With puberty came insecurity and confusion. Questions about body hair and how two men might have sex with each other (because I was sure that I would like to do just that) sent me to the library’s sex and development reference books looking for answers and validation.

I had some favorites: What’s happening to my body? (a book for boys); Boys and Sex; Sexual behavior in the human male; and some lovely development book who’s title I don’t remember because I never read it I just looked at the pictures which included (to my “growing” pleasure) a photo of the fully-developed adult male letting it all hang out. I would hide in the corner reading these books in the basement of the library because I was too embarrassed to check them out. I even occasionally snuck one or two out of the library illeagally in my trousers and read them in my room with the door locked. The secrecy came from the fact that I knew I was probably not supposed to be reading this books for the reasons I read them.

I was searching for titillation, yes, but I was also in need of some literary vindication that all of my impulses had been had by others and that they were possible to eventually indulge. You see, having caught a glimpse of male sexuality (in the form of the afore mentioned peeing-peepshow) had created a curious monster, a hungry explorer, a too-self-aware-for-his-own-good little boy who needed answers and some sort of release. I loved looking at boys, thinking about boys, and wanted to kiss and touch them. But I was in the 5th grade, had a girlfriend, and lived in the midwest. I was okay with doing the things I was supposed to do, but I wasn’t okay about being ignorant of the things I wanted to do.

And so I read. I searched all indexes for “homosexuality” because I had somehow determined that was the category of most interest to me. I could find many discussions of what it meant to be affected by that particular noun, but no directions on how to act upon it. For I knew that sex involved action, I had seen pictures of that told me so. My older cousin (who was, for better or worse, one of my biggest mentors) had shown me the hidden stash of porn magazines his older brother kept under his bed. Inside were pictures of many naked women alongside occasional shots of naked men. And even less occasionally were the pictures of the men fully engorged and acting upon the women in ways I wished the would act upon me. But I wasn’t built like the women were built, so I knew I would have some difficulties actualizing my fantasies. But I never gave up hope that there was some way to do it.

To read about this curious youngster exploring his sexuality by giving up certain ideals and seeking out a female prostitute then go find a copy of The Catcher in the Rye. To learn how I learned to express my desires with words, well keep on reading.