the kind you don't take home to mother

After observing a shady white van with white tinted windows parked outside the Pink last night, the conversation turned to pedophiles. I cannot recall who spoke of always being told to look out for and never get in to a white van when they were a kid, but I’m pretty sure it was Paul’s brother – though it may have been Mathew - who said his parents told him the white van was good, and should he ever see a white van with kids painted on the side he should surely get inside it. My parents, well specifically my Mom, were constantly warning me about all sorts of situations in which I could get molested. I swear she warned me weekly about child molesters. She told me to look out for teachers, ministers, janitors, strangers in cars claiming someone in my family was in the hospital and they were sent to pick me up, neighbors, coaches, and on and on and on. Everywhere I went I swore someone was about to molest me. My mom even warned me of different situations that could unfold. Obviously the “it’s our little secret� was hammered into my head as a red flag that I had just been molested, but the scenario that I remember fearing the most was being pushed into a corner and fondled while using a public restroom. For this reason I always used the stall whenever I had to use the bathroom. No one was to touch, nor see MY private parts. No sir, my private parts are for my eyes and hands only. When changing for swim lessons, I was always the kid in the stall. Later in life, after discovering the joys of Wendy’s Superbar, I became the guy who always wore his shirt in the pool: “I burn easily.� Even throughout high school, after outgrowing my chubby little self, I did all in my power to get out of the state requirement for swim class during gym. I couldn’t deal with having to strut around half naked with fifty of my peers; changing for regular gym class was difficult enough. I even remember being slightly uneasy about having to change in my dorm room with a roommate at the beginning of my freshman year. I don’t know exactly what did it, but my sophomore year I became obsessed with having “boxer / beater “ parties where I’d sit around with friends drinking wine in undershirt tank tops and boxers - though it may have been due to the fact that it made the transition into the sack a little easier with the ladies. Somehow this morphed into me constantly stripping down into my underwear whenever I got drunk and dancing around. Oh shit, I completely forgot about one incident my freshman year when I was dancing around in my underwear outside of the dorms during some battle of the bands thing that was going on. Upon finding that the residence hall association had rented a hot tub for the day I ripped off my underwear and jumped in. The ten or so people that were enjoying themselves in it at that moment came flying out of the tub faster than if I had taken a shit in it and I was promptly thrown out and threatened with arrest. Perhaps this was the moment when I realized how enjoyable it was to be naked with strangers, but my true appreciation of this did not fully make itself apparent to me until that one fateful evening at Liz’s house the Thursday before my graduation last month. Now I find it very much a let down if a party I go to or host does not end in an all out naked fest by the end of the evening. It’s surprising how comfortable people can be with each other when they’re not trying to hide and conceal their body from others and, at least for me, there is nothing really sexual about hanging out with others in the buff. You’re only naked when someone else is clothed and has the power of the gaze over you. Though it took some coaxing, eventually we were all in the buff last night. The Jamiriquai was bumping, and the pelvises were pumping. Thank you to all who were in attendance fo
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participating. We’re two for three TK, how about making it three for four sometime?