah,” she said, getting annoyed.

“Cool,” I said. “That's so cool.” I said my good-byes and hung up the phone, sensing that my awkwardness was ruining the conversation.

My floor of guys, whom I had just met that day, were psyched for me. Every one of them had more experience with girls than me, and enjoyed telling me all of their sordid tales of hooking up, passing it off as advice. I went to bed that night as happy as I had ever been, even though it had just been made explicitly clear that I was the least sexually experienced guy in a group of high school debate enthusiasts.

The next morning, I woke up still on cloud nine. I hopped out of bed, grabbed a towel, and headed down the hall to the communal shower in my underwear.

I opened the bathroom door, and inside was a Turkish guy named Ali. He was a Republican and, from what I remember, a fierce debater. But as he turned to face me I realized even then that I wouldn't remember Ali for his political leanings. What I would remember Ali for were his pubes. A full, jet-black bush that would forever burn itself into my memory. The kind that I now understand only a Turk can have at the age of fifteen.

I turned and headed straight back to my room, the spring noticeably absent from my step. I sat on my bed and felt like I had to shit, which is the number one indicator that I am experiencing severe anxiety. I got under my covers and proceeded to cry.

For about a year, I'd experienced a sneaking suspicion that I was drifting behind the pack, but I had no idea how thoroughly I'd been left behind. My school didn't make kids shower after gym. Everyone just went to their individual corner of the locker
room and quickly changed. Most days, I put in so little effort in gym that I didn't sweat at all, so I generally didn't even have a need to remove my underwear. A few guys did get nude in the locker room, but they were mostly jocks who liked to do homoerotic things as an excuse to say something homophobic. I didn't spend any time checking out their pubes.

And no one could have checked out mine. Because I had none.

For the rest of my three weeks at Georgetown, I participated in three separate rituals. First, I woke up every morning hours before any of my classes so that I could shower in an environment where I was sure no one would see my weird, smooth, hairless pubic mound. After classes and dinner, I called Samantha, my second ritual of the day. It was an over-the-phone love affair, easily (and sadly) the farthest I'd gotten with a girl.

My third ritual commenced at bedtime. Each night, I got under my covers, lifted my penis, and furiously examined the base of my shaft for any signs of pube growth.

I was furious at my dick. And instead of suffering quietly, I let it know.

“Why do you want to ruin this for me?” I asked pointedly. If anything in this world understood my affections for Samantha it should have been my penis. After all, it had been a sympathetic and willing participant in all of my many filthy fantasies about her.

Late one night my frustration reached a boiling point. “Grow!” I shouted at my pitiful, bald privates. “Grow! Grow! Grow!”

Moments later there was a knock at my door. I threw on a towel and answered it. It was Jesse, a kid who lived down the hall.

“You okay, man?” he asked when I opened the door.

“Yeah,” I said. “I'm fine.”

“I thought someone was in here,” he said. “I heard you shouting the word ‘go.' ”

“Oh,” I said. “Yeah, there was no one in here. I was just shouting the word ‘go.' ”

“Why?”

“No reason, okay?” I said, in a huff. “I just felt like shouting the word ‘go.' Jesus, everyone is so fucking nosy here.”

“Uhh . . . ,” he squeaked out. “Sorry, man. Didn't mean to interrupt you . . . while you were shouting the word ‘go.' ”

I slammed the door and tumbled back into bed. I lifted my shaft once more.

“Please,” I said, my rage turning into desperation. “Just a little bit. Just enough that she won't get grossed out.” When I woke up I checked and, sure enough, no hair had grown. This process repeated itself every night. My penis refused to listen to reason. Or begging. Or shouting. My penis would not be swayed.

The day before I headed home to New Jersey, Samantha and I told each other how excited we were, and how we couldn't wait to see one another.

She was being honest. I was outright lying. Because due to my pubeless state I never wanted to go home, and I certainly never wanted to face her. The phone thing was great. I was able to say all sorts of heartfelt, risky stuff and there was no consequence. I was in total control. All I could think of was that once I saw her again in person I was going to be exposed as a sham, as a little boy, in the emotional and—more importantly—the physical sense. I could only imagine the shock, the disgust, the horror that she would feel if she reached into my pants and felt a man's front that felt like a baby's ass.

The drive back home was unbearable. With each hour on the highway bringing me closer to Jersey and the inevitable unveiling
of my bald crotch, my panic grew. In my state of depression, I decided it would have been better if I had thrown up all over Samantha's face that day months ago. That way she never would have spoken to me again, and I wouldn't be in this whole mess of her wanting to provide me with hand release.

I finally got home, and within hours Samantha was at my front door. She looked great. I don't know if it was a result of her diligent bulimia, but she seemed more toned than usual. She was also tanned from a summer spent at the beach—three weeks of thus far shunning every guy who tried to convince her to rendezvous beneath the boardwalk, all so she could be with me, a pubeless boy wonder who yelled at his own genitals.

In my parents' basement, I put on a movie—the John Cusack classic
Say Anything
, because I am completely unoriginal. We sat on opposite ends of the couch, but as the night progressed Samantha inched closer. The next thing I knew, her hand touched mine. And before I realized it I had experienced my first kiss.

It got aggressive fast. It was the sort of passion only fifteen-year-olds can summon after they've been apart and talking dirty to each other for a month.

Then, as suddenly as Samantha had instigated it, I stopped our make-out session. I turned away from Samantha's eager mouth and fixed my gaze onto the misadventures of Lloyd Dobler. I was scared to be discovered for the freak I was.

Samantha took a pillow and laid it on my lap, resting her head there. For the rest of the night I watched the movie, and she watched me. She smiled at me enticingly. There was no way to explain that I was terrified to open a very hairless Pandora's box. Samantha looked at me with three weeks' worth of build-up in her eyes, but I couldn't find it in me to risk a humiliation that would lead to a lifetime of insecurity. So Samantha simply sat,
her head resting on a pillow that was balanced on my raging boner. Looking back now, I can understand that the situation couldn't have been comfortable for her, physically or socially.

As soon as the credits rolled, I headed for the stairs. My dad offered to drive Samantha home. I went along for the ride. She and my dad talked more than she and I did.

The next night, Samantha asked me to come to her place. Her turf. I dreaded the thought that she would feel more free to be aggressive. With Samantha in control things were bound to go further, and I was sure my lack of hair would finally be exposed to the world.

When I got to her house, Samantha's best friend Veronica was there. I wasn't sure why at first, but her presence there was off-putting to me. Then a rare male instinct kicked in, and I recognized that for the first time in my life I was being cock-blocked.

I was torn. On the one hand, I was relieved that I wouldn't have to deal with the prospect of making out with Samantha again. Sure, my cock had been blocked, but I had been actively searching for a way to block my cock on my own. On the other hand, it still hurt and I still felt shame.

Samantha took me quietly into the next room.

“Look,” she said. “I'm so sorry to do this.”

I looked down at the ground. I was completely aware of what was coming, but I was confused and unsure how to react. Did I pretend I was sad about what was happening?
Was
I sad? Was it embarrassing getting dumped after one date, or was it the biggest stroke of luck I'd yet experienced in my decade and a half on earth?

I went with what I thought was the smartest option—stoically absorbing the blow while hinting that there was a deep well of pain just under the surface. That way, Samantha would think I
was some sort of sensitive guy, yet tough enough to weather a breakup.

I looked back up at Samantha.

“Just say whatever you have to say,” I said.

“I really like you,” she said. “But just as a friend. Something didn't quite click last night. Something was off. It was just. . . . ”

It was just my boner stabbing your temple through a pillow,
I thought to myself.
We both know it. Now. Let. Me. Go. Home.

“It's over,” she said. “I'm sorry.”

She hugged me. And as she did I inhaled deeply and took in a strong waft of that unmistakable birch beer smell Samantha had long been famous for.

I walked by Veronica on my way out. She smiled at me, gently, not condescending at all. Her greenish-blue eyes spoke to a kindness that was very genuine. I stopped.

“I'll see you when school starts back up?” I said.

“Yeah,” Veronica answered. “I'll see you then.”

Then I gave her a very goofy grin. She laughed.

She's cuter anyway,
I thought to myself.

As the summer wound down I kept up one of my rituals from debate camp. Each night, I stayed up late and examined my genitals for signs of hair. On occasion, I still quietly talked to them. And eventually, those hairs appeared. Within months, I would be blessed with a bright-red fire crotch that became its own source of embarrassment.

Over time I realized that while my lack of pubes had been
a
problem, it had never really been
the
problem.

The real issue was my awkward, clunky behavior. It was my nervousness, my uncomfortable shifting and sweating. It was my remarkable inability to deal with the situation in a straightforward way.

I had completely betrayed the attitude that had enticed Samantha in the first place. I had played it cool when I almost threw up on Samantha's head. But I couldn't play it cool when faced with the prospect of her seeing my hairless pubic mound. If I had figured out how to summon that same level-headedness, and managed to convert the impending disaster into another victory, we might have had a relationship that went somewhere.

I may at least have gotten a tug job out of it.

As an adult I've learned that even if there are moments when I feel I am mere seconds from vomiting on my life, I can still pull it together to regain control, and that good things can still come from it. On my best days, this helps. When it doesn't I can feel my same old insecurities set in—my awkwardness, my over-thought reactions to things, my inability to act when any action at all will turn a situation from tense to fine. It is a pattern that has reoccurred often, and it is in these instances that I feel like a frightened fifteen-year-old again, scared to take his eyes off the television screen, managing only to awkwardly jam his unwelcomed boner firmly into the temple of life.

“I
'm sorry, class,” Henry Knutsen said as he stood at the front of the room. “Things are getting a little too serious in here.” I shifted in my seat, giddy with anticipation. “Would anyone like to see me do my impression of bacon?”

We cheered. None of us anticipated this much fucking around when we signed up for a class on Law. Knutsen pinned his arms against his sides and jumped around as if he was a slice of pork frying in a pan. “I'm burning!” he shouted. “I'm burning!”

We clapped. Then he went back to teaching us about the Supreme Court.

Henry Knutsen had taught in West Orange for over forty years. At the beginning of my senior year, he announced that he would finally be retiring. For those of us who had already registered for his classes, this was a godsend. As far as we were concerned, Knutsen had effectively announced that he no longer gave a fuck about our education, and we couldn't have been happier.